Page 4 of Wilder’s Mistake

“Enough for a pattern.”

I take another drink. “They fit my life.”

His gaze moves over my face. “And I don’t.” The bluntness catches beneath my ribs.

“That’s convenient,” I say. “You never asked.”

His expression stills. Wilder has seen every blush and every quick turn away. He knows I wanted him to ask. What neither of us says is why I never made it easy. He touches the inside of my wrist, one slow pass of his thumb over my pulse.

“Tonight,” he says, “you look different.”

“That’s because I am barefoot in a bar.” I laugh.

“That’s not what I meant.” The night breaks into bright pieces. His hand on my hip while we cross beneath white pedestrian lights. My laugh coming too easily, the city sliding past in mirrored windows and Wilder drinking from my glass after I tell him his drink tastes terrible.

“It’s the same tequila,” he says.

“Mine has lime though.”

I press the wedge to his mouth. He catches my wrist, bites into the fruit and drags his tongue across the salt on my thumb. The look he gives me is sober enough to be deliberate even when neither of us is remotely sober.

“You do that on purpose,” I say.

“Do what?”

“Make me think filthy things and act as if I invented them.”

His eyes stay on mine. “That wasn’t even close to my version of filthy.” I take a drink because my mouth has suddenly gone very dry.

We order the next round together. I am drunk enough for the lights to blur at the edges, not drunk enough to mistake the man beside me or the heat that has lived between us for years. I keep finding reasons to touch him. His wrist. His shoulder. The rough line of stubble along his jaw. He lets me.

Outside, Vegas presses warm against my bare shoulders. Wilder puts his suit jacket around me and carries my shoes. We leave the Strip for a quieter passage between casinos and Wilder backs me against the wall beneath a bright neon wedding chapel sign.

His hand closes around my jaw, not forcing, just holding me still beneath his gaze.

“Tell me to stop.”

I grip his open collar and pull him down. His mouth hits mine hard. The first kiss tears through six years of restraint. I taste tequila and lime. His body presses me into painted concrete, every inch of him controlled until I slide my hands into his hair and drag him closer. The sound he makes against my mouth goes straight through me. His hand moves down my spine and over my ass. My dress climbs against his thigh. I feel how hard he is and stop caring that anybody could turn the corner.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. “Hotel.”

The wedding chapel sign blinks over his shoulder.

I look at it, then back at him.

“Not yet.” I laugh, catch his hand and pull him toward the chapel.

It sits between a souvenir shop and a twenty-four-hour pharmacy, with gold stars on the black ceiling and plastic roses around a narrow arch. A tired woman behind the desk asks for our identification, then asks whether we understand that the ceremony will be legal.

I hear myself say yes and Wilder says it too.

We fill in the paperwork shoulder to shoulder. Cheap rings wait in a velvet tray. Mine has a rhinestone large enough to light the way home. Wilder chooses a plain silver-colored band that looks wrong and strangely right against his tattooed hand.

He is laughing when I slide it onto his finger.

I remember that clearly, and I remember his hand closing around mine. I remember the officiant dressed in a white rhinestone-encrusted jumpsuit asking whether we are ready. Wilder looks at me. Alcohol darkens his eyes, but there is nothing vague in his answer.

I know who he is and somehow I know this could change everything waiting for us in Missouri.