Tell Me a Lie (The Story Series Book 3) by Tamara Lush Page A

it effortlessly onto my finger.
    “And, Emma, your ring for Caleb?”
    I twisted to face Sarah, who slipped the man’s platinum ring off her thumb and handed it to me. We locked eyes and she winked. I winked back, then turned to Caleb and slid it onto his finger—or tried. It stuck briefly on his knuckle and we laughed until I finally wriggled and jammed it into place.
    “By the power vested in me by the State of Florida, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Caleb and Emma, you may share your first kiss as a married couple.”
    I sniffled away tears as Caleb came close, his warm hands cupping my face. He kissed me softly—a whisper, really—then did so again. Lately he’d treated me as if I were fragile, all because I was four months pregnant.
    “I taste perfection on your lips,” he murmured.
    “And I on yours,” I responded. “I love you.”
    “I love you , my darling, beautiful Emma Jolene King.”
    How I adored the sound of that.
    He kissed me again and a little zing went through my body. I was married .
    My husband—I couldn’t believe I had adopted the word so soon into my lexicon—intertwined our fingers together. We faced the crowd, my couture maternity gown not allowing me to make any sudden or large moves. The dress was, even for me, a bit over the top. It had a sweetheart neckline and Swarovski crystals poured down the bodice in a cascade of glittery perfection. Yards and yards of chiffon billowed, starting at where my waist used to be. The crystals also sprinkled down the skirt, all the way to the hem. I was like walking, sparkling whipped cream, and I’d loved the drama of the dress from the second I’d tried it on.
    As we shuffled, hand in hand, down the red, carpeted aisle to the strains of a cello and viola, the wind blew toward us. It made the fabric of the dress ripple and soar behind me, showing off my small baby bump. Sarah laughed and moved a few steps to the side so she wasn’t pelted with the chiffon. The sun was near setting, and the light was gilded, ethereal perfection. Two photographers captured our every move, and I knew the pictures would be gorgeous.
    I blew a kiss to my dad, who was still crying in the front row. I love you , I mouthed to him. He’d barely been able to hold it together while walking me down the aisle. His tears didn’t matter to me; I was blessed to have him give me away in a nod to old-fashioned tradition—something neither of us adhered to. I grinned and blew him a second kiss.
    Another, less happy thought came when I passed by each subsequent row and looked into the eyes of the guests.
    They must all think Caleb’s marrying me because I’m pregnant. I could almost see the pity on their faces, and then I realized: I didn’t care. Just like with my middle name, which had roots in country music and trailer parks, all the things I’d tried to forget about, I now didn’t care. I knew what Caleb and I had together was true and real. We weren’t marrying because of some societal convention or timetable.
    I was certain of our love.
    Caleb propelled me through the courtyard, then into an air-conditioned annex of the museum and back outside into a rose garden. Although we lived three hours away in Orlando, the Ringling—a museum and art collection amassed by the original circus owner John Ringling in the Gilded Age of the Roaring Twenties—was one of the most stunning spots in the state, one so special to me that I felt my heart could burst every time it entered my mind. It was the only place I’d even considered for the ceremony.
    It was where Caleb had first told me he loved me.
    The Ringling was an entire complex of culture and beauty, a testament to both the American Dream and the weirdness of Florida. Caleb’s money and family connections had secured us a last-minute reservation and two months of wedding planning from afar had been a whirlwind. I was crazy about the place, from the classical architecture on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico; the vast