Seven Day Mail-Order Bride

Clara knew something was wrong the second she started to wake up. At first, she blamed tequila. That would have explained the heaviness in her limbs, the slow way her thoughts came together, like they were running late and refusing to hurry. But tequila didn't usually come with texture. The blanket beneath her was wrong, rough where it should have been soft, and the surface under her was too firm, more like a couch than the mattress she had very specifically paid too much money for. And the air... She frowned faintly. No coffee. No clean, citrusy apartment smell. Just woodsmoke, warm and steady, like it belonged there. Like she didn't. The thought barely settled before an arm shifted around her. Clara froze. It slid around her waist, slow and instinctive, pulling her back against something solid and very, very warm. Her eyes snapped open. Oh no. This was not something she did. Clara was not the wake-up-in-a-stranger's-bed friend. She was the hold-your-hair-back and call-you-an-Uber friend. The responsible one. The one who remembered things. Carefully, slowly, she tried to shift forward just enough to breathe without being pressed against a man she did not remember. The response was immediate. His arm tightened, drawing her right back. Not rough. Not aggressive. Just certain, like this was normal. Like she was normal. Something in her chest flipped in a way that was deeply unhelpful. Okay. Don't panic. Step one: assess. Step two: escape. Step three: Never speak of this again. Behind her, the man shifted, his chest rising against her back. Heat. Weight. Awareness. This was bad. Very bad. Because unfortunately... He felt nice. Her brain filled in details she had not asked for. Broad shoulders. Warm hands. The faint scent of woodsmoke and something annoyingly masculine. Then his voice came, low and rough against her shoulder. "Mornin', wife." Clara blinked. Once. Twice. Well. "That's... ambitious for a first date." Silence settled around her thoughts as she reached for the night before and found nothing. No music. No drinks. No bad decisions she could point to and say yes, that explains this. Just... this. So how had she ended up in a stranger's bed? And worse... How had she apparently gotten married? Seven years single. Seven years of trying just enough to pretend she wasn't trying, and still going home alone while guys tripped over themselves for Vanessa. Great. So this was it. Rock bottom wasn't ice cream and sweatpants. It was blackout marriage. Behind her, he shifted closer, the scrape of his jaw brushing her neck before his lips followed, soft and unhurried. Her body leaned into it before her brain caught up. Which felt like a problem. "My wife," he murmured again. It should have sounded ridiculous. It was ridiculous. And yet something in her chest softened anyway, a small, traitorous reaction she did not have time to unpack. Because no one had ever said that to her before. Not like that. Not like they meant it. His lips brushed her shoulder again, slow, patient. Clara stared at the wall. Do not turn around. Do not look at him. Because there were only two options here. Option one, he was gorgeous, and this somehow got worse. Option two... Her stomach dropped. David from accounting. Absolutely not. If she turned around and found David, she would simply pass away. Quietly. Respectfully. She stayed exactly where she was, caught between panic and something far more inconvenient. Because unfortunately... He still felt really nice. Please don't be David. Then her brain caught something actually useful. This wasn't her apartment. And she probably had work today. Or maybe it was the weekend. God, she didn't even know what day it was. Her hand slid under the pillow, searching automatically. Nothing. No phone. That alone snapped her fully awake. Clara always had her phone. Always. Okay. Definitely not normal. Carefully, she eased forward until his arm slipped from her waist. The loss of it lingered. Warm. Noticeable. Annoying. She ignored that and sat up, pulling the blanket tight around herself as awareness rushed in all at once. Bare shoulders. Unfamiliar room. Bad decisions. Slowly, she turned. She looked at last night's mistake... ...and let out a quiet breath. Not David. Thank God. Not even remotely David. This man was not a mistake. Dark curls, slightly mussed from sleep. A strong jaw that made her stomach do something inconvenient. And when his eyes opened... Stormy blue. Focused. On her. Her fingers moved before she approved the decision, brushing lightly through his curls. He smiled. "You're gorgeous." Her heart fluttered, completely traitorous. Because he was so far out of her league, it wasn't even funny. His hand slid up her arm, slow and warm, his grin turning dangerous. "Ya butterin' me up is only gonna git you, " He pushed up onto one arm, the blanket slipping just enough. Clara forgot how to breathe. That was a problem. His chest looked like it belonged in a magazine. Or carved into stone somewhere, people made questionable life choices over. Her brain, clearly broken, offered: Worth it. His lips brushed hers, soft and unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be. Like she was exactly where she was supposed to be. When he pulled back, her gaze lingered. Tracked. Appreciated. He huffed a quiet laugh. "You be lookin' at me like that... makes a man think you're ready for another tumble." Her brain short-circuited. The words were slightly off. Twisted just enough to feel wrong. She ignored that completely. Because clearly, the more important thing was that she had somehow married an absolute Adonis. Clara's thoughts went bright and giddy. Okay. This might not be a disaster. She had a date for Thanksgiving. A real one. With a jawline. Irene was going to choke. A grin spread across her face before she could stop it. Then she looked around. The grin faded. Rough wooden walls. Not styled. Not cute. Just worn. A narrow window. Pale light. Thin curtains. And a washstand. With a basin. Clara stared at it. An actual basin. Okay. So he was poor. She could work with that. ...probably. Her stomach dipped. That did not feel like a confident proposal. She scanned the room again. No electronics. No modern anything. No sign of a world she recognized. This wasn't a rustic aesthetic. This was just... real. Okay. New theory. A themed place. An immersive experience. That made sense. It had to. Had they really gotten drunk, gotten married, and honeymooned in an old west cosplay hotel? Behind her, his lips brushed her shoulder again. "Focus," she whispered. Come on. Logical thinking. There was an explanation. There had to be. Her brain tried very hard to believe that. It failed. Because nothing about this felt staged. Everything looked lived in. Real. "Give me a second." She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet hitting cold, solid floorboards. And that's when she saw it. Creamy white fabric, carefully draped over a chair. A dress. She leaned forward, fingers brushing the sleeve. The stitching stopped her. Hand-done. Precise. Time-consuming. Not modern. "You were the prettiest bride," he said behind her. Her breath slowed as she gathered the fabric, letting it unfold. A wedding dress. Modest. Structured. Beautiful in a way that didn't try. Something she might have chosen. Once. Before practicality. Before she learned to want things quietly. Behind her, the bed creaked. Clara went still. The timeline didn't make sense. This dress alone would have taken weeks. Months. You didn't wake up with something like this. Her grip tightened. Don't turn around. Maybe this still made sense. The mattress shifted. She felt him sit up. "Come back to bed." His voice had changed. Quieter. Steadier. His lips brushed her back, not playful now. Intentional. Clara closed her eyes, then turned. "I think I drank too much last night." He watched her, one hand braced against the mattress, the other sliding along her back like it belonged there. Like she belonged there. No hesitation. No confusion. Just certainty. Clara swallowed. "Is... this my dress?" "And..." Her voice caught. "...who are you?" He stilled. Just for a second. "Your, " He stopped, corrected quietly. "Elijah." Like that should mean something. Clara searched her memory. Nothing. "Elijah Walker," he said more firmly, watching her like he was waiting for recognition. It didn't come. Silence stretched. Then softer, almost careful, "Your Elijah." Like he was offering it. Not claiming. Hoping. Clara's breath caught. Still nothing. No memory. No spark. Just the unsettling certainty that she should know. That she was supposed to. And didn't. He watched her a moment longer. Something shifted behind his eyes. Then, quietly, "Your husband."