“Well, I can cut it. Why don’t you put it on?”
Yeah, hell no. “I’m not letting you anywhere near this with a pair of scissors.” But then I give him a little smirk, because there’s only one other option that makes sense.
“So, what do you have in mind, then?” He glances around the cabin.
I find the little headpiece—the crownlike comb—and gesture for him to come closer. “Over here.”
“You’re serious?”
“Totally.”
He sighs but steps forward anyway. “For the record, I’m way taller than your sister.”
“I can compensate for that,” I say, waving a hand. “Besides, I just need to see how long I want it to hang past her shoulders.”
I hop onto the bed—barefoot, wobbling just a little on the rumpled duvet—but I somehow stick the landing. Even I’m impressed.
So is Beckett.
He reaches out instinctively, fingers brushing my calf. “Careful,” he murmurs.
“I’m fine,” I insist, though okay, maybe three glasses of wine are still humming through my bloodstream, making everything feel a little warmer. A little floaty. A little… giddy.
He stands perfectly still beneath me, doing his best to hold a straight face—but the second I lower the veil onto his head, a grin tugs at his mouth.
“If anyone walks in right now,” he murmurs, “I’ll never live this down.”
“Hold still, My Lady,” I say, trying not to laugh.
He lifts a brow but doesn’t move—not even when I smooth the veil down, the fabric whispering over his impressive biceps. I hop down, adjust, hop back up. At one point I sway, and he steadies me with a hand on my butt, but for just a second.
“I said I’m fine,” I mutter through a smile, a pin tucked between my lips.
“Sure you are,” he says softly, blue eyes dancing. Admiring.
Dangerous.
The laughter dies in my throat before it even forms.
The scissors feel heavy in my hand—a sharp contrast to the gauzy veil I’m cutting away at.
He looks ridiculous. My grown husband wearing tulle.
And yet…
His eyes are dark. Focused. Tracking every move I make.
This was supposed to be funny. Easy.
Instead, my pulse is thudding in my ears. I’m more than a little breathless.
His clean, heady scent fills the air. When I lean closer, my fingers graze his hair, and for one dizzy heartbeat his face is right at the level of my chest.
He glances up, eyes focused in a way that turns everything electric.
The moment shifts—because I feel it.
The memory.
