Leaning toward her, I whispered, "Come on, I promise I'll make your wedding night everything you always wanted." I wasn't teasing the way the photographer thought—I was reminding her of the truth: that whatever stage play we were acting out for the world, I wasn't about to betray her trust.
Wrapping my arms around her, I pulled her into the position the photographer demanded. My hands rested lightly on her waist. Her warmth seeped into me despite the layers of clothing, a reminder that this wasn't entirely an act.
I bent closer, our faces inches apart, the air charged. My gaze locked onto hers—those deep eyes that gave away everything and nothing at once.
"Just pretend I'm a big, cuddly bear," I whispered again, soft enough so only she could hear. Humor was my shield, my way of keeping her safe from the intensity of the moment.
The photographer gasped. "Yes! Yes! That is it! That is love!" he cried.
If only he knew how complicated love really was.
