Chapter 1 #2
My brain that’s holding on with only a bobby pin and misplaced confidence just blue screens and quits the game.
“Wait for what?” I whisper.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, wearing the face that says I’ve already lost this argument and I’m about to like it. “We’re getting married.”
My entire system misfires. Heat, panic, want. All at once. “I—what? Wait. Right now?”
He nods. Unapologetic. “The officiant’s here. Our witness is ten minutes out.”
I stare at him as every part of me pauses to make room for this.
“Gage.” His name breathes out of me while I try desperately to get my brain back online.
“I’m not dressed. I look like a hot mess.
I have coffee breath. I spilled things. I screamed at my laptop.
I was almost taken out by a chihuahua and a fire alarm.
I can’t get married looking like—” I gesture to myself with both hands “—this.”
He doesn’t say a word. Just runs his eyes over me. Not in an I’m checking you out way, but rather he’s looking at me like he barely even registered the disheveled state I’m in when he arrived.
Then, his eyes find mine again, and he says, “Princess.” It lands like a warning and a vow and a love letter all at once. “Did we not establish six months ago that you should already consider me seduced?”
My breaths start coming faster.
“You think I need perfect?” he goes on. “I need real.” He looks me over again, like I’m a dream he’s waited years for. “And you, in this skirt, with your hair up like that, and your voice cracking, and your whole day falling apart . . . you’re the realest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
I blink, and then I blink some more, because tears are circling, and I am not okay.
“I haven’t written my vows.” My voice is breathless. My brain’s still not working. The only thing functioning is my body, and it’s moving into Gage so I can reach for him, grasping his jacket, searching for something solid. “I wanted to write special vows for you.”
He slides a hand along my jaw.
His eyes lock to mine.
And the love I see in them knocks the air straight out of my lungs.
“As far as I’m concerned, you said your vows to me the other night.”
“No, I didn’t,” I whisper. “I proposed. I didn’t make promises. I didn’t tell you—”
“Amelia,” he says, his thumb grazing my cheek, his hand steady on my jaw. “You came back to me.”
A beat.
A breath.
A truth so big I swear the room tilts around it.
“You showed up and walked straight through that crowd just to get to me. You looked me in the eye, in front of the whole damn world, and told me I was yours.”
His fingers press a little firmer. Not rough. Claiming.
“You think I need vows?” His voice is low.
Wrecked in a way only love can be. “Princess, you were the vow. Coming back to me that night . . . that was your promise. That was your love. No speech you give today can top that. You walked through fire and found your way home. And I felt every goddamn step.” He leans in, his forehead almost touching mine.
“You don’t have to tell me how you feel or what you’ll do. You already showed me.”
Tears are now tracking down my face. Probably making me full raccoon now. But since my man doesn’t care, I choose not to either.
Instead, I say, “You’re so annoyingly good at this.” My voice is shaky. “I imagined a perfect wedding . . . I wanted to make it perfect for you. And you just . . .” I gesture vaguely at his entire being. “. . . show up in a suit and ruin me instead.”
He doesn’t laugh. He just waits in his intense way. Not moving until I say yes.
So, I sniff and wipe under one eye with the back of my hand, and murmur, “Okay, let’s get married.” I put my hand to his chest. “Give me five minutes.”
His brows lift. Only slightly. Like he’s amused, but also one second away from throwing me over his shoulder.
“I’m not going far,” I add. “I just need to . . . remove the emotional mascara flood situation, maybe reapply some deodorant, and find a bra that isn’t trying to quit life.”
“Five minutes, Amelia. And then you’re mine.”
I spin on bare feet, sprint-walk toward the bedroom, calling over my shoulder, “Five minutes! Maybe ten! Maybe don’t count!”
The door slams behind me and I immediately lose three seconds just standing there blinking at the wall as if it’s going to give me divine guidance.
Okay. Focus. This is fine. You’re just getting married. In a living room. After crying. And raccoon-mascara streaming down your face.
Totally normal Wednesday.
I strip at warp speed and ransack my closet like it’s hiding the Holy Grail of Emergency Wedding Outfits.
Spoiler: it is not.
I land on a black slip dress I bought on clearance and have never worn because it’s “too much cleavage for a school recital” and “not enough cleavage for a date.”
Perfect.
Shoes? I look at them. They look back. We both agree today isn’t the day.
Bra? Sure. Is it the right one? No. Is it clean? Unclear.
Deodorant? Applied like I’m painting for my life.
Makeup? We’re doing the Lord’s work with concealer and a lash curler. The mascara’s gone rogue. We’re letting it go.
I stab a few bobby pins into my hair and call it done.
Spritz perfume. Possibly too much. Now I smell like the lovechild of Chanel No. 5 and bad decisions.
I brush my teeth with the urgency of a woman who just remembered she drank three cups of coffee and is about to kiss the man who owns her collar and half her sanity.
A minute later, I’m staring at myself in the mirror, hands pressed to the counter, breath coming too fast. “You’re getting married,” I tell my reflection. “Right now. Looking like a half-feral indie film heroine.”
I pause. Tilt my head. “But you know what? He wants real. And you’re gonna look fucking iconic doing it.”
Then I open the bedroom door.
Barefoot.
Glowing.
Unapologetically wild.
And absolutely, no-questions-asked ready.