Luke's Promise. Eileen Wilks

and cargo pants.

      The man who was marrying them wore a collarless black shirt that looked vaguely ecclesiastical. His thin black hair was combed back meticulously over the bald spot on top of his head. His tanned skin was stretched so tightly over his cheeks that she was afraid it would split if he smiled.

      Face-lift, she thought vaguely. She wondered if it hurt when he went to the dentist and had to “open wide.”

      Did ministers get face-lifts? Was he a minister? Panic clutched the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t remember. She remembered picking out the music and the flowers, and discussing what version of the marriage ceremony they wanted. Why couldn’t she remember who was marrying them? It seemed suddenly, vitally important to know. Was she making vows she didn’t intend to keep before a man of God or a civil servant?

      He’d stopped talking and was looking at her expectantly. Luke squeezed her hand.

      She blinked. “Oh, ah—I do.” What had she just promised?

      She was losing it. She was truly losing it. What kind of woman didn’t even hear the words of her wedding service?

      A terrified woman.

      Maggie made herself listen carefully as the man who might or might not be a minister went through his spiel again with Luke. It sounded pretty standard…and awfully final.

      Luke’s voice came out clear and strong. “I do.”

      Then there were the rings, one for each of them, and more words to repeat. The double-ring ceremony had been Luke’s idea. She’d teased him about trying to buy a 24-carat bodyguard to protect him from all those man-and-money-hungry women who would soon be after him. She’d pointed out that even after they divorced, he could wear the ring sometimes to deter predators.

      That had to have been one of the best performances of her life.

      Her hand was shaking when she held it out so he could slip one of those rings on her finger. It stuck at the knuckle. “Uh-oh. My fingers are swollen from the cast.”

      “No problem.” He grabbed her right hand. “You can switch it later.”

      So he slid her ring onto the wrong finger. It doesn’t mean anything, she told herself. The ring meant nothing, just as the wedding meant nothing. And she was not going to throw up. She was definitely not going to throw up.

      His ring, at least, fit perfectly.

      The minister—if that’s what he was—managed to smile without splitting his skin. “You may kiss the bride.”

      Luke’s hands moved to her shoulders, and he turned her to face him. There was a smile on his lips, but his eyes looked old and sad. Apparently this mockery of marriage didn’t scare him the way it did her. It just made him miserable.

      He bent and brushed his lips across hers. “Buck up,” he whispered. “The worst is over.”

      Her mouth tingled and her skin flushed from the brief touch of his mouth. Oh, help. What had she done?

      This time would be different, she told herself firmly. This time she had nothing to prove—though she did have an agenda, one she hadn’t told him about. One she prayed she’d have the courage to act on.

      And this time, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she wasn’t in love with him.