Page 34 of Mr. Brightside

“I don’t know yet, Mimi. He might be.” He squeezes me one more time before he resumes the comforting, hypnotizing strokes. “I’m hoping he wants to be.”

This. Man. The last part comes out low, just for me. I’m so out of my league here. I’m half afraid to turn and let him see my truth. His eyes are boring into my profile, but I still don’t look over at him. I know if I do, all bets are off. One look at how I’m affected by his touch and he’ll know the power he has over me.

I’m saved when the older one—Fiona, who has resumed coloring but seems fully capable of multi-tasking—speaks up.

“What do you call him, Uncle Jakey?”

“You can just call me Cory,” I insist. I don’t want to confuse them about who I am. And I definitely don’t want Jake to feel pressure to reveal what we’re doing. He said we’d do this out in the open, that it would be real, but I hadn’t considered that there would be kids involved.

Apparently, my answer isn’t acceptable.

“I know your name,” Fiona declares. “But what does hecallyou?”

The words are the same, but I don’t understand what she thinks she’s asking. I turn to Jake for clarification just as the little one pipes up.

“Uncle Jakey gives everyone nicknames. I’m Mimi. Fiona is Fifi. Your name is Cory, so you can be Coco or Riri.”

Jake is already laughing—busting up, really—as I finally understand the question. He catches his breath long enough to ask, “What’ll it be, baby? Coco or Riri?”

I scowl. “You better not call me either of those,” I hiss under my breath.

Jake’s still laughing when the younger one speaks again. “I like Coco. So Coco you’ll be.”

I’m sort of scared of the small one. She seems extra feisty. Rather than argue, I grab a crayon and an extra kids’ menu from the center of the table, busying myself with the word search on the back of the page.

I watch through the corner of my eye as Jake snatches up an orange crayon, and I pause my motions as he reaches over and puts anXon the tic-tac-toe board on my paper. I smirk but join right in.

“So what do you think about Friday?” he whispers. His hand isn’t on my thigh anymore, but we’re sitting close enough I can feel his warm, strong leg resting against mine.

“For?” I ask as I watch him place anotherXon the board.

He lets out a little scoff before responding. “Getting married.”

Now he has my full attention. My head shoots up, first to look at him, then across the table to see whether the girls are paying attention. They’re laser focused on their coloring sheets. When I turn back to meet his gaze, Jake is laser focused on me.

Friday. That’s just two days from today.

In typical Jake fashion, he continues before I have time to formulate a response.

“There’s no waiting period in the state of Ohio. We can go down to Akron, get our marriage license, and do it that afternoon. I’ve made a few calls and have it all figured out; I just wanted to check in with you first.”

I could ask a million follow-up questions. Grill him. Make him squirm. Give a voice to the anxiety that creeps up every time I think about what I agreed to do with him: to embark on this marriage of convenience, where both loyalty and sex are mutually expected and encouraged.

But I don’t do any of that. I’m not myself around Jake Whitely. Or, I’m a version of myself I don’t recognize. I am surprisingly disarmed around this man.

I add myOto our game, then turn to meet his gaze. “Friday,” I confirm, inspiring the biggest grin on his face.

He glances at the game, then looks back up at me. His words come out low again, probably because he doesn’t want his nieces to hear. When his voice hits that register, all bets are off.

“Can you stay over tomorrow night? We could get ready together on Friday morning.”

I clear my throat and try to ignore the unexpected heat creeping up my neck. “Okay,” I choke out. Because I guess I’m only good for one-word answers today.

I don’t doubt what we’re doing, and I’m not hesitating because I’ve changed my mind. I’m just so out of my element right now. I’m lust-drunk on Jake Whitely, and yet I somehow need to come to terms with the fact that in less than forty-eight hours, he’ll be my husband.

Rather than let myself get lost in those thoughts, I change the subject. I point my crayon toward the girls and cock my head in question.

“Will you explain this to me later?” I ask. It’s part curiosity. And part challenge. He didn’t mention them at the drive-in last night. But I also didn’t think to ask.