Felix’s jaw drops as he whirls toward Cyrus. “What are you doing?” he hisses. “Don’t you dare try to talk her out of marrying me. I’ve managed to convince her that I’m a decent person”—India grins—“and she’s been putting up with me flawlessly foryears.”
Cyrus grunts, but his gaze on India is gentle, his smile genuine as it touches his lips. It’s rare to see him so emotive, but as he steps toward her, he pulls her into a hug. She wraps her arms around him and squeezes, and he releases a huff of laughter.
“You’re beautiful,” he says gruffly. “Congratulations, Indy.” Then he looks at the rest of us—his gaze lingering a few seconds on Poppy, I notice, whose cheeks redden—and then he nods. “Shall we?”
Although the basementof the church is cramped and warm and confusing to navigate, the actual chapel where India and Felix get married is lovely. It’s a short ceremony, simple at their request, and attended by only the closest people in their lives. Felix’s groomsmen stand in a row next to him, and we do the same with India, holding our bouquets of wildflowers.
My date is sitting in the front row, with my parents. I have to say, Roman has charmed them thoroughly and quickly—not that they’re difficult to win over. Luca is tucked on their other side, his eyes on Juliet as per usual, and my mom and dad are both smiling and dabbing their eyes, patting the knees of the men in our lives.
Roman is next to my mom, and where she’s patting his knee emotionally, his hand is over hers, a reassuring gesture. A smile tugs at my lips, and for a split second I try to stop it—an instinct born long ago and for reasons I don’t fully understand. I catch myself, though, and let the smile free. I let the happiness grow inside of me as I watch the man who, on some level, used to terrify me.
When his gaze meets mine, Roman winks. My subtle eye roll isn’t very convincing, and he grins, the devil-may-care tug of his lips I’m so used to.
Thanks to his insistence on hiring my ex, we were able to get the remaining balance of the loan paid off. That debt hanging over my head was a guillotine ready to drop, and while Roman admits he maybe should have told me what he was doing, he still says he doesn’t regret actually hiring Tyler.
I can’t blame him. I would have done the same, and I would have done it in a heartbeat if it would have helped someone I love.
When the ceremony is over, we all head to the lot behind the church, where twinkling lights are hung and tables are set up. I did a lot of the planning and setting up for the reception, and I have to admit, it looks great. Since India and Felix like being outdoors, we leaned into more natural decor—flowers and vines and tree stumps. The whole effect is dreamy, like a woodland paradise you’ve just stumbled into.
“How are the feet holding up, little vandal?” comes a smooth voice from behind me, and I turn to look up at Roman.
“Fine, so far,” I say, glancing at my matte gold heels—which, yes, are very high and slightly uncomfortable. But they were perfect with my bridesmaid’s dress, and they didn’t cost too much, either.
Roman’s arms snake around my waist, tugging me closer. “I quite like you tall,” he says as his eyes take on a wicked glint. “It makes it much easier to?—”
“Roman!” I slap him on the chest, gaping, and he grins.
“Such a filthy mind,” he says. “I was going to say it makes it easier to kiss you.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, and though I try to make the sound disapproving, I’m also trying not to laugh. Soft music has turned on over the speakers, and I smile as Roman tugs me toward the dance floor.
“Are we going to do this at some point?” he says in my ear as he pulls me close.
“What—get married?” I say, winding my arms around his neck.
He hums, a sound I feel with his lips against my cheek. “My boring nine-to-five would be much more palatable if I came home to you every day.”
A regular old banker—that’s his nine-to-five. He doesn’t love it, but he doesn’t hate it either, and at some point we may be able afford a revamp of the cleaning and organization business I loved so much.
Smiling, I answer his question. “We might get married. Maybe.” I pause. “Probably,” I admit. Heat creeps up my neck, but I go on. “I mean—don’t you think?” We haven’t talked about it before, or at least not explicitly.
“Yeah,” he says in my ear. “I do think.”
My shoulders ease with relief. “Me too.”
Because I can picture married life with Roman—and Ido. I imagine lazy mornings and heated arguments and whispered love. I see all of it, and it fits—it works.
It brings me joy.
“Where would we live?” I lean back and narrow my eyes at him. “In the house you inherited, or in the house you bought without telling me?”
And he could not look less ashamed. “I had all this money sitting around, and I wanted to do something with it,” he says blithely. “A rental property seemed like a solid investment. And everything worked out in the end, didn’t it?”
I do not answer this question. Technically he’s correct. The house I was renting with Jules and India—just Jules, as of this week—is now a rent-to-own property, where eventually I’ll be able to take ownership.
“I don’t really care either way,” Roman says with a shrug. “I love you more than my grandparents’ old house.”
I’m not surprised. Walls and roof aside, their story turned out to be more bitter than sweet.
