Dakota and I stand alone under the arch, my arms wrapped around her from behind, her back against my chest, swaying in a slow dance.
“We’re married,” she says.
“We are.”
“That’s insane.”
“Completely.”
She turns in my arms, tilting her face up to mine. “No regrets?”
“Not one.” I kiss her forehead, her nose, her lips. “You?”
“Just one.”
I freeze. “What?”
“That we didn’t do this sooner.” She shrugs. “Now I’ve wasted months not being able to say ‘my husband.’”
Relief floods through me. “Say it now.”
“My husband.” She tests the words, rolling them around like hard candy. “My husband, Julien Mora.”
“My wife.” I like how it sounds. How it feels in my mouth. “Dakota Mora.”
“Oh god.” She hides her face in my chest. “That’s my name now.”
“Having second thoughts?”
“I like it.” She pulls back, eyes bright. “Take me inside.”
I scoop her up, one arm under her knees, and she yelps, grabbing my neck for balance.
“Carrying my wife over the threshold.” I head toward the cottage. “Isn’t that traditional?”
“It’s perfect.”
I kick the cottage door open, carrying her through. “My wife.”
She squirms in my arms. “Stop saying it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like—” She waves a hand vaguely. “With that tone.”
“What tone?” I know exactly what tone. The one that makes her breath catch.
“That smug, self-satisfied, I-got-what-I-wanted tone.”
“I did get what I wanted.” I shoulder our bedroom door open. “You. Married to me. In my bed every night.”
“Our bed.”
“Say that again.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt. “Ourbed.”
“Mm. Like hearing you claim things.” I set her on her feet beside the bed, hands finding her waist. “What else is ours?”
