After a quick text to Sage to make sure he was settled and happy—which he was, because Adam and Hunter were going to take him on the high speed waterslide soon and he couldn’t hang-up on me fast enough—I walk out of the master bedroom with my toga in place.

As I cross into the living room of our honeymoon bungalow, I’m trying really hard not to feel stressed out about the sheer opulence of this place. The hand carved furniture looks like whole trees were murdered to create each piece, and the feel of the crystalized and veined marble floors under my feet feel so ice cold from the air conditioner blasting non-stop, that I swear they make my heels hurt and my teeth chatter with each step. Why do the super-rich like to live and hang out in places that resemble freaky bank lobbies?

I head toward the warm ocean breeze coming in from the opened, floor to ceiling sliding doors off the living room.

I’m trying to poker-face that I’m cool with wearing only a twisted up bed sheet. One that’s held up mostly by my upper arms and armpits. And one that’s covering the last remaining bit of underwear, those lacy flower petal, not-really-underwear-things, that Royce didn’t rip off of me in order to save my life.

I’m afraid if I sit wrong, they’re going to pop off of me, too!

Locking my arms tighter on the endlessly slipping sheet (because, add this to the unnecessary-opulence-list, they’re 100 percent satin-silk. And, slippery as heck.)

I step out onto the patio and spot Royce, wearing a toga that looks like it’s tied much better than mine. He also looks more relaxed than I do, but of course he does. His job of covering up body parts is easier. If his slips, he only has to wear his toga tied around his waist.

He’s hovering around a table that’s been set out on the patio with some food laid out on it. After a few steps, I realize it’s raised patio that overlooks our own private pool. A pool shaped and colored like a blue opal teardrop, thanks to the amazing ceramic, stamp-sized tiles that make up the whole thing. It was built to ‘trick the eye’ into thinking that it’s connected to the ocean view in the background. It’s too dark to tell if it actually works, but with the stars shining down on us, and how someone’s lit the whole garden and even created lights that are stuck into the sand all the way to the ocean, stopping probably where the waves are breaking onto the shore, makes me feel like I’m a real bride standing in a travel magazine.

Wow. Wow. Wow. I want to paint this. I want to live in this garden. I want to run to the ocean right now and put my feet in the water!

Resisting the urge to bolt, I force my steps forward, but when I reach Royce’s side, I’m unsure what to say. By the look on his face, and the way his eyes seem to be darting around everything on the patio besides me, I think he also doesn’t know what to say.

Finally, I start with the obvious. “Uh…could this be any more beautiful and…any more…awkward?”

“Nope.”

I shrug. “Any ideas about what should we…say. To…each other to fix that some?”

Eyes, finally meeting mine with what looks like half-relief and half approval of my toga-tying, he finally cracks the smile. “I could apologize for ripping up all of your wedding—er—stuff? And then I could start us off with some sort of honeymoon speak? Like: Hello, beautiful wife. Or, ready for dinner, sweetie-pie-wifey?”

I’m biting my upper lip to hold back a nervous laugh, before uttering, “I think that this is now even more awkward, my darling…uhhh…hubster? Husband-dude? Ball-and-chain? Way to make it better.”

“Hey.” His grin is so big it’s crinkling his whole face. “Traditionally the old-ball-and-chain remark is reserved for the wife.”

“As you know, this is not a traditional wedding…so…” I frown, not sure what else to say.

He laughs, saving me from going on, and I laugh, too, as he paces a bit in front of the table. “This is harder than the actual wedding, isn’t it? What are we supposed to call each other? All joking aside, we will need to be able to dialogue with people and ourselves, using the words husband and wife, as well as pepper in all of that lovey-sappy-shit couples spew out when speaking to, and about, each other. Only, we will have do it without any of this awkward happening between us.”

His toga slips, and he curses under his breath. “These shiny sheets suck, right? I can’t make this side portion stay up.” He takes the part of the toga he had going over his shoulder and wraps it once around his waist, tying it there instead. “There.” He blinks over at me. “What do you think. Should we try again?”

“What-think-try?” I squeak out nonsense, trying hard to return his smile while feeling the back of my neck heat as I try to stare only at his face.

Only at his face. Face. Only.

Because…I swallow. Because.

Sheet tied low. Sheet tied low. Only at his face.

Suddenly I’m wondering insane stuff like…was he outfitted with special wedding underwear, too or…

I realized I’ve just looked down his whole form. Then back up. Then back down.

Oh no. Just did it again. I’ve elevator-eyed him. Should I start blinking fast and pretend I just got dirt in my eye? OMG. I think this guy has no tattoos. Isn’t that illegal in a rockstar? Maybe he does have some. Down. Lower.

I grit my teeth behind a small smile.

Don’t.

Look.

Down.

Lower.

Just don’t.

Don’t.

Only. At. His. Face.

So what if he looks like Michelangelo’s David, only a better version? That’s okay to notice, you’re an artist. So what?

I realize if I breathe in too much, I’m going to smell the amazing musky smell of him, and if I move my eyes again, I will start to overanalyze the expanse of Royce’s tawny smooth skin stretching between his collarbones, and down his whole, now bared torso because…because.

Because…torso…torso! Wow.

Torso.

It’s got the real-live, rippling ’V’ lines.

Oh crap.

I’m looking down again.

Finally, because he’s just staring and shaking his head while I’m certain it appears as though I’m having a seizure or something in front of him, I manage to recover some and ask, “You were saying? Try what?” I breathe in a tiny bit, then back out, shaking my head to clear it while dragging my gaze back to his beautiful looking face while adding lamely, “I’m so sorry. You lost me there. I’m not thinking straight. Not used to being up so late,” I continue shaking my head again. “Guess I’m tired and hungry and everything is suddenly hitting me, you know? What are going to try?”

His brow furrows and I’m sure he’s now wondering if I’m simple-minded. I could be, after all. He’s only known me for a week. I could be exactly the wife Mr. Rochester was tricked into marrying? The one he hid from Jane Eyre!

“Sorry.” I say again, wishing I could pour water on my face.

“Shit. I thought I already begged you not to tell me that you’re sorry for anything that happens between us. This is not easy, and hell yes we are tired, huh? I was just suggesting we try saying husband and wife stuff to each other. Maybe we could do it while pretending we’re talking to someone? A reporter maybe? Considering that’s who will bust us if we get this wrong,” he grits out like that thought pisses him off. “I’ll go first.” He clears his throat and makes a very serious face before starting in with, “Oh. Yes.” He blinks at me and pulls a face. “Robin? She’s my wife. And my wife is so nice.” He laughs a little at himself, then goes on. “What? My wife, well…she and I, on our wedding night, we had dinner in togas by a pool. My wife and I love eating out on patios where we can hear ocean waves, yeah. It’s my favorite, so that’s what we did, me and the wife.”

He clears his throat when, again I find that I can’t respond beyond only blinking stupidly at him. “Hey there, wife. How are you feeling about all of this, wife?” He blinks, and adds softly, “Hello? Earth to wife? Want to have a try?”

Realizing I’ve been holding my breath or maybe I’ve just stopped breathing all together I pull in one burning breath. Then, like it’s got a mind of its own, my arm raises and I point— literally point at his ‘V’! I’m screaming inside my head but, from somewhere, I quickly blurt out a single, whispered: “Husband.”

This makes him crack up, but he nods at me like he’s a proud parent who has finally broken through and just taught his kid how to read. “Okay. Go on.” Still nodding, he points back at me, copying my move and acting like what I just did was fine when it wasn’t. “Wife.”

I shake my head, and cross my arms over my stomach, uttering louder this time: “Husband.”

Try more. He’s still nodding, face all earnest and encouraging. “Wife. My wife.”

“Husband. My husband.”

Suddenly his face scrunches and the edges of his eyes crinkle deeper than I’ve ever seen them crinkle and between his ever-increasing grin, he thumps his chest once with a fist and says out, “Me. Tarzan-Husband.” He arches one brow, cracking up fully. “You? Jane-Wife?”

“Oh—ha! That was so spot on,” I answer, giving into my own belly laugh as I sit collapse into one of the chairs around the table, holding tight to the toga. “I suck at this. How will any of this ever feel comfortable between us?”

“Shit. I don’t know. We just have to push through, huh, wife?” Laughing more he flops into his own chair, and as we tug at our togas a bit, we both start laughing uncontrollably all over again.

And just like that, the tension in the air between us disappears.

“My husband, Royce, he’s patient, kind and hilarious,” I say, not even blushing. “My husband, he doesn’t even judge me when I blip-out on him and blink at him like a fool. My husband and I, we totally spent our wedding night laughing, while wearing silk togas on our wedding night. And once we got over some initial jitters, it was pretty awesome. Romantic, even. Because that’s my husband—he’s so romantic. And you should see how my husband looks in a toga. Amazing.” I grin over at him. “How’s that?”

“Great actually.” He raises his brows as if he didn’t think I had it in me. “My wife,” he says, shaking his head as a last rumble of low laughter leaves his lips. “Well, she’s got this way about her that makes me smile from the inside out. I’ve never known a girl like her.”

“Aww. That’s a nice one.”

“Well, it’s true,” he adds, meeting my gaze. “I think if we just stick with what’s real we will muddle through, right?”

“I hope so.”

Still grinning, he motions to one of the platters in front of us, covered up by a large silver dome. “Little, wife,” he sweeps his arm wide at the table. “Are you hungry? I took the liberty of ordering us a meal. There were many fancy choices available, but after the day you and I’ve had, I went for more…comfort food.”

He pulls the food covers up high with a flourish and reveals two steaming plates of baked macaroni and cheese, two chocolate milkshakes and two vanilla milkshakes. “It’s all off the kids menu.”

I gasp. “My husband is an amazing mind reader.”

He cracks up again. “Just in case my wife is not into junk-food, I’ve also ordered two spinach salads loaded with almonds and raspberries, dressings. On the side.”

“My husband is also thoughtful,” I joke, looking over the plates at him. “This is perfect. A perfect honeymoon meal. I’m sure half of why I just went into a coma in front of you is because I didn’t know I was starving.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been all stop-start-and-stutter, too.” He shoves about four fries into his mouth.

I glance up at him. “I haven’t noticed.”

“Well, that’s good.” He swallows, expression flipping to what looks like relief as he points at the milkshakes. “I choked on choosing which flavor, but this way we get to have two. It is, after all, a special night for a bride and groom, so I thought we could get a little whacked-out on sugar.”

Before I can say anything, or maybe because for some reason he gets that I’m choked up, or suddenly feeling extra low blood sugar, or about to say ‘thank-you’ when he has ordered me not to do that anymore, he hands me one of the silverware sets and a very fancy linen napkin and says, “Let’s eat, okay?”

In less than five minutes the plates are empty, and one milkshake for each of us has been nearly demolished. We both went for the chocolate ones first, prompting Royce to joke, “My wife and I both love chocolate milkshakes.”

“My husband,” I pause mid slurp, keeping the straw half in my mouth. “I have to keep an eye on him all the time. When we’re at fancy hotels, he sometimes over-orders room service. Guy is also an ice-cream addict.”

Grinning, he stands with his second milkshake in one hand. “There’s this awesome double wide hammock under those trees. It’s overlooking the ocean. We can’t see much, but the waves will sound nice. Are you interested in watching the stars for a little bit with me? I know it’s late…” He glances at the time on his cell phone. “Shit, it’s really late, like 3AM, late. My whole body feels like it’s been hit by a bus, but I…um,” his gaze flicks over me, and then to my toga, then back to my face. “I uh…don’t think I can sleep just yet. If you’re tired, and from the way your eyes look, I’m guessing you are, the bedroom is yours if you would rather go to sleep instead?”

“Oh. Um. Uh.” I shrug, annoyed that I’m back to one syllable meaningless words. I eye the pathway leading to the hammock and then, because I’m afraid I’m going to ogle him again now that he’s standing, I let my fingers trace space between the lines that make up the pretty teak wood grained table.

“Robin. It’s fine.” When I glance up finally, those silver eyes of his are hooded. His voice is heavy. Worried again. “Later…it’s important that we—for the sake of the maids who might show up early—that we wake up together. With your permission, of course.”

“What?” I blink at him.

“I’m going to have to sneak in to the edge of the bed after you’re asleep. Maybe could stuff a bunch of pillows down a center line before I get there? If that helps make any of this feel less odd?”

I shake my head, again at a loss for words, and he laughs a little to himself and runs a hand through the thick mop of black hair that always flops over his forehead before adding, “Okay, well, maybe it’s always going to feel odd, but know that I’m a quiet sleeper, and I realize that it might feel all wrong to have me in your personal space like that, but I’m sorry.”

“Hey. I thought we weren’t apologizing to each other?”

“Okay. I only want you to know that I promise I won’t cross any lines—or try anything with you. Not ever. You have my absolute-word about that. I want you to be able to sleep soundly. Mostly I want you to…feel safe.”

He pauses, finishing off the second milkshake, while looking at me as though he’s wondering if I’ve understood.

“I—do feel safe. Royce. I do. And I want you to feel the same. I don’t snore and for the record, I won’t…you know be…weird.” I pause at that, recanting. “Fine, I will probably definitely be weird but I won’t bother you and…yeah, no line crossing. It’s appreciated that you brought all of that up, but you didn’t have to. I know you’re honorable.” He nods, looking half-strangled as I finish, “But now that you’ve said all of that, I’m pretty sure I can’t sleep either. So. I’m saying yes to your hammock idea?”

I leave off the part where I don’t think I can face going back into the bedroom and crawl into the rumpled rose petal bed.

He reaches down for my hand and I place my left hand into his. Gingerly, he pulls me up while I use my stronger, right hand to keep the sheet in place. When I’m in front of him, instead of releasing my hand he pauses to run a thumb over the rings on my finger.

“It was my mom’s ring,” he says. “I like how it looks on your hand. She’d like you, Robin. I wish you could, hell, I don’t know. I wish she could have met you.”

I feel my shoulders slump as the weight of what he’s said and what we’ve done tonight—really done reels around my brain: I’m married, legally bound to this man, and my father doesn’t know him—didn’t walk me down the aisle, and I’ll never be able to meet Royce’s mom!

It all makes the ring feel so heavy that if he were to let go of my hand right now, it—or I—might sink through this deck and be swallowed up into the center of the earth, because I know I don’t belong here and…What have we done? Is any of this really okay?

Thankfully, Royce doesn’t let go, he only wraps his hand into mine, and it’s warm, soft, solid, and very much, holding up the weight of the wedding ring.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” I whisper, because I am.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” he answers, and I believe that he is.

He makes our fingers intertwine, saying, “I have to think they would both approve of this. Of what we’re doing.”

And when I risk looking up into his eyes—searching deep, he lets me in all the way and I don’t see any resentment or dark glimmers of what might be his hidden regrets about this fake relationship hiding anywhere.

He nudges me toward the path leading down to the secluded hammock. I push away my doubts, squeezing his hand tight while trying to make myself believe my own words as I answer, “They would. I know they would.”