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Routinely, those thoughts devolve, and—in my mind—I find myself shyly sitting in a marriage meeting with Wynnter. The edge of cruel disregard in him suggests we’ve not known each other in my fantasy as long as we have in real life. He’s meeting me for the first time, so he’s treating me in the way I see him treat strangers—with terse, but polite, indifference.
His suit buttons strain when he sits, and I’m keenly aware of how tight his clothes look on his broad frame.
“What are you looking at?” I whisper, pretending to be gruff.
Immediately, I drop my eyes from the window and answer, “N-nothing.”
In my mind, he snarls, and I bite my lip.
Hard, the Wynn in my imagination states, I’m looking for an obedient wife. Someone who doesn’t ask questions and does what they’re told.
Yikes. Couldn’t be me. Unless… Well. For Wynnter, it absolutely could be.
Sighing, I drape myself in my window seat and picture the me in my mind glancing back up at that rough, grumpy man. Softly, the me in my mind says, I’ll do whatever I’m told.
A minute amount of resignation touches him, and he grunts, Fine. You’ll do, then. We’ll be married at dawn.
Married. To Wynn. At dawn.
Letting my cheek rest against the chilled glass, I smile as I live through the scenes playing out in my head. A careful wedding. A timid first night. A steady falling in love.
Unfortunately, all those pleasant fantasies are just dreams, because the Wynnter outside my head has never, ever, looked at me like this.
So.
If I want a happily ever after or romance at all in this lifetime, I guess I might as well try to fall in love with someone my parents approve of.
Even if it breaks my heart.
Chapter 2
◼
Dreams do come true.
December
They don’t kiss. Not once. I—
Staring at the final words of my best friend August’s latest manuscript, I find myself searching for the I hate you, December between the lines. Seated on the floor beside her while she works on her computer, I blink my disbelieving eyes, peek under a few pages, then start searching beneath her feet.
“Gah!” she declares when I nearly topple her out of her chair. “What is it, girl? Timmy’s in the well again?”
Hopeless, I offer her the pages, baffled and confused. “I…” I sniffle. “There’s a problem with my book.”
Sincerely insincere, August’s hand lands atop her chest. “What’s wrong with your book, girl? You can tell me.”
“It’s broken.” My bottom lip trembles. “Please fix it.”
Evil, she drops every ounce of concern and cackles. “Whaaat? You don’t like it? It’s a slow burn. The slowest I’ve ever succeeded in writing. I think it’s fitting for a historical romance to have absolutely nothing more than hands grazing.”
Yeah. It literally has nothing more than hands grazing.
On the very last page.
Even though the characters were married on the first.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this,” I say, staring at the marked-up collection of pages in my lap. Her last book—a three hundred page vampire novel—was slow burn enough, but at least there were half a dozen almost nips and neck kisses scattered throughout it. This? This five hundred page monstrosity barely contains eye contact.
