Chapter 28: Xavier

Chapter 28: Xavier

Three—or four—rounds later, and we’re ready to head to The Tower. As we stand to leave, Ophelia picks up her bouquet and our waitress stops dead in her tracks, taking in the full picture of my suit, her white dress, and the flowers.

"Oh my Gawd, did you guys just get married?"

Even in the dim light of the bar, I can see Ophelia blush. She’s going to have to get over that, or she’s going to give everything away.

Though it is a lovely look on her. Truly lovely indeed.

The folks at the next table overhear and immediately begin clinking their beer glasses with whatever utensils are on their table. Ophelia bites her lip. I slide my hand around her waist and lean in.

"They want us to kiss."

She nods but continues to look around the bar at all the patrons who are watching us expectantly.

I pull her a little closer and turn her body so it’s flush with mine. "We can do this."

"We have to do this," she whispers back.

I nod in agreement. Normally I reserve kissing for moments of true intimacy, but that’s out the window now. There’s no such thing as normal anymore. If there was, I wouldn’t be in America, married to a stranger, and about to ditch my British citizenship.

This will be fine. I’ll kiss her just long enough to satiate the crowd, and then we’ll go back to how we were before.

Friends.

I lean in, feeling her warm breath before our lips meet. I close my eyes and make contact.

This is not what I expected.

Kissing Ophelia should mean nothing. It should feel like nothing. It shouldn’t matter.

But in this crowded bar, egged on by strangers and fueled by the best beer that traitor Samuel Adams has to offer, suddenly, it matters.

She matters.

I put my hand on her cheek, cupping her jaw slightly to better the angle of my mouth on hers. I feel, rather than hear, her sigh into my mouth and every shred of self-control I have threatens to leap out the window.

No, this is crazy. It’s only a kiss. Lips on lips. Mouths parted. Breath intermingled. Tongues entwined.

But just like that, it’s done and there’s cold air where her mouth should be and if it weren’t for the applause in the bar startling me back to reality, I’d be tempted to do something stupid, like pull her back to me and never let her go.

That would be terribly foolish.

I barely know her. Certainly not enough to have any feelings like this.

It’s not feelings about her. It’s the beer and the adrenaline and the stress of it all. Yes, that’s all it could be.

Against my better judgment, I pull her back to me.

I can almost feel her smile against my mouth. She’s probably laughing at how ridiculous I am, practically jumping her bones the first chance I get. I don’t want her thinking I’m a user, like Trent the Tosser. "Right, now that that’s over with, shall we get our Uber?" Without looking at her, I take her hand and lead her toward the door.

I’m on my phone, ordering the car, which is convenient so I don’t have to talk to Ophelia at this instant. I’m not sure what I’d even say.

The nondescript Toyota pulls up, and I open the door for my bride. She cocks her head slightly at me but then slides in without saying a word.

My phone pings.

Kenley: I hear you’ll be joining us … tonight.

Xavier: On my way now. Think this is a good sign?

Kenley: It’s not a bad one.

Xavier: How can I seal the deal?

Kenley: Keep your nose clean, and show up. And agree to midfield.

I groan.

"Is there a problem?" Ophelia asks quietly.

"They’re looking to move me to midfield."

"Okay. What’s wrong with that?"

I look at her. She’s going to be seen in public, at least a little, and I get the very real, very distinct impression that Ophelia does not know much about my livelihood. "How much do you know about football? Er, soccer."

Her expression can only be described as sheepish. "That you can’t pick up the ball with your hands, and that most soccer players have really good butts."

"That’s it?"

She nods. "And I only learned the second fact since you came to stay with me."

I will not think about the fact that she’s noticed my posterior.

"Right, well, there are three lines, and then the keeper. Forwards, midfield, and full-backs." I can already see her eyes glazing over. "In simple terms, forwards are the offense, full-backs are the defenders. Sometimes they’re just called defenders outright. That’s the position I play. Left full. And midfielders play both positions. It’s a lot more running."

"Who scores?"

"The forwards usually, but occasionally the midfielders."

"So you don’t get goals?" Her brow furrows. "Don’t you want to? Like isn’t that all the glory?"

"I’ve had some goals. Usually, in a penalty shoot-out. I’ve got an eighty-seven percent success rate with penalty kicks. But it’s not all about the goals. Football is truly a team effort, and we’re all out there for the ninety minutes, killing ourselves for the team."

"And you don’t like to run? Don’t you go running, like, every day?"

"It’s not that I don’t like to run. In fact, I’m quite fast, which is why they want to move me to midfield. But I’m also older now, and it’s a lot more wear and tear on the body."

"How old are you? I feel like I should know that."

"You probably should. I’m twenty-seven. My birthday’s in May."

"Oh, does this make me a cougar? I turned thirty in August. I hope that’s not too much of a scandal for you."

I laugh, glad Ophelia seems at ease again. "If that’s the most scandalous thing, then I think we’re all set. We just have to keep the fact that we got married for nefarious reasons off the radar."

Ophelia sighs. "Well, I think some of that might be taken care of."

I glance over to see her on her phone. She holds it up close to her face as if every detail of what she’s watching is important. "What is it?"

She turns her phone to me. "Apparently, someone at Sam Adams recognized me. They tagged me in this."

It’s us, kissing.

After a moment, watching the five-second clip play several times, I say, "At least it doesn’t look fake."

It doesn’t. Not at all, and I probably owe Ophelia an apology for getting carried away. I didn’t realize I’d used that much tongue. "Look, about what happened…"

Ophelia’s watching the video again. "This is perfect, really. I didn’t have to post something that could be construed as being fabricated for social media, yet here it is. Do you want me to tag you in the comments?"

"I’m not sure you should respond either way. Perhaps give it a moment." The idea of getting married for the wrong reason is hard enough to swallow. The thought of capitalizing on it for social media benefits turns my stomach.

I glance over at Ophelia, illuminated by the street lights, to see she has a smug expression on her face. "What?" I ask. "What’s got you so pleased?"

She looks startled as if she forgot I was sitting right next to her in the back of the Uber. "Oh, nothing, I was just thinking about my … a book. A book I’m reading."

I’m not sure what she’s up to, but I’m fairly certain whatever she’s thinking about has nothing to do with some fluffy romance novel.