“Mhm,” I hum. “I’ve narrowed it to down to my top three. You wanna help me pick?”
“Sure.” He slides closer, draping his arm around my shoulders and the throne of pillows I have stacked behind me.
I shift my computer so it’s angled toward him, showing him the three Stefana side by side.
“Hmm. And you’re still set on these flowery ones?” he asks.
I give him a side glance. “They’re not flowers. They’re olive branches. I love the simplicity of them. They’re beautiful and timeless.”
He grunts.
I turn my head. “You hate all of them?”
“Hate’s a strong word,” he says. “I just—I mean, if I have to wear a crown, I picture something a little more masculine. Big. Gold. Something that says,I’ve got BDE and I’m the king.Not this dainty flower thing.” He gestures at the screen. “This says,My wife has me by the balls.”
“I do have you by the balls,” I say evenly.
He grins. “I know that. But I don’t want everyone else to know.”
“A man who’s confident with his masculinity could wear a floral crown with no problem.”
He cocks a brow, his voice deepening. “Do you need me to prove to you how comfortable I am with my masculinity?”
His hand slides to the back of my neck and he pulls me closer, nipping at my bottom lip.
“You don’t need to prove anything,” I say softly, pressing my mouth to his all the way. “You’re Matthew Grayson. It’s a Greek wedding. It’s normal. And only our closest friends will be there anyway.”
“You know I’ll wear whatever you pick, babe. But if I have a say, out of the three of these, I’d choose this one.”
He points to the one I secretly wanted him to, and my lips curve into a smile.
“That one’s perfect,” I say, closing my laptop. I set it on the nightstand while Matt slumps down the bed until he’s lying flat, extending his arm so I can curl into him. I rest my ear in the crook of his shoulder, drape a leg over his, and smooth my hand over the rigid plane of his chest.
It’s quiet for a minute as we acclimate, softening into each other until the warmth of his body blends with mine.
My fingers dance across his skin, over his firm sculpted pec to the silver cross resting at the base of his throat.
I toy with it, picking it up and smoothing it between my fingers.
Matt was nineteen when his grandpa died. I hated that I wasn’t there—I was in France, but I flew in for the funeral. I remember thinking how weird it was that Matt didn’t cry. Not once. He stood there like stone. Eerily calm. Numb. Hollow. Like something essential had been carved out of him for good.
His mom told him his grandfather’s last wish was that he keep his cross and wear it, so he’d remember he wasn’t alone, that he’d be watching over him.
Matt says he doesn’t believe in angels. He calls it his good-luck charm. But I’ve seen him touch it more than once when he’s thinking. When he’s worried. When he’s making a tough decision… like maybe he’s still talking to him.
A pang of sadness grips my chest as I think of everything he’s lost. His dad. His grandpa. Nate… and now his mother.
“Have you changed your mind about inviting your mom?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“No,” he replies simply, his voice rough with gravel.
I hesitate. “Are you sure you won’t regret it?”
He answers with an exhale first, his warm breath ghosting across my forehead. “I’m sure.”
I tilt my head, searching for his eyes. “You know I’ll support whatever you decide,” I say quietly. “I just don’t want you choosing this because of me.”
“I’m not. But of course you influence my decision. I just don’t see that as a bad thing.” His palm moves to my back, rubbing small circles between my shoulder blades. “Making you happy makes me happy. I’d never want someone at our wedding who would steal even the tiniest bit of joy from your day. And I don’t care enough to put that burden on either of us.”
