Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Are you going to stand there all day, staring?” she suddenly snipes.
I might, given the view.
“Just for you,” I murmur, folding next to her. She smells like jasmine as I close my eyes briefly, searing the vision of her behind my eyelids. “You know what they say. ‘Happy wife, happy life.’”
Her brows lower, but her retort is cut off as a bell chimes, its vibration ringing through the otherwise still air. Our attention shifts to the priest as he begins to chant, the sound low and melodic. The bell chimes again.
“We ring this holy bell to summon good spirits,” Sarai declares over its echo. “And to announce this wedding to our deities.” Her hands pressed together, she reverently lifts them to her forehead.
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand once again—only, this time, a lightning bolt of sensation spears down my spine. What the fuck?
The priest’s expression is radiant and his voice is resonant as he returns to his incantation.
“We burn bamboo to cleanse these two souls,” Sarai explains as she lifts three thin stalks of bamboo from a woven basket. “And to banish evil spirits and remove past sins.”
“I hear they might need more bamboo for you,” Mila murmurs not quite under her breath.
Sarai frowns. I feel myself do the same.
“Oh!” Next to me, my pseudobride startles as the holy man flicks water over her head.
“That’s what you get for having impure thoughts,” I counter with a quiet chuckle. I can practically feel the heat of her scowl.
I bow my head as the priest moves to me, repeating the action, water droplets falling on my shoulders and head.
“It’s obviously not holy water,” Mila mutters. “You didn’t melt.”
“I think that’s wicked witches, not wicked men.”
“At least you own it,” she retorts huffily.
“And you liked it,” I reply, quieter still. “You liked it a whole lot.”
“We seek the blessings of the benevolent divine.” This Sarai delivers through gritted teeth and with a look that’s meant to quell. “Get it together, you two,” she hisses as the priest momentarily turns his back to us.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Mila murmurs serenely.
“Neither.” My eyes catch hers, and she gives in to a reluctant smile.
Before anything else can be said, the priest turns back. His words rise and fall like a soft ocean swell as he takes my left hand, pressing Mila’s right atop it, palm to palm. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, her fingers slide between mine, and, our hands clasped, he begins to bind our wrists in a satin-soft cord.
“We tie you together to symbolize the joining of your lives,” Sarai says, her voice following the priest’s chanting in a spoken round. “We ask the divine bestow their grace on you both as your paths merge into one.”
Mila’s dark gaze rises to mine, and like the flash of a car’s passing headlight, I find my thoughts briefly illuminated.
Two paths merging into one. Like it’s meant to be.
Chapter 7
Mila
“Oh, my God.” With a groan, I rise like the bride of Dracula meeting midnight. So why is everything so blue and so bright? I shield my eyes from the cheery torment, wondering where the hell I am. Except . . .
Was I at a wedding?
I give my head a shake. “Oww.” I press my hands to either side of my aching head. It feels like a vodka/dehydration-combo hangover. But I didn’t have a lot to drink—that much I at least remember. Then again, I’m not at university anymore, and it only takes a couple of vodka tonics to make me feel like this.
Not vodka tonics. Miniatures.
Was I working a wedding? Yeah, of course I was.
Weddings take up half of my waking thoughts, so—
Not a wedding, I realize with a lurch. The wedding.
Not my wedding, because that was canceled. And for once, my stomach doesn’t plummet with the recollection.
Was it Evie, the American vet, and her scarily posh fiancé? I think so, but even that doesn’t seem quite right.
Across the room, something glints, catching my eye: a half-drunk flute of champagne, the bottle lying on its side next to it. Well, that answers some of my questions. I turn my head, and I squint, thanks to the sun glaring from a sea of ivory tulle. A gown. A wedding gown. And what the hell is that on my hand?
I hold it out and stare at the thin gold band on the ring finger of my left hand.
Oh, God. I have so many more questions now.
And, just like that, the details begin to descend into my consciousness like the slow fall of glittering confetti.
A proposal. Strictly business.
A pretend bride. Me.
A promise worth two hundred thousand. A lifeline I could never have dreamed of.
A golden groom. The object of my fantasies come to life.
Sarai in a flowery dress. A priest in white robes. Words and chanting, incense burning. A rope binding our wrists. And then . . .