As if on cue, my new husband appears at my side, looking dapper in his perfectly tailored Armani tux, and leads me on his arm into the house.
As we walk toward the French doors on the opposite side of the large patio, I notice C-Bomb and Dax Morgan sitting on a bench together in a far corner, their body language relaxed and friendly. “Reed, look.” I gesture to the unlikely duo, and Reed and I share a huge smile.
Before tonight, we already knew the guys of 22 Goats and Red Card Riot had received our wedding invitations and decided to put their differences aside to party under one roof for the first time in years. ButknowingDax and C-Bomb had finally decided to bury the hatchet, in our honor, andactuallyseeing them together, looking like old friends, laughing and smiling... well, those are two different things.
“That happened because ofyou,” Reed says.
I scoff. “No. They’re here because celebrating withyouwas moreimportant to them than hanging onto whatever originally pissed them off.”
Reed chuckles. “Silly Mrs. Rivers. What I meant is they’re all so shocked I landed a catch like you, they were dying to see for themselves if you actually went through with saying ‘I do.’”
I roll my eyes and he laughs.
Inside the house, we find Dean singing his heart out onstage, as expected, backed by some of the most recognizable musicians in the world, all of them looking like they’re having the time of their lives up there, making that campy song their own. When we reach the dance floor, we’re welcomed enthusiastically by Josh and Kat—who looks svelte and gorgeous in her tight-fitting blue gown—and, also, by Henn and Hannah—who’s sporting an adorable baby bump these days.
Not surprisingly, Henn begins performing one of his patented “break dance moves,” making everyone around him laugh and egg him on. And, soon, our little dance party in the middle of the floor istheplace to be. In rapid succession, we’re joined by the Fantastic Four: Keane, Maddy, Zander, and Aloha, who, in turn, are accompanied by Kat’s adorable parents, Thomas and Louise Morgan. Soon, the next wave shows up: Reed’s sister, Dax, Colin and his date, and Alessandra and Fish, all of whom begin dancing like there’s no tomorrow.
Still dancing, Alessandra comes over to me and grabs my hands, and we do a joyful little jig that makes me feel like I’ve got a jetpack on my back. As Reed predicted, Alessandra’s single, “Blindsided,” eventually rose as high as number eight on the charts and launched her in a big way. So much so, Alessandra’s eventual album, which released four months ago, has already churned out three top twenty hits, including an adorable duet she co-wrote and recorded with Fish called “Smitten,” which recently hit number one on the Alternative Chart.
When I disengage from Alessandra, I prance over to Owen, who’s dancing with Zasu,and then my father, and Leonard and his wife, before returning to my husband to finish out the song.As I dance, my eyes drift around the room, grazing over all the familiar, happy faces. CeeCee and her husband, Francois. Professor Schiff and her date. Bernie, my old boss from the bar, with his sweet wife. Reed’s mom is dancing with Amalia and her nurse, Tina, and the orderly, Oscar, who made the trip, at our invitation and on Reed’s dime.
And, suddenly, it hits me like a ton of bricks what a truly magical thing a wedding is in a person’s life. The one and only time—at least, when they’re alive to see it—when a person is surrounded by literallyeveryonewho loves them, from every segment and phase of their life, all under one roof—andeveryoneis full of pure joy.
Feeling overcome with love and gratitude, I hurl myself at Reed, pull his face to mine by his sexy scruff, and kiss him fervently. “Happy wedding day, my gorgeous hunk of a husband!”
Reed laughs. “Oh, shit. I’m ahusband?” He looks down at the metal band on his finger. “Wait. Is that what all that ring exchanging and ‘I do-ing’ meant? Someone should have told me!”
I giggle with glee and kiss his ring. “Sorry, Mr. Rivers. The deed is done, and you can’t take it back. I’m all yours, according to a legally binding contract. And you’re all mine. Don’t you know the first rule of negotiations? Careful what you ask for—you just might get it.”
Reed nuzzles my nose, a huge smile on his face. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Happy wedding day, Cinderella.”
I swoon. “I knew you were my Prince Charming, the minute I met you.”
He laughs. “And this is the part of the fairytale where we get to ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after.”
I look into Reed’s sparkling, chocolate eyes. “There’s no need for us to ride off anywhere, my love. We’re already here.”
EPILOGUE
REED
Eight years later
My heart pounding, I park my small suitcase inside our front door and tear through our moonlit living room. I take the stairs, two at a time, and barrel down the hallway toward Leo’s nursery. As I approach the doorway, I hear the glorious sound of Georgina singing “Beautiful Boy” by John Lennon—the song I played for my beautiful wife the day she gave me Leonardo Ricci Rivers seven months ago.
As it turns out, I probably could have made Georgina a pop star, if she’d let me. I would have needed to rely heavily on Autotune, but I swear I could have done it, just for the sheer fun of it. As it is, though, Leo and I have been Georgina’s sole audience of two, the lucky ones who get to enjoy Georgina’s sweet, soulful voice behind closed doors. I swear, that woman singing to our son, especially this song, is in a three-way tie for my all-time favorite sound. The other two being every noise Leo makes, whether he’s laughing, crying, babbling, or eating, and every sound Georgina makes when we have sex. Especially the ones she makes when she comes.
My chest heaving from anxiety and exertion, I enter the nursery, and discover Georgina sitting calmly in a glider, holding our sleeping son in her arms. When she senses my movement in the doorframe, she looks up and her features contort with apology.
“Oh, love. You didn’t need to drop everything. I shouldn’t have freaked you out like that.”
I bend down and kiss her in greeting. “You think I’d stay in Vegas when Leo was running a fever and you were worried sick about it? You insult me.” I press my lips against Leo’s forehead, and to my relief, his skin feels only vaguely warmer than usual, not “on fire,” as Georgina described it to me, earlier today, in a panic. “When was the last time you checked his temperature?”
“About thirty minutes ago. The doctor said to check it every hour.”
“Check it now.”
I pull up a chair, as Georgina presses a thermometer to Leo’s temple. When it beeps, she holds up the reading, with a relieved smile on her face. “It’s down again. This time, by point-three.” She flashes an apologetic face. “I think it’s distinctly possible I overreacted here. I’m sorry. I should have left you alone to have fun.”
