I needed to get away. I needed to have fun.
So I packed a suitcase full of the shortest dresses I own, booked a flight, and decided that for seventy-two hours, I would do exactly that.
The yellow dress was the first step. It’s loud, it’s short, and it makes me look like a damn firecracker.
I was weaving through the VIP corridors, feeling the buzz of the tequila humming in my veins, when I slammed into a literal wall of a man.
He was built like a tank, smelling of expensive woodsmoke and high-end scotch.
My first thought wasn'toops; it waswow.
He looked like he’d been carved out of granite by a sculptor who had a thing for grumpy expressions and perfect jawlines.
Pulling him out into the night was like pulling a stubborn grizzly bear out of its cave.
But it turns out that once he got over his whole“you spilled a drink on me”attitude, he was surprisingly fun to be around.
He was fun to tease. I liked the way his lips curved slightly to one side when he looked at me, like he was amused but trying very hard to stay grumpy and hide it.
And, most importantly, he was sexy as hell.
After a few too many shots, we were completely drunk, laughing at absolutely everything.
Yes. This was exactly the kind of fun I’d been talking about.
Wasn’t it hysterical that this stoic, responsible grump was the one who suggested getting married at L’Amour & Luck?
At the time, I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard.
And now we’re standing here, and I hear my fiancé repeating the officiant’s words like we’re inside some glittery fever dream.
“I, Jake, take you, Talia…”
His voice is so deep, a shiver runs down my spine.
He’s holding both of my hands in both of his now, like he’s afraid I might tip over. Which is fair. I might.
“To be my lawfully wedded wife,” Gary prompts.
Jake doesn’t look away from me when he repeats it.
“To be my lawfully wedded wife.”
Wife.
The word hits me somewhere low in my stomach.
I almost start laughing again. Almost.
Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek because suddenly this feels… different.
The chapel is tiny. The fake stained glass glows pink and blue. The instrumental Elvis song crackles softly through a cheap speaker.
Jake squeezes my hands.
“To have and to hold,” he continues.
His thumb brushes over my knuckles like it’s unconscious.
