Don’t Wanna Take it Slow - Persia Holder
Brad’s pacing like a bull, tie undone, jaw locked, nerves running the show.
I’ve seen him like this before—before a big case, before the proposal, hell, even before his first date with Amelia, though at the time, we’d had no clue it was with her.
Every time, it’s the same drill. So I give him what he’s always given me. A grounding hand on his shoulder, a low voice meant to cut through the noise.
“Breathe, mate. You’ve got this,” I tell him. “You’re marrying the girl who still laughs at your bad jokes. That’s gotta count for something.”
He exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough. “You think so?”
“I know you will,” I say, no hesitation. “You’ve handled worse. Remember the Cooper standoff?”
He lets out a low laugh, the kind that says he’s remembering exactly how chaotic that was. “Thought I was going to get shot that day.”
“And now you’re just getting married. Still daunting, and slightly fewer bullets.”
He smirks. “So reassuring.”
“That’s marriage for you.” I grin. “One giant emotional obstacle course.”
“And you’re the expert?”
“Nah,” I smirk, “but I’ve seen my sister go through it. That’s close enough.”
He chuckles, nerves finally softening around the edges. When he steps back, Xavier’s standing a few feet away, arms crossed, grin smug as sin.
Brad tracks it and narrows his eyes. “What?”
“Nothing,” Xavier drawls. “Just nice seeing you two getting all emotional and shit. Real touching moment.”
But that look he gives me over Brad’s shoulder says something else entirely. The photographer yells for us to line up, and I shove that thought aside. I’ve got a job to do: stand beside my best mate, and keep him calm.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of sunlight, nerves, and way too many bloody photos. The photographer had us posing fifty thousand different ways—ties straightened, jackets fixed, “one more, lads”—until my face actually started to hurt from fake smiling.
“What’s the over-under on him bolting?” Xavier asks loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Three minutes,” Michael mutters without missing a beat.
“Two,” Harrison fires back.
“I can hear you fuckers,” Bradley manages to growl out.
That sets the laughter off. For a second, it almost feels like just another Friday knock-off at the pub. Guests start to arrivein small increments, in all kinds of dresses and suits. My chest hums with something restless, a tight anticipation I can’t shake.
“Anyone else nervous as hell, or is that just me? And I’m not even the one getting married,” I mutter, tugging at the cuff of my jacket. Truth is, my pulse hasn’t calmed since I stepped out of the car. The heat, the noise, the goddamn thought of seeing Olivia again—it’s all blending into one slow, steady thrum under my ribs.
Bradley wipes a bead of sweat from his temple. “You’lllive.”
“Yeah, but if you faint, I’m the one stuck dragging your ass off the floor,” I shoot back. “And trust me, you’re not exactly light.” The academy never trained us for hauling full-grown grooms mid-ceremony. That earns me a smirk, which is exactly what I was aiming for.
Xavier slings an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t listen to him, brother. You’re solid. Just breathe. Pretend it’s like… lining up for footy. Except instead of a ball, you’re about to commit to eternal love and fatherhood.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Sure I am.” Xavier grins. “I’m your best man after all.”
There’s a swift music change, and before we know it, the bridesmaids are walking down the aisle—Isla first, then Imogen. Of course, both Xavier and Harrison can’t help themselves, whistling and cheering under their breaths. A friend of Amelia’s walks next. Then—
