His brows pull together, confusion settling in as he glances down at his own left hand.
Then he freezes.
His mouth opens slightly. “Oh.” Closes again. “Shit.”
“Yeah. No shit ‘oh shit,’” I deadpan, wiggling my ring finger between us like a middle finger in disguise. “Can either of us explain why we’re accessorizing as if we just walked out of a wedding chapel in Vegas?”
I’m doing my best to keep my voice down; swear I am.
A flicker of a memory punches through the haze. A younger man in a white button-down shirt, boutonniere wilting over his pocket. A microphone. A half glass of champagne in one hand, cupcake in the other.
Pastor Dan. Another one of the bride’s cousins.
Evy had made the introduction, daring us to tie the knot.
Technically Dan is a youth pastor but got ordained specifically for this wedding, and let me tell you—he was way too excited about it. Laminated certificate from the internet. Gold pin on his tie that saidOrdained Af, and he kept shouting “Y’all ready to get spiritually LIT?”
So yeah.
That’s the dude who married us.
We were on the end of the resort’s dock, with a crowd of at least five onlookers—plus one overly excited, buzzed uncle—everyone cheering as if we’d just won a season ofThe Traitors.
“Let the games begin!” Pastor Dan shouted, scaring the shit out of both of us. “We’re gathered here today, under the shimmering light of this disco ball and my cousin Lizzie to celebrate the spontaneous union of—what are your names again?”
“Chelsea.”
“Um. Grant?”
“The spontaneous union of Chelsea and Grant,” he declared, holding up his laminated cue cards with flourish. “Do you, Grant, promise to try really hard not to be annoying, to always let her have the last french fry, and to pretend to watchLove Islandeven when the contestants suck?”
Maverick, deadass serious, looked me in the eye and slid a slim ring on my finger as he declared, “I do.”
I have no idea where the rings came from.
None at all.
“And do you, Chelsea, take Grant to be your lawfully wedded husband. Do you promise to love him, keep him, even when he loses his good looks and his muscles aren’t as firm?”
“Yes!” I remember shrieking, the makeshift veil Evy had made out of dessert-table tablecloth yanking at the back of my low bun.
Pastor Dan pumped his fist in the air before declaring, “Then by the powers invested in me, I now pronounce you wed, in the holy state of matrimony, in the great state of Washington.”
He looked so proud of himself, like he’d just officiated Harry and Meghan’s wedding with a napkin and a dream.
Maverick and I had stumbled down the pier back toward the wedding reception—the real one—where the actual bride and groom were slow-dancing under twinkle lights, blissfully unaware that two tipsy strangers had just hijacked their big day.
Someone tossed trail mix.
Someone handed us sparklers.
It was possibly the most fun I’ve ever had in my entire life.
“Are we married?” Maverick says at last, after staring at my hand—and his—longer than I would love.
I give my head a shake. “I have no idea. Like—was Pastor Dan even legit?”
“Who is Pastor Dan?”
