Marco and Imani finally left the dance floor, separately, but I noticed they gravitated to the same side of the room. He grabbed two champagne flutes from a passing server and handed her one. She accepted it with a small smile that was absolutely.
"Oh, she's in trouble," Angelina murmured.
"So is he."
"Think they'll actually do anything about it?"
I watched my brother, smooth, charming Marco who'd dated half of Seattle’s eligible women without ever settling down, lean against the wall next to Imani with his full attention focused on her like she was the only person in the room.
And I watched Imani, successful which terrified most men, actually engage with him, her body language open instead of closed off.
"Yeah," I said. "I think they will."
"Should we warn them?"
"Warn them about what? That falling fast and hard for someone you just met is crazy?" I pulled Angelina flush against me. "Because I'm pretty sure we're not the ones to give that advice."
She laughed. "Fair point."
Marco said something that made Imani swat his arm—playful, not annoyed. He caught her hand before she could pull it back, threading their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Neither of them seemed to notice they were still holding hands. Now it was my turn to say the same about Marco.
"Oh yeah," I said. "He's definitely in trouble."
"Good trouble or bad trouble?" Angelina mirrored my earlier words.
I thought about the last three months. About how Angelina had turned my life upside down. About how she'd made me feel things I'd spent forever avoiding. About how I'd paid a quarter million dollars just to spend one night with her and ended up wanting forever.
"The best kind of trouble," I said.
Angelina followed my gaze back to Marco and Imani, who were now deep in conversation, still holding hands, completely oblivious to the rest of the reception.
I checked my watch. "Are you ready, sweetheart?"
"Dez—"
"I kept my promise. I stayed. I danced. I cut the cake and threw the garter and smiled for approximately seven thousand photos. I even gave in to your ridiculous need to open a billion gifts." I pulled her toward the exit. "Now I'm taking my wife home."
"But—"
"No buts. Gianna can handle the rest. Your friends know where we're going. And Marco—" I glanced back at my brother one more time, "—is clearly occupied."
Angelina looked torn between propriety and desire. Desire won.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go home."
I didn't need to be told twice.
Gianna intercepted us at the door, holding up sparklers and a basket of rose petals. "At least do the sendoff properly. Give them something to remember."
Five minutes later, we were running through a tunnel of sparklers and thrown rose petals while our guests cheered. Someone had decorated my car with tin cans tied to the bumper, "Just Married" written in shaving cream on the windows.
I didn't care.
I helped Angelina into the passenger seat, her dress riding up to show those perfect thighs, and had to resist the urge to take her right there in the parking lot.
"Home," she breathed. "Take me home."
I peeled out of the parking lot with a screech of tires that would have made my driving instructor weep. But my wife was laughing, her hand on my thigh, her eyes full of promise.
