Terms and Conditions (Dreamland Billionaires #2) by Lauren Asher

I hate weddings. They’re a cliché excuse for people to drink alcohol on my tab, all while pretending they actually care about my new marriage. They don’t. Everyone is solely here because no one would be stupid enough to turn down an invitation to what Iris deemed the wedding of the decade.

Unfortunately for me, I still have three more hours to get through, including cutting a cake right now.

A different photographer from earlier calls out for us to look at the camera. “Can I get a shot of you two with the cake?”

“Why did we agree to so many damn photos?” I frown as I grab the silver cake cutter from a server’s tray.

Iris smiles up at me. “Because we are going to share snapshots with the world to prove just how much we love one another.”

“Why should they care?”

She laughs, and the bulb of the camera goes off. “Because you’re a famous billionaire who is in the business of selling fairy tales.”

I groan. “Fame is temporary.”

“So is discomfort, so get used to it.” She presses her hand on top of mine so we are both grasping onto the knife.

Being near her is the furthest thing from uncomfortable. Rather, the warmth of her touch sends a wave of want through me. I step closer to her so we can both approach the cake.

You’re pathetic. What happened to not wanting to get close to people?

I shake my head. I’m not trying to grow closer to Iris, but it’s hard to avoid her when everyone keeps pushing us together.

“Declan, a little more smiling please?”

I glare at the photographer.

He gapes. “Never mind.” His flash goes off, catching me mid-death stare.

Iris laughs. “I need that one sent to me ASAP.”

I shoot her a look, and she only laughs harder. My chest tightens at the sound. Compared to the icy display she put on earlier for our guests, it feels good to make her warm back up to me.

And this is why you need to stay away from her. Because this feeling in your chest?

Merde.

The photographer snaps another photo before I dismiss him. My mood takes a turn for the worse, and I barely pay Iris any attention as we cut the cake. We go through all the motions. She feeds me and I feed her. A few people gasp when she smashes a bit of cake in my face, and I return the favor by shoving a spoonful of cake into her mouth while she is mid-laugh.

Nothing about it is real. I’m detached, but not enough to miss the flicker of hurt in her eyes when I abandon her for the bar. I’m a dick for leaving her to manage the crowd that formed around us. I know it with every fiber in me, just like I know sticking around her is weakening my resolve.

I didn’t marry her for love, money, or affection. I married her because I’m a greedy asshole who will stop at nothing to get what I want, even if it means subjecting her to the same fucked-up happily ever after as me. A few kisses and some touching isn’t going to change our destiny, so why pretend this is anything but an arrangement?

It’s all for the best. At least I tell myself as much as I knock back my first drink of the night.

Alcohol doesn’t solve anyone’s problems.

My stomach rolls. The feeling has nothing to do with the drink I burned through and everything to do with the idea of using alcohol to cope. A bartender rushes over to fill my glass, but I push the empty tumbler out of reach.

You’re not him.

I step away from the bar before I do something I will regret.





13





IRIS





“More shots!” Rowan’s girlfriend, Zahra, clutches a bottle of tequila in her hand. She wobbles on her heels, and Rowan swoops in to stabilize her.

My stomach does a little flip at the loving gesture. Watching them interact is nauseating, with Zahra smiling up at Rowan like he hung the moon for her. I’m oddly fascinated by their interactions given my limited exposure to happy couples over the years. Maybe there is some hope after all if someone as grumpy and isolated as Rowan could look at a woman like that.

I shouldn’t be bitter at my own wedding but seeing as my husband has avoided me as much as humanly possible after we cut the cake, I’m not doing too well. Something shifted in him ever since the church, and I can’t help but wonder if it was our kiss.

“What did we say about tequila?” Rowan plucks the bottle out of Zahra’s hand.

“That we should never trust a man named Jose.” She crosses her arms with a pout and drops into the chair beside me, making the material of her dress poof around her.

Rowan’s chest shakes from silent laughter as he pulls up a chair beside Zahra.

Cal grabs the bottle and pours tequila into four shot glasses. “You can’t leave a wedding sober. It’s sacrilegious.”

“You wouldn’t know the meaning of the word,” Rowan replies.

“My wedding, my rules!” I pass Zahra a shot glass.

“Whatever the bride says goes.” Zahra grins as she knocks back her shot. She leans into Rowan and whispers something in his ear. Whatever she says has him swallowing the first shot before pouring himself a second one.

He tucks her hair behind her ear and whispers something in return that has her cheeks blushing.

Gross. I grab my glass and pull it to my lips. Except the rim never touches my mouth because it’s stolen straight from my hand.