Light dawned in her sweet, dark eyes. “Oh, but it’ll be in Swedish. I’m sure it’ll have to be in English. That probably won’t be good enough for them.”
“I have an official notarized translation in my wallet, too, as well as a photocopy of my passport. One can’t be too careful when traveling in the US these days,” I reassured her.
Her shoulders slouched. “Of course you do.”
“Indeed. Let’s go in.”
The glass doors parted like magic as we approached them, and we did go in.
I led this time, as the worst of the buzz seemed to be lifting. I was feeling a bit numb but not legless.
Unbeknownst to me, significantly more vodka lurked in my digestive system, and it was slowly leeching into my bloodstream and about to pour in.
My bride held my arm and turned me toward her. “Nico, just so we’re clear, we can get the license and have a ceremony, but I’mnotsigning the license until tomorrow morning, got it? Youneed to be in a proper state of mind, sober as a judge, before I’ll sign it.I mean it.”
“Stipulation accepted. That’s probably quite logical of you, I think.”
“Yeah,” she muttered.“Logical.”
I was not thinking. I wasfeeling.I was swept along and ecstatic. Every step turned into another as I drunkenly stumbled toward the future.
The line for the few windows with clerks was short, and we waited between frayed velvet ropes while the building waltzed around us.
I caught her hand in mine. Her fingers seemed so little, so delicate, in my oversized hand.
She was squinting as she looked up at me, doubtlessly from the tube lights overhead. “How tall are you, anyway?”
I got that a lot. “Bit over a hundred ninety-three centimeters. Um, a fraction over six-four in American units.”
Her dark eyes watched me like I might sprout wings. “Six-four.You’resix-feet-four.”
I gazed down at her. While kneeling and proposing, I’d seen her white high heels under that fluffy skirt that probably made her legs shapely and scrumptious, but the top of her head was still not quite at my shoulder. “Yes. Six-four.”
Her wry laugh was a funny little cackle.“Six-four.If we’re going to be pretend-married for a night, I wish I could at least find Jimmy and parade you in front of him.”
“Who’s Jimmy?” And why should jealousy pang through my chest due to a dolt with a stupid name like Jimmy?
“Just my ex.” Her voice became tiny, kitten-like, and sad. “I hate him.”
The vodka-fueled rage from previously, when that logo-swathed slob had dared paw my bride, heated and rose in a blue alcohol flame. “Did he hurt you?”
“He’s not important anymore.”
I was mildly mollified. “I could kill him for you.”
She looked up at me again, though her blank expression seemed studiously unconcerned. “Have you killed people?”
“No, but I’m a fast learner.”
She laughed three chuckles at that one.
Three cute, husky chuckles.
I liked her laugh.
My drunken mission for the night would be to make my bride laugh more.
We shuffled forward in the line of happy couples, falling all over each other and desperate to marry at nearly midnight in Las Vegas.
