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Which, unfortunately, turns out to be my kryptonite, because suddenly all I want to do is jump him, right here in the truck.

I’d probably make him careen off the road.

It’d be worth it.

When we pull up to the cabin a few minutes later, the sky’s completely dark. Solar lights line the path, and under normal circumstances, I’d already be envisioning how the walkway would look with new landscaping—rosebushes and hydrangea maybe, with string lights on the porch.

But these aren’t normal circumstances. We were quiet for the rest of the drive home, and now that Griffin kills the engine, the silence envelops us.

Except there’s no silence inside me. I can hear the sound of my heart beating, the crashing of my pulse against my ears.

The soft pull of Griffin’s breath as he releases his seat belt.

This is the part we didn’t talk about, maybe because there’s nothing to talk about. This is a fake wedding, and fake wedding nights should just be like any other night.

Griffin jumps out, coming around to my side and holding the door open for me. After only a few days together, I know now that’s what he likes to do. Just like I know he likes to walk behind me when we’re walking single file to keep me in his line of sight.

Usually I jump out of the truck without his assistance, skipping past him to wherever we’re going.

But this time, he stands by my door, holding his hand out for me.

I meet his eye and take it.

A scorching heat burns through me as our hands connect, and when his other hand grazes against my hip as I jump the rest of the way to the ground, landing nearly pressed up against him, I can’t help the shiver that runs through me.

Not a real wedding night, I remind myself.Not a real wedding.

Still, I smile coyly. We’re only shadows in the dark, but I can see his face well enough. I see the way his eyes drop to my mouth.

I think of the way he kissed me at the altar—the urgency and gentleness rolled into one soul-scorching kiss—and for a moment, I’m sure he’s going to do it again. I pray for it.

But Griffin abruptly lets go of my hand, reaching into the cab to grab the presents people brought for us. There isn’t much—a few bags—and guilt surged through me even taking them home with us.

Not a real wedding.

Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll believe it.

“You need help?” I ask.

“I’m good.”

Not a real wedding.

Tell that to the twinge of hurt that spreads where the butterflies were.

I decide right then that I’m not going to tease him.

I’m not going to make him go along with what I want. Not tonight. I’m going to make this his call. I want him to want me as badly as I want him, because let’s face it—I want this man. If it were up to me, I’d strip my clothes off right here in the garden and tell him we might as well enjoy our time shacking up.

But I don’t want him just going along with me trying to corrupt him.

So I lift my chin up and stride toward the house.

I’m almost at the door when he calls out my name.

“Sasha.”

I whirl around, my heart in my throat.