Chapter 12
Twelve
I tap the steering wheel of my car with both my pointer fingers—a crazy rhythm that’s too fast to go along with the song on the radio. “You need your passport.”
“I know.” Stella sits in my passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap. “You seem nervous.”
“I’ve never been married before,” I say, because I am nervous. I’ve also never committed fraud before.
“Second thoughts?” she says. Her contacts are in, and her pretty green eyes are relentless. She won’t stop looking at me.
“Of course not. I want to do this.”
“Ball and chain,” she says, and I think she’s trying to tease me.
“I’ll take it.”
Her cheeks go rosy with my words, and I wonder what she’s thinking. Or if I embarrassed her. She always embarrassed easily as a kid. But Stella Everly is far from a child now. She’s a woman—every inch of her.
And if I’m lucky, maybe because his sister happens to be in the car with me, that lightning bolt that Brice is sending down from heaven will miss me.
Any time I looked at Stella like a girl and not a little sister, I was slugged—hard.
As well as being told to never ever look at his baby sister again.
Brice never held it against me. But I was warned—painfully so. I was eighteen and Stella was fifteen. She was a kid. Brice was right. She just happened to be a kid growing into herself that year.
We drive the rest of the way in quiet, walking up the courthouse steps without a word to one another.
I have everything mapped out, and I’m anxious—more anxious than my Red Tail tryout, more anxious than when I asked Coach about my cabin, and more anxious than the start of any game.
“This way,” I say. While I’ve never been inside this Reno, Nevada, courthouse, I downloaded a map last night.
I know where I’m going, and I know what each of us needs to get that license.
We don’t need an appointment, but the internet said it would take fifteen to twenty minutes to obtain one.
Our appointment to be wed, just down the hall, is thirty minutes later.
I don’t sit in the license bureau office. I pace, sign, and hand the woman at the desk my credit card. Eighty-five dollars and one John Hancock, and I am ready to break the law.
“Do you want to look over my paperwork?” Stella asks. “You could check out my information.” But why would I? How would I know any of her details better than her?
I shake my head. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
She huffs. “I tried,” she mutters to herself.
My heart thumps in my chest, and I remind myself why we’re doing this. All worthy, noble, good reasons.
I am not a criminal.
At least, not morally.
“Okay.” I clap, and my heart attempts to leap from my chest. “Let’s go. This way.” My mouth is dry. I’d better keep quiet and save up for the big “I do” in a few moments.
We head into the office and chat with the justice of the peace’s secretary. “Can I see him—just for a second?”
The woman at the desk gives me a patronizing smile before getting on her phone and asking permission to let the groom in.
“Roman?” Stella’s brows furrow in question.
“I just have one request,” I tell her.
Her cheek concaves where I assume she’s biting it. I nod, assuring her that everything is fine, and in less than a minute, I am in front of Judge Merrell. A man who could put me in jail—literally. I am about to commit immigration fraud.
I’m not sure what I look like, but the man’s sour face softens when he sees me. “Nervous, son?”
“A little.” I swallow. “Sorry, I know you aren’t quite ready for us. But, um, my bride”—I do my best not to choke on the word—“she’s pretty private. We do have a couple friends coming to witness, and I think if you could skip that whole kiss-the-bride bit, she would greatly appreciate it.”
“You want me to skip kissing the bride?”
He’s seeing right through me. I’m certain of it. The gavel is going to come down. The handcuffs are going to come out.
And yet, I don’t want to make Stella any more uncomfortable than she already is. Just because she’s agreed to marry me doesn’t mean I’ll take advantage of the woman.
When I say nothing, the man shakes his head. “Fine. Whatever you want.”
I wait for the gavel and handcuffs. But he’s simply agreed to my request.
“I appreciate it.” I nod and see myself out.
After another curled lip from our officiant’s secretary, I look at Stella. “He wants us to wait in the hall.”
“I’ll come for you when he’s ready,” the secretary says.
“Are you sweating, Roman?” Stella’s looking up at me.
I hold the door open for her, and we step out into the hall. Callum Whitaker and his fiancée stand right outside, waiting for us.
Stella’s gaze follows mine over to the pair. “Oh,” she says, her tone more than surprised.
“They said we needed two witnesses,” I mutter.
“Crap!” She pulls her phone from her pocket. “That reminds me, I never invited Willow. One sec.” She gives a small wave to Fran and Callum before sending a quick message off to her friend.
“She’ll never make it,” I tell her.
“But she won’t be able to say that I didn’t invite her either.”
“Hey, there,” Callum says, standing from his lean against the wall. “When you asked if Fran and I could meet up with you and Stella, I thought you wanted to go to dinner.”
I shake my head—that cloudy persona that takes over whenever I talk to anyone outside the Everly family falls over me. “Nope,” I say, not bothering to elaborate.
“Okay.” Callum’s brows raise. “But the courthouse? What are we doing here?”
“Witnessing.” I clench my jaw.
Stella clears her throat beside me and, playing a part, loops her arm through mine. “We didn’t want to wait any longer, and neither of us wanted a big fancy wedding.”
“Wait,” Fran says, her mouth dropping into a gaping grin. “Are you getting married? Here? Now? And we’re witnessing?”
“Yes,” I answer—one word, because I have nothing else to say.
But Fran’s brown eyes glisten with excitement. “Roman! Where is everyone else?”
“What do you mean?”
“The team! Our Red Tail family! When are they getting here?” she asks.
But it’s Callum who answers her. “They aren’t.”
“You didn’t invite them?” Fran’s hand slides down Callum’s arm and slips into his. I watch the movement, and in my mind, Stella does the same with me. She doesn’t, of course, but it’s almost as if I can feel her soft hand in mine.
I narrow my gaze, remembering the question asked and unsure how Fran is confused. “We didn’t invite them because we didn’t want them here.”
“Roman,” Stella scolds. But I have no idea why. She wants a big show as much as I do. Stella never liked a lot of eyes on her. I assume that hasn’t changed. “We just wanted to keep it private.”
“Private,” Fran says. And while she’s nodding, her face tells me that she doesn’t understand—at all.
“We only needed two witnesses,” I say, earning me a small elbow jab from my future bride. I suppose I might have been rude. I wouldn’t have invited them had we not needed witnesses—and now they know it.
“Well, too bad,” Callum says. “I invited Zev and Rosalie.”
A grumbling breath escapes my lips, and I stop myself from calling Callum a name in front of Stella and Fran. “We aren’t waiting for Hayes and some girl.”
“No wait needed,” says a voice just behind me. Zevulun. Great.
Zev Hayes is in a tie, and his date is in a dress. Who told anyone to dress up? Stella and I aren’t dressed up. They look like they’re ready to go dancing—or, ironically, to a wedding.
“She isn’t some girl,” Fran says. “Rosalie is the most beautiful human on the planet, my very best friend, and Zev’s—” She pauses, looking at her friend. “Zev’s something. Okay?”
Rosalie rolls her eyes. “What are we doing here? I thought you said we were going on a triple date. Dancing or drinks or—”
Fran squeals, her feet trotting in place.
Stella looks at me again, but I don’t understand the reaction any more than she does.
“We are! But it’s so much better than dinner or karaoke.
We are witnesses for Roman and Stella’s wedding!
” Her mouth drops until her jaw could possibly come unhinged.
She waits for her friend’s reaction—and she gets one.
“Graves is getting married? Today? As in right now?” Rosalie blinks, then turns to Stella. “You’re sure about this? You’ve seen his temper, right?”
Stella—to her credit—scoffs. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Okay, then.” Rosalie sighs and plants her hands on her hips. “Well, you cannot get married like that.”
“She’s right,” Fran says, waving Stella on. “Come on.”
Before either of us can protest, the women have each taken one of Stella’s hands and dragged her into the women’s restroom not five yards away.
I roll my neck and sigh, peering up at the ceiling.
“Happiest day of your life, eh?” Zev says, one brow quirked.
“Happiest,” I say.
He smirks. “Looks like it.”
“All this time we’ve had the happy version of Graves,” Callum says. “I mean, if this is you overjoyed, we’ve been dealing with a fairly content man all this time.”
Zev laughs. “Truth.”
Ignoring them, I toss a hand toward the bathroom. “What are they doing in there?”
“No idea,” Zev says.
“Fran always has a plan,” Callum says.
I groan. I’ve heard rumors of Fran’s plans. I don’t want any part of them. I glance down at my watch. It’s been seven minutes. “I’m going in after her if they aren’t out in—”
The door swings open. Fran steps out, a wide grin on her face. Rosalie follows behind her, only she’s wearing the sweatshirt and jeans Stella came in. I’m sure of it. It was a Jackson High sweatshirt, one that had to be at least a decade old. And now it’s on Rosalie’s body.
My brow furrows, confused. But then Stella steps out. Her blonde waves are pulled up on top of her head, strings of hair framing her face, and she’s wearing Rosalie’s shimmering blue dress. She’s got a few more curves than Rosalie, and the dress accentuates every ounce of that.
My eyes trail from her head to her toes—still in white high-top Converse. She’s a vision, and my heart palpitates for a whole new set of reasons.
Stella fidgets with the low neckline. “Her shoes wouldn’t fit.”
I swallow, but no words come.
“Here,” Zev says beside me. “Look semi-decent on your wedding day, eh?”
I blink away from Stella to see Zevulun holding his black jacket out toward me. My lavender button-up won’t look too silly with a jacket, so I take the thing from him and throw it on.
“My mom wanted a wedding day photo. This will be better anyway.” Stella’s hands swish over the skirt of her dress. “I don’t look ridiculous?” she asks.
“You look gorgeous,” Fran says. “Your man can’t take his eyes off you.”
With her words, I force myself to blink away. But she isn’t wrong. I desperately want to look back.
“Yeah, I’m never going to be able to wear that dress again,” Rosalie tells her, studying Stella like a science experiment. “Not after seeing it on you.”
“Don’t say that,” Zev says, slipping his hand into Rosalie’s. “You looked beautiful.”
But the truth is, I don’t remember what Rosalie looked like in that dress. Fran is right. I’m not seeing anything else around me other than Stella. She’s stunning. And she’s about to become my wife.