Rafe’s thumb rubs over my knuckles again, but this time it’s not just soothing. It’s possessive. Like he’s anchoring me to the fact that I’m not alone in the room.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Rachael leans back slightly. “Now,” she says, “we need to address one more thing.”
I brace.
“The wedding,” she continues, and there’s something almost amused in her tone, like she can’t quite believe she’s saying this out loud. “Do wedding photos exist?”
I blink. “Yes.”
Eric’s brows rise. “How many?”
“A few,” I hedge.
Rafe’s mouth quirks, but his eyes stay on me, sharp and watchful. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. Photos are proof. Photos are history. Photos are vulnerability I never let exist anywhere but locked away.
What he probably doesn’t realize is that sometimes those photos are the only thing that kept me from unraveling. The only thing that reminded me we were real.
Rachael lifts a hand. “Before you panic—no one is asking you to release them. I’m asking because tabloids will dig. They’ll try to find witnesses. The chapel. The clerk. The paperwork.”
Miles reappears with a spoon like he’s been summoned by the wordphotos. “Wait,” he says. “Are we talking wedding photos? Because I have been waiting for this moment for, like, a decade.”
Rafe turns his head. “Miles?—”
“What?” Miles says, completely unrepentant. “I’m happy. It’s called joy.”
Eric looks between him and Rachael like he’s trying to determine whether this is normal. Honestly, it’s not. Well, the sarcasm is, but I think without the backup of the guys, Miles is stepping up.
Rachael’s eyes gleam. “Miles, please.”
Miles ignores her and points the spoon at me. “You know what this means, right?”
I stare at him. “No.”
“It means,” he says with relish, “you can finally print them and put them on display.”
The room goes still.
Rachael’s expression freezes. Eric’s face goes politely blank. Rafe makes a strangled sound that might be laughter.
I blink. “What?”
“Yes,” Miles continues, nodding enthusiastically. “Frame them. Hang them. Put them on shelves. Like normal people. Maybe next to a tasteful candle.”
“We are not advising—” Rachael begins.
“And also,” Miles adds, leaning in conspiratorially, “I assume the photos wedidn’ttake in the chapel are wildly inappropriate.”
My brain short-circuits. “Miles.”
“What?” he repeats. “It was your wedding night. Emotions. Romance. A little scandal.”
Eric coughs, clearly trying not to laugh.
Rachael presses her lips together. “There is no scandal, remember?”
I let out a short laugh despite everything, the tension cracking open for a second.
