Chapter 4: Runaway Groom

Luke was still fiddling with that damn Captain America by the dresser. His fingers moved with the practiced ease of a child, lost in his own universe. The rest of the world faded away for him, just him and his plastic hero.

"Is Captain America really that much fun?" I narrowed my eyes, taking two steps toward him, my voice dripping with exasperation. I felt like a sitcom wife on her last nerve.

He didn’t even look up. "It’s fun." His answer was so matter-of-fact, I almost laughed. Only Luke could make hero worship sound so serious.

I closed my eyes. Deep breaths. Hold it in. I tried to channel every ounce of patience my yoga instructor ever preached.

I let the strap of my nightdress slip half an inch off my shoulder. "Then… want to play something even more exciting?" I tried to sound sultry, my voice dropping an octave, but it felt ridiculous talking to a grown man clutching an action figure.

He looked up, eyes clear and innocent. "What?" His tone was so unguarded, for a moment I almost felt bad. Almost.

Now’s my chance. If flirting didn’t work, maybe shock and awe would.

I spread my arms and lunged at him like a hungry tiger. The move was clumsy, pure slapstick. I should’ve had circus music playing.

But he dodged, and I ended up chasing him around the room in a full-on parkour session. He moved with the speed of a kid hopped up on Halloween candy, laughing under his breath. Our fancy honeymoon suite became an obstacle course: leaping over ottomans, dodging around the chaise lounge, feet thumping on the hardwood floors.

He ran, I chased, until I was so exhausted I nearly saw stars. My hair stuck to my cheeks, sweat prickling at my neck. I hadn’t sprinted this much since the color run in college.

Damn it—so much stamina, and he wastes it running away from me. All those morning workouts, wasted on evasive maneuvers.

He made me chase him around the room more than a dozen times, and I didn’t even manage to touch his sleeve. I ended up winded, doubled over, my chest heaving as I glared at him from across the bed.

I caught my reflection in the window—hair wild, cheeks flushed, looking more like a deranged bridesmaid than a blushing bride. If my friends could see me now...

Panting, hair plastered to my flushed cheeks, my nightdress askew from all the running. The whole thing would’ve been hilarious if it wasn’t so humiliating.

"Seriously, Luke, quit running! I’m about to pass out over here." I clutched my waist, gasping for air. I sounded like a gym teacher at the end of a bad day.

He stood six feet away, still clutching that wretched toy. "You stop chasing." His logic was infuriating—and completely unassailable.

For a second, neither of us moved. The only sound was the hum of the central air, cold and steady.

I couldn’t use brute force. Fine, a battle of patience then? I flopped onto the bed, huffing. If he wanted to wait it out, I could play that game too.

What a joke. It’s not like I actually want to sleep with him. This was a job, nothing more. Still, I hated to lose.

I flopped onto the bed, grabbed my phone, and started playing games. Candy Crush, then League of Legends. Anything to distract myself from the ache in my legs and the weird ache in my heart.

"First blood," the game announced. The digital cheer was oddly satisfying.

He glanced at me, still posing Captain America for battle. It was like we were two strangers trapped in the world’s weirdest sleepover.

Unbelievable. Other people spend their wedding night in a frenzy of passion—here we are, one of us playing League of Legends, the other playing with action figures. It was so ridiculous, I almost burst out laughing.

What a marriage. Absolutely one of a kind. I imagined the headline: "Billionaire heirs’ wedding night—no sex, just video games and superheroes." Only in America.