“You look beautiful.” Those three simple words, ruggedly flowing from the mouth of the man I am in love with and tickling my ears, make my knees weak. I never thought I’d be a woman who’d cave to the cliché of weak knees, but here we are—full force wobbling. If I move, I’ll collapse like the London bridge of the childhood nursery rhyme.
Strong arms wrap around my waist, pulling me flat against my favorite person. With his arms acting as life support (because seriously, my legs are mush), I twist around so that I’m facing Braxton. He wears a satisfied smirk that says “I’ve got you right where I want you and you’re not going anywhere.” I’m okay with that, yes, sir.
“You’re okay with what?” he questions. Man, I’ve got to stop thinking out loud.
I decide to be honest in my reply. “Being in your arms.” At least that’s one thing I’m being honest about…
“Good. Because I don’t plan on letting go anytime soon.” Yep. I read him like I read my own mind. I guess that’s what we get for being best friends as long as we have before becoming more.
“Let me get a look at you. It’s rare I get to see you all fancied up.” I wiggle out of his arms, albeit begrudgingly, completely satisfied with the eye candy in front of me. Braxton wears a fitted navy suit that looks like it was tailored specifically for him. Every tuck, hem line, and fold of the suit kisses his body. I let out a whistle of approval, tugging on the lapels.
“What’s a girl gotta do to get you to wear this suit all the time?”
“Marry me.” My heart shutters to a stop. One missing beat, two missing beats, three missing beats, four…”Hadley, breathe.” Braxton’s concerned voice and hand pressed against the bare skin revealed through the cutout of my dress act as voltage to my stopped heart.
Breath fills my lungs like shoppers entering my boutique on Black Friday.
“I’m sorry.Marryyou?” I blurt out in disbelief.
“Or not,” he mumbles as he takes a few steps away from me, looking down at his polished brown loafers.
“You’re not wearing boots,” I state. “If you weren’t wearing sneakers for the gym, football cleats, or in your bare feet, you were always wearing boots.” I scrounge my memories, trying to recall one instance where Braxton wasn’t wearing his boots besides the previously mentioned occasions. There are none. He wore his dang boots to prom. To homecoming. To the bowling alley (he had sweet-talked the elderly lady into not putting on clown shoes like the rest of us).
“I wanted to look nice for you.” Braxton is still looking down at his shoes, hands slipped into his pockets, as I take a step closer to him.
“But you must’ve gotten this outfit before we left.” Realization hits me like an eighteen-wheeler going full speed on the interstate. “You hoped to win me over on this trip, huh?” With my good hand, I take one of his out of his pocket and into my own.
“Guilty,” he says sheepishly, still looking down, though a hint of color flushes his face. Shy is a good look on him.
“Why do you want to marry me?” I ask. His startling green eyes flick to meet my tilted stare.
“Should I quoteSweet Home Alabama, or…?” I cut him off with a kiss. Chaste, since we are standing in the ballroom of the hotel that is being used as the wedding venue with a bunch of people. “Not,” he finishes with a grin.
“Hadley, I need you for the bridesmaid lineup!” the wedding coordinator bellows over the intercom system. Seriously, this place is too rich for its own good.
“This talk isn’t over.” I give Braxton a little love tap on his behind. Nothing he wasn’t used to from his football days.
He shakes his head, the smile growing across his face. “I never said I was kidding, you know.”
I heard that loud and clear, Braxton. You were, in fact, quite serious about me marrying you. But you have no idea what I've been hiding from you the past eight years of my life.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Braxton
WhydidIthinkit was a good idea to blurt outthatquestion, or rather statement, to be honest, at this moment?Stupid. But I can’t back out of it now. Not that I want to, but there were so many other ways I wanted to ask, could have asked, for her hand. She was just there, looking like an angel in her modest pale pink dress that had a sliver of ivory skin peeking out from the small cutout in the back. Just enough to reduce a man’s mind to caveman status.
And apparently forget all sense of propriety.
I asked Hadley to marry me in the middle of one of her good friend’s wedding rehearsal.
You’re a real winner, Braxton.
Hadley was called away to do the actual rehearsing part of the night, saving me from anymore idiotic talk. Though I need to be clear and upfront with her: I do intend to marry this woman. Sooner rather than later. She’s mine to love now, and God knows I’m not letting go.
“Braxton?” a familiar woman’s voice calls, jolting me from my thoughts. “Braxton Rawls?” I turn around to find the person associated with the voice and see my old college girlfriend, the one who almost made me forget about my romantic love for Hadley.
Almost.
