It’s my turn to scoff. “I can handle the intimacy of seeing your toothbrush and forks.”

  He runs the backs of his fingers over my cheek. “I just want to make sure I’m not crossing your lines.”

  I roll my eyes. “We’ve already established the rules of the new road.”

  “And I aim to follow them,” he says then recaps the parameters we discussed on the phone the other night. “We won’t live together. We’ll see each other more frequently than once a week. But not so much that seeing each other feels like an obligation.”

  “Seeing each other should feel like a pleasure,” I add.

  “Oh, it will.”

  “And photos. We’ll take a few photos, so everything looks real on social media.”

  “Preferably photos of you in lingerie?” He arches an eyebrow.

  “Oh, shut up. When I take those shots, they’ll be for you only.”

  I silence the silliness of this conversation with another kiss. Because that we do without any concerns.

  He’s as handsome as he was the night I met him. More so because he’s wearing a suit, and this man was made for suits. He stands in his living room, drinking a glass of water, flipping through a magazine as I emerge from the bedroom.

  “Ready or not,” I say, my heart skittering around like a wild bird. I set a hand on my chest to try to quell the nerves.

  “Wow,” he breathes out, his eyes exploring my body even though he’s seen me so many times. Today I’m wearing a seashell-pink dress that hits at the knees. I decided white was silly. Perfume too. I didn’t bring any.

  My stomach flips as he admires me while putting down the glass and magazine. “It’s not that fancy.”

  “I don’t give a fuck if it’s fancy. Your legs are spectacular, and you look so sexy in that dress and those glasses.”

  I raise my hands to my eyeglasses, adjusting them, though I don’t need to. I’m fidgeting. He walks over to me, setting his hands on my nervous ones. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” I say, but the word comes out airy, empty.

  He tucks a finger under my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Are you sure? Do you want to back out? Just say the word.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not backing out.”

  “You can though,” he says, but his tone is reluctant.

  “Hey. I’m here. I’m not backing out. We’re doing this.”

  He smiles widely. “Yeah? We’re a couple of crazies, aren’t we?”

  “Are we?”

  Laughing, he pulls me close. “It’s crazy.”

  “But brilliant.”

  “It’s bloody brilliant. You know what else will be brilliant?”

  “What?”

  “Finally getting you naked and under me tonight.”

  “You’re assuming I’ll put out since it’s our wedding night, are you?”

  “Hope springs eternal. So does my cock when I look at you.”

  “I guess we’ll see if the husband can get his wife into the marriage bed,” I say as I press a kiss to his cheek.

  He turns and catches it on his lips, and it rockets into a searing kiss. But I stop it before it becomes hot and heavy. Not because I don’t want hot and heavy, but because I haven’t slept with him yet.

  But the funny thing is, I’m sort of glad it worked out that way. I’m not trying to make this arrangement with him feel different than my marriage, but there’s a part of me that likes how different it is. Eduardo and I slept together the first night we met. I’ve known Christian for more than a month and he hasn’t been inside my body yet.

  Somehow, that seems like the way it should be for us.

  We leave, and I stop in the doorway, smacking my forehead. “We don’t have rings. How could we have forgotten rings?”

  He wiggles his eyebrows. “I’ve got it covered.”

  Inside Copenhagen City Hall, the wedding office smells like newspaper and efficiency as Christian Ellison promises in front of the officiant to love me. But the little quirk in Christian’s lips says my husband’s in on the joke. Only this time the joke isn’t on me. We’re both the comedians and the conductors of this love charade, and it isn’t to hurt anyone or trick an innocent party, but rather to right a wrong.

  It’s a joke we’re sharing.

  But when his eyes lock with mine, he says without a trace of humor or teasing, “I do.”

  His words are weighty, and they hang in the air with import. For a fraction of a second, they feel honest, and my heart speeds up.

  The officiant asks if I take Christian to be my husband.

  “I do.” I’ve voiced those words in the past, but in this moment, I feel the shackles of the first time I said them lifting off me. “I do.”

  Christian chuckles. “I do again too.”

  He reaches into his pocket, takes out the rings, I presume, and holds open his palm. “A wedding gift from Erik.”

  The bands are platinum and unassuming, but gorgeous in their simplicity. He holds mine up so I can see what’s engraved. The simplest words.

  Thank you.

  His says the same.

  We exchange the rings, and the officiant declares us husband and wife.

  That’s it. Our ceremony took all of five minutes, maybe less, and yet it feels more real than my lavender one in the vineyard.

  We sign the final paperwork and leave city hall legally wed, with the man in the charcoal suit poised to take control of his grandfather’s company so that his brother’s soon-to-be-ex-wife can’t get her slimy paws on it.

  A gift to his brother indeed.

  As Christian holds open the door, I’m keenly aware that I don’t want this union to feel less than the marriage of mine that was truly false.

  Because in some ways—no, in nearly every way—it already feels like more of a marriage than the one I had before. It’s an honest, open one.

  On the steps, under a clear blue sky, with a view of Tivoli Gardens across the street, I grab my husband by the tie. “Do you want to kiss the bride?”

  His blue eyes hook into mine, heat flashing across his irises. “So incredibly much.”

  I’m nervous, my fingers shaking, as I loop my hands around his neck. My heart stutters.

  Even if marriage is a sham, even if this marriage is a sham, my emotions right now are anything but. They rise in me, climbing my throat, fighting to escape. They’re unexpectedly real and true, filling me with want and perhaps that hope I felt so long ago when I played in the park as a girl and imagined this day.

  This isn’t what I pictured at all.

  But somehow, it feels like exactly what I need.

  Christian seals his mouth to mine, and it’s a soft and tender kiss. It’s an exploration and a promise, and something about it is different from all his kisses that have come before. The gentle brush of his lips on mine makes me woozy. My knees go weak. He loops his arm tighter around my waist, tugging me close.

  I’m the bride who’s not in white, who wears no perfume, who is married for a deal the second time around.

  But this kiss doesn’t feel like it’s part of a pact. It feels like it could become a new way of kissing.

  When at last he stops, Christian looks dazed. “You smell fantastic.”

  “I’m not wearing anything.”

  “I guess it’s the scent of you.”

  I suppose it is.

  20

  ELISE

  His mother engulfs me in a hug. “It is so good to finally meet you.”

  “And it is a delight to meet you,” I say, enjoying that we don’t have to pretend for his family—his mother knows the score. Even so, my brain lingers on one word. Finally. Everything has happened so lickety-split, I don’t know why his mother would feel like we’re finally meeting.

  The three of us take seats at the outdoor café that overlooks the harbor, and we order a round of champagne. She clasps her hands under her chin and fixes a steely blue-eyed gaze on her son. Her cheekbones are carved, and I can see where Christian’s blond good looks come from. “Tell me everything about the ceremony that you didn’t let me attend this afternoon.”

  Christian rolls his eyes. “Because I’m sure you’ve been dreaming of watching me get married at city hall.”

  She swats his elbow. “I don’t know why you didn’t let me go.”

  He gives her a look.

  I smile, loving the ribbing that they give each other, but especially loving that I get to witness it. I like that he’s so open with his family, that his mom knows what we’re up to. Mostly I love that he wanted me to meet her.

  “It wasn’t that kind of a ceremony.” He looks across the table to me, his eyes holding mine for a beat that extends longer than I expect it to. “Besides, it was just between us.”

  My heart does something that feels like it’s rolled over, flopped on its back, and put its legs in the air. Dog that it is, I tell that organ to sit up and focus.

  “Be that as it may,” she says, looking to me, “I am delighted to meet you, Elise. Now, tell me everything about the wedding.”

  I laugh, then give her the sparse details about our brief and perfunctory ceremony and show her the rings.

  She sighs happily, shielding her eyes from the bright afternoon sun reflecting off the harbor. “Thank you for allowing me to experience it vicariously. He didn’t let me go to his first wedding either.”

  I tilt my head, surprise hitting me hard. “You didn’t?”

  Christian shakes his head. “We were married in the United States. Vegas, baby, Vegas.”

  “You eloped,” I say, as if the plot is thickening.

  “Sort of,” he says, laughing as he points at his mom. “Anyway, she gave me hell then. No need to do it again.”

  “That’s my job. To give you hell.” She snaps her gaze to me. “Although, I do hope you’ll pick up the slack when I’m unable to give him hell. You have free rein to give him a hard time as much as you want.”

  “I appreciate the maternal blessing, and I will do my best to follow the directive,” I say as the waitress arrives with three flutes of champagne.

  His mother raises her glass, and we follow suit, clinking. “To the brilliant plan my sons hatched, and to the brilliant woman who’s making it all possible.” Her voice lowers. “My father—their grandfather—had the softest heart, but perhaps not always the most realistic expectations. I appreciate you making everything right for my Erik. I feel terrible for what happened to him.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” I say, and I’m glad this deal has been beneficial for both of us, or else I’d feel like some sort of martyr to the cause. But Christian has already prepped loads of business analysis and insight for my upcoming meeting with the travel client. His market analysis was spot-on and seems like something of a secret weapon.

  “It’s not nothing. It’s everything.” She glances at her son. “And maybe when you knock her up and have a baby, you’ll at least let me come to the birth.”

  I nearly choke on my champagne. Bubbles shoot up my nose, tickling it, and a cough bursts from my throat.

  “Mum, you’re incorrigible,” Christian chides.

  “And where do you think you learned to be incorrigible from? The master.” She smiles at me, a hint of wicked delight in her eyes. “Just teasing about the baby,” she says playfully, then drops her voice to a whisper. “But not really. If he puts a baby in you, I’m not going to sit out the birth. I’ll follow you around till you pop.”

  I laugh because there’s nothing to say to that. There will be no baby, no popping, and no true mommy/daughter-in-law bonding. Even so, I think I love her already, and since she’s been so blunt, I decide to assuage my own curiosity. “I have a question for you. Why did you say finally about meeting? Has Christian been telling you about me?”

  “A year ago, he mentioned he’d met a woman on the boat tour and was very much looking forward to seeing her. And when he ran into you again at the garden bar, he called me and said, ‘You’re never going to believe it, Mum, but the little mermaid popped back into my life.’”

  I rein in a grin as I make a check mark in a mental column of pros and cons about this man—told his mother about me the night we met again. Definite pro.

  Christian slaps a hand on the table. “This conversation really ought to stop right now. The two of you are thoroughly embarrassing me.”

  I smile and laugh, meeting her gaze with the sort of look that says embarrassing him is what a mother and a daughter-in-law should do, and in this moment, we are indeed bonding. As I drink my champagne, I’m happier than I should be that he’s introduced me to his mother.

  I’m even happier that she’s known about me from the start.

  On the spectrum of things I’ve never expected, stepping into a marriage of convenience would be at the top of the list. Spending my wedding night at an amusement park would be a close second.

  The spinner ride whips precariously high and my stomach rises in tandem, lodging in my esophagus. The giant gold eagle we ride in flips over, leaving us hanging upside down, high in the sky. I scream, a blood-curdling noise. The sound turns into a screech as the eagle rights us again, then sends us downward in a fast, wicked whoosh. One exhilarating, heart-pounding minute later, the ride slows, and soon, it crawls to a stop. The world is still wobbly, but the bar rattles loose and lifts up.

  Christian sets his hand on my arm, steadying me as I stand, emerging from Aquila, the golden eagle ride at Tivoli Gardens. I grab my purse from the locker and slide on my glasses.

  He rubs his ear. “You are loud, woman.”

  “So are you,” I say, as the attendant opens the exit gate, and we pour out along with a few dozen other sky warriors who braved the thrill ride.

  Christian, still wearing his suit but with his tie gone and stuffed into his pocket, shakes his head. “No, I wasn’t. I was stoic and tough.”

  I laugh as we walk the pathway that weaves through this festive park in the heart of the city. “You practically squealed like a little girl the first time the eagle soared upside down.”

  He stares at me, his brow knitted. “Little girl? I think you’re confusing me with someone else.”

  I pat his very firm bicep on his very strong arm and go along with him. “Yes, you’re right, dear husband. It must have been someone less manly and less tough.”

  He smiles at me, mischief tap-dancing across his blue eyes. “Exactly.” He bumps his shoulder against mine and whispers, “Hey.”

  That one syllable comes out sweetly, affectionately, and I add another pro in his column. That chart is weighted so heavily to one side, it’s toppling over. I should find a con. It’ll make the next three months easier. Not that I need to worry about that too much. It doesn’t matter how many pros I find, this has an expiration date.

  I am resolved.

  “Hey to you,” I say softly, then want to kick myself because that tone of voice won’t help me find a negative in him either.

  He raises a hand, adjusts an errant strand of my hair that was stuck in the arm of my glasses, and slides the offending lock over my ear. “Are you doing okay?”

  “Are you going to keep asking me that for the next three months?”

  “I might.”

  I stop, rise on my tiptoes, and kiss the corner of his lips. Oops. No luck finding a con there either.

  “What’s that for?” he asks.

  “Just marking you.”

  “You want to pee on me next?”

  “I might. Beware,” I say in an over-the-top nefarious tone as we pass the gift shops that edge the small lake, making our way to the Ferris wheel.

  “Elise,” he says, his tone letting me know he’s serious.

  “Yes?”

  “Earlier today, during the ceremony, did you think about . . .?” His voice trails off as the unfinished question hovers like thick smoke.

  “It’s hard not to think about Eduardo. But mostly, I thought about how incredibly different this is because we’ve been so open about everything. What about you? Did you think about Hannah?”

  He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he scrubs a hand over his chin as if in deep thought as we reach the steps of the Ferris wheel. “I don’t know if this makes me sound totally calloused, but I so rarely think about her.” I pump a virtual fist because surely that’s a con, that he doesn’t even think about his first love. “Sometimes it feels like what happened between us was so long ago, it’s like it was another lifetime.”

  “And you were a different person?”

  He nods as he holds open the gate at the top of the steps for me. “I think I was in some ways.”

  The ride attendant says hello and gestures to one of the Ferris wheel cars. We go inside. “What’s the biggest difference between the Christian of today and the twenty-one-year-old you? Besides nine years,” I add, since I bet he’ll go for some sort of age punchline. Could that be a con? Maybe he’s not too serious about anything. Yes, that will definitely keep the chains up high around my heart if he’s simply a shallow fellow.

  He wiggles his eyebrows and punches his stomach. “Abs are still chiseled.”

  “I knew you were going to say something like that.”

  He loops his arm over my shoulders. “But they are. Chiseled.”

  I pat his belly. “Yes, and I like them. But I’d like you if your belly was soft.”

  “You would?”

  I laugh and tap his temple. “I like the upstairs. That’s what entertains me. So entertain me. Tell me something else.”

  And yes, there it is. I’ve found it. Christian is entertainment, pure and simple. He’s fun and games. That’s a pro, but in the end, it’ll be a con when he can’t take things seriously. When he can’t take me seriously. And a good con, because it’ll protect me. It’ll keep the lemon gumdrop center of me from melting. Besides, peeling away his layers is wise. The more I know, the less likely I can be taken advantage of again. Knowledge is power.

  “Tell me something I wouldn’t recognize about you nine years ago,” I add.