Blanche Ingram. Or even the first Mrs. Rochester.
Looking at her now, I couldn’t remember a time I’d been so emotionally on edge.
And then I saw Nate standing beside the minister, flanked by gorgeous white lilies, and as our eyes met, the rest of the room—the rest of the world—faded away. If I was crazy for doing this, I prayed the craziness would last forever.
After a champagne toast, a few photos and a bite of cake, Nate and I left our small celebration to drive up to a cabin Walt owned in the mountains not far from Boulder. We would be there until Monday.
“The bathroom’s down that hall,” Nate said, my small suitcase in one hand and his duffel in the other. I stood just inside the door of the dimly lit main room, still wearing my white dress, watching as he disappeared behind another door at the far end—and returned without either bag.
I’d known we were going to be sleeping together, of course. We were husband and wife now. But in recent days I hadn’t let myself think about what that actually meant—or picture it really happening.
For the first time I could remember in my life, I wasn’t prepared.
I thought briefly about claiming my monthly cycle as an excuse—but immediately dismissed the idea. I couldn’t start my life with Nate on a lie.
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