Chapter 7
Wendy Ann
A ll the way through the airport, I’m floating on air.
Even sliding into a cab with a faulty air conditioner and sweating my way across the city in the desert heat can’t bring me down. Neither can the man peeing on the side of a casino, the flashing lights so bright they’re blinding even in the afternoon sun, or the billboard stating, “it’s only a gambling problem if you’re losing.”
The man on the Clark County courthouse steps, loudly proclaiming the end of days while petting a miserable-looking parrot on his shoulder, concerns me for a beat or two. But then Connor offers him twenty dollars to move into the shade on the other side of the building for the sake of Sharkbait—the parrot tells us his name himself, in a voice I swear is filled with very human gratitude—and I’m back on cloud nine.
God, Connor is just so…perfect.
So kind, so thoughtful, even to men who smell like they haven’t bathed in years and mangy little parrots. I know there’s a chance this is all an act he’ll drop as soon as he’s gotten what he wants from me—there are people out there like that in the world—but with every passing moment, the voice of caution is getting quieter and quieter.
After all, what on earth could he want from me, except…me?
That’s all I have to give. And while I’m not about to underestimate my own worth, my Self isn’t something anyone can take against my will. That part of me can only be accessed through love and care, not force.
I can’t imagine Connor forcing anything. He’s too thoughtful. Even last night, when he was doing wicked things to my body, he was careful to check in with me every step of the way.
The thought of those wicked things makes me shift my gaze in his direction as we fill out our paperwork in the waiting area.
Damn, he’s gorgeous. His profile is a master class in line and balance and when he glances my way, his entire face lights up as he whispers, “Is the romance getting to you yet?”
I grin, whispering back, “Totally.”
“Me, too. Even though this may be the ugliest room I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, returning to his form.
He’s right. The waiting room, surrounded by glassed-in cubicles on three sides, is decked out in various shades of beige and smells of stale onion bagels from someone’s breakfast.
Or maybe that’s the sweaty guy in stained overalls trying to fix the glitching florescent light in the corner…
This part of the process was never included in the sexy, impulsive, lets-elope-to-Vegas stories I’ve heard in my lifetime, but everyone who wants to get married in Sin City has to stop by the courthouse. Even movie stars. It’s hard to imagine the pop princess I once idolized as a kid stepping foot in this room with the stained drop ceilings and the squeaky fan oscillating in the corner, but she must have. The website was very clear—you can start the application online, but the couple must complete the process in person.
The couple…
We’re a couple.
I, Wendy Ann McGuire, am part of a couple and I’m getting married . Tonight. In just four short hours, in fact. I booked the eight p.m. slot at the Flashback Chapel, where they provide tuxedo and dress rentals for an extra fee, since we only had an hour to get to the airport and no time to go shopping.
“What decade do you think we should choose for the wedding?” I ask, as we’re waiting our turn in front of the one staffed cubicle. “The woman said it was a slow night so we could have our choice of the art deco room, the mid-century room, or the 1980’s room.”
Connor grins. “1980’s? I wonder what the tuxedo rental looks like for that.”
“Probably horrific. I’m sure the dresses are awful too, but when allowed to dry naturally, my hair does resemble a bad 1980’s perm, so…”
He laughs as he eyes my hair. “No way.”
“Yes, way,” I assure him. “I have the worst hair in the family. Apparently, I take after Dad, though he was bald by the time I was born, so I can’t confirm that with first-hand knowledge.”
“My dad is bald, too,” he says. “It’s a miracle I’ve held onto my hair this long.”
I cock my head to one side, trying to imagine him bald.
He grins. “Trying to imagine me bald?”
I laugh. “Yes.”
He mock-winces. “Yeah, it’s going to be bad. I have a giant skull with weird lumps at the back. I’m not going to be a handsome bald man. If you want to call it off now, I understand.”
Chest filling with that increasingly familiar warm, giddy-but-grounded feeling I’ve only felt with him, I take his hand and give it a squeeze. “Nah, you’ll still be sexy.”
His smile fades and a flicker of heat sparks to life in his eyes. “You think so?”
“I know so. Your sexiness comes from the inside.” I bite my lip, glancing around to make sure no one’s close enough to hear before I add, “Which reminds me… I’ve been meaning to ask—do you think we should wait until after the wedding? Or…give things a try beforehand? Just to make sure it’s all going to work out okay?”
The hunger in his expression makes my heart beat faster as he assures me, “It’s all going to work out just fine. No doubt in my mind. But whatever feels right to you. I think you’re in the more unique position here. I want to do whatever makes you most comfortable.”
I pull in a breath, but before I can tell him that I’m torn between the old-fashioned romance of waiting and my burning need to be naked with him again, the couple in front of us steps away and it’s our turn. We give the man behind the glass our documents and IDs, answer a few questions, sign the official paperwork and…voila, we’re ready to go.
“That wasn’t bad,” I say as we descend the courthouse steps, Connor carrying both our suitcases as we head for the corner to meet the car service he ordered inside. “Way easier than the DMV.”
“I’m sure that’s deliberate,” he says. “Can’t run a get-married-quick industry without an efficient licensing process.” He pulls in a breath, exhaling with a big grin. “Ready to see the room? I looked online, and we’re cleared to check in.”
I bounce lightly on my toes. “Yes! I can’t wait. It’s been so long since I stayed at a hotel. Binx and I were supposed to go on a girls’ trip to Chicago last month, but Sprout was sick and Binx had to stay home to take care of her while Seven was running a retreat up at their camp.”
“She’s a great stepmom,” he says. “My parents and I like to hit Bettie’s bar on Sunday afternoons in the summer for a cocktail. Almost every time we go, Binx is down by the lake swimming with Sprout. They always look like they’re having the best time.”
“They’re kindred spirits,” I say. “And Sprout is the funniest. We’re the ones who got Binx and Seven together, you know. We parent-trapped them.”
“No way,” he says, lifting a hand to motion to the driver pulling down the block toward us. “You didn’t.”
“We did,” I say. “My mom nearly ruined it when she found out, but luckily they’d already come to their senses and stopped fighting the love by then.”
“Why were they fighting the love?” he asks, waving hello to the driver. The man in a Golden Knights ballcap waves back and pops the trunk. As Connor loads our suitcases into the back, he adds, “You should never fight the love.”
“Agreed,” I say, struck all over again by how easy it is to be with him.
It feels like we’ve taken a hundred trips together, and I already can’t wait for our next adventure.
Before I can tell him the story of Seven’s reluctance to date a younger woman, however, a pathetic voice squawks from farther down the block. “Sharkbait! Sharkbait! Don’t Stop Believing! Hold onto that feeling!”
Connor freezes with his hand on the door to the backseat. “Where’s that coming from?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, but the man we saw on our way in is gone.” I glance toward the driver, meeting his gaze across the top of his car and holding up one finger. “Just a second, I’ll be right back.”
Then I turn and hurry down the block, spotting Sharkbait all alone on the gravel beside a spindly tree struggling to survive in the heat. When he spies me, he gives a tired hop and croaks, “Jessie’s girl! I wish I had Jessie’s girl!”
“He clearly learned to talk listening to 1980’s songs,” Connor says from behind me.
“Which seems meaningful considering we were just talking about an 80’s wedding,” I murmur, my chest aching as the poor little thing hops from one foot to another and emits another strangled squawk. “I think the gravel is hurting his feet, the poor thing.” Before I can think better of it, I reach for him.
Sharkbait hops onto my finger without missing a beat, crowing, “Ooo baby, heaven is a place on earth!”
Connor laughs. “Agreed, Sharkbait.” He sighs, shaking his head as he asks, “If I offer the driver an extra fifty, do you think he would be up for making a pit stop? I can look up the location of the closest animal shelter. We can’t leave this poor little guy out here in the heat all alone.”
Another wave of affection curling through my chest, I nod. “You’re right. And I think the driver would be okay with that. He looked like a nice guy.” I push up on tiptoe, pressing a kiss to his cheek before I murmur, “But not as nice as you. Is it wrong that your sweetness makes me want to get naked with you even more?”
He flashes me a warm smile. “No, it’s pretty awesome actually. And right back at ya, beautiful.”
“Pretty boy, pretty boy,” Sharkbait croaks, making us both laugh again.
“Yes, you’re a pretty boy, too,” Connor says, pulling out his phone. “And I’m sure once you’ve had a chance to rest up at the shelter, people will be fighting over the chance to adopt you.” To me, he asks, “Want to sweet talk the driver while I search for a shelter?”
“Will do,” I say.
Ten minutes later, we’re on our way to the only shelter within the city limits, with no idea our afternoon is about to take a turn for the chaotic.
But that’s okay, Connor and I handle the chaos the way we’ve handled everything so far—as a calm, cool, collected team. I’m not usually a teamwork girl. I prefer to work alone, insulated from the incompetence of others, but Connor is the furthest thing from incompetent.
When the shelter refuses to take Sharkbait on the grounds that they don’t have facilities in place for birds, he offers to make a donation to help them cover the costs of a new cage and bird food. When they still insist they aren’t a bird-friendly shelter, I call every other shelter in the area, while he looks for bird rescue organizations.
When both of those efforts prove fruitless and we’re quickly burning time we’ll need to drop off our bags and get to the wedding venue, he turns to me and asks, “Any other ideas?”
I love that he asks me, that he already values my input and my voice.
I love it even more when he says, “Yes,” when I suggest we become the proud foster parents of a scraggly parrot—at least until we can get him home to the shelter where my sister-in-law, Starling, works, which accepts all varieties of homeless critters.
Three taxi rides later—one to Petco, one to a specialty store for parrot food, and a final stop for me to grab the pantyhose I forgot to pack—we’re finally on our way to our hotel, with just barely enough time to spare. But I don’t care that I won’t have time to take another shower before the wedding. My hair actually looks amazing in the dry desert heat, and I’m too excited to marry this man to care too much about the ceremony itself.
What matters most is that by eight-thirty tonight, Connor Sinclair will be my husband—and teammate—for as long as we both shall live.