Chapter 42
MY WIFE
DALLAS
I had faced championship matches in front of fifty thousand screaming fans.
I had walked into arenas where the crowd wanted to see me destroyed, where the noise was so loud it vibrated in my chest, where everything I'd worked for came down to a single moment under blinding lights.
None of that compared to standing under an oak tree in a vineyard, waiting for my wife.
The ceremony space was everything the photos had promised and more. The ancient oak spread its branches overhead like a cathedral ceiling, strung with hundreds of delicate lights. White chairs arranged in neat rows held everyone who mattered, our families, our friends.
Soft music drifted from a string quartet positioned near the vine-covered arbor. The melody was classical and romantic.
The weather had cooperated like it had read the memo. Late morning sun filtered through the oak leaves, dappling everything in gold and green. A gentle breeze carried the scent of grapes and flowers.
Perfect. It was all perfect.
And I was going to throw up.
“You're fidgeting,” Matt muttered from his position beside me. He was serving as my best man, looking uncomfortable in a suit that fit him for once. “Stop fidgeting.”
“I'm not fidgeting.”
“You've adjusted your tie four times in the last minute.”
“Maybe my tie is uncomfortable.”
“Your tie is fine. You're just losing your mind.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Breathe, man. You already married her once. This is just the encore.”
“The encore matters,” I said through gritted teeth. “The encore is the whole point.”
From the front row, my mother caught my eye and gave me a watery smile. My stepfather sat beside her, stoic as always, but I'd seen him dab at his eyes when he thought no one was looking.
Across the aisle, Davina's mother occupied their own front-row seats. Her mother was already clutching a handful of tissues.
Behind them, the rows filled with the people who made up our lives. Austin and Cheyanne. Kali and James. Marcus looked like he'd stepped out of a fashion magazine. Delilah, bouncing with excitement.
Then there was Brooke. Standing across from me, Davina’s maid of honor.
All of them here and waiting. All of them about to watch me fall apart.
The string quartet shifted into a new melody, and my heart seized. This was the song. The one that meant she was coming.
“Here we go,” Matt said softly.
I straightened my spine, squared my shoulders, and turned my gaze to the end of the aisle.
The path stretched between the rows of chairs, lined with white rose petals that seemed to glow in the sunlight. For a moment, there was nothing. Just the music and the breeze and the thundering of my own pulse.
Then she appeared, and everything else disappeared.
Davina stood at the end of the walkway, her arm linked through her father's, and I forgot how to breathe.
The dress. I'd seen the sketch, had studied those pencil lines on yellowed paper, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of it brought to life on the woman I loved.
It hugged every curve I'd memorized with my hands and my mouth, the off-shoulder neckline framing her collarbone.
The fitted bodice gave way to a flowing skirt that moved like water with each step, and the delicate beading at her waist caught the light and scattered it like diamonds.
Her blonde hair was pinned up in some elaborate arrangement that exposed the graceful line of her neck, with a few strands left loose to frame her face. She was holding a bouquet of white roses and greenery, but I barely registered the flowers because I couldn't look away from her eyes.
Those brown eyes, fixed on me, shining with tears that matched the ones suddenly blurring my own vision.
She was radiant. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen and she was walking toward me.
The first tear slid down my cheek, and I didn't bother to wipe it away. Let them see. Let everyone see what this woman did to me.
“Damn,” Matt whispered. “You're crying.”
“Shut up.” My voice came out thick, barely functional.
Davina's father guided her down the aisle. Her gaze never left mine. She was crying too, silent tears tracking down her carefully made-up face, probably ruining whatever work the makeup team had done. She didn't seem to care. Neither did I.
The music lowered as they reached the front, and her father paused, turning to face me with an expression that held both warning and welcome.
“Take care of her,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion. “Again. Still. Always.”
“Always,” I promised.
He lifted Davina's hand from his arm and placed it in mine. The touch of her fingers sent electricity through my entire body.
And then he stepped back, and she was here.
Right here.
My wife, in her some day dress, standing in front of me in the dappled sunlight.
“Hi,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Hi.”
“You planned all this.”
“I had help.”
“Dallas.” Her chin wobbled. “I can't believe you… You're insane.”
“Probably.” I squeezed her hand. “But I need you to hold that thought.”
Confusion flickered across her face. “What?”
I didn't answer. Instead, I turned to the officiant and gave him a small nod.
Then I dropped to one knee, and a collective gasp rippled through the guests as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the ring box I'd been carrying for three months.
I opened it now.
The four-carat princess-cut diamond caught the sunlight and exploded into a thousand points of fire.
It was flanked by smaller diamonds along a platinum band, elegant and bold and exactly what I'd envisioned when I'd spent hours at the jeweler trying to find something that could possibly match the woman I loved.
“Dallas,” Davina breathed, her free hand flying to her mouth. “What are you… we're already…”
“I know.” I looked up at her, not caring that tears were streaming down my face, not caring that I was kneeling in the dirt in a suit, not caring about anything except the woman standing in front of me.
“I know we're already married. I know we have rings.
I know that legally, officially, on paper, you're already my wife.”
“Then what…”
“But I never asked you.” The words caught in my throat, and I had to pause, had to breathe through the emotion threatening to overwhelm me.
“That night in Vegas, I never got down on one knee. I never looked into your eyes and asked you to choose me. I never gave you the chance to say yes when you knew what you were agreeing to.”
Her tears were falling freely now, dripping off her chin.
“So I'm asking now.” I held up the ring, my hand trembling.
“Davina. My wife. My best friend. The woman who somehow saw something worth loving in an arrogant wrestler with too much ego and not enough sense. Will you choose me? Will you let me choose you? Will you marry me, for real this time, in front of everyone who matters, with both of us completely sober and completely certain?”
She laughed through her tears, that beautiful, broken sound I'd first fallen in love with.
“You ridiculous man,” she managed. “You absolute disaster of a human being. You planned an entire surprise wedding just so you could propose to me properly?”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.” The word burst out of her like it couldn't be contained. “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I choose you. Yes, I'll marry you. Yes to everything, yes forever, yes…”
I slid the ring onto her finger before she could finish, and the way it caught the light there, sitting above the simple band she'd worn for a year, made my heart stutter.
Then I was on my feet, and she was in my arms, and I was kissing her with everything I had while our families and friends erupted into applause and cheers and what sounded like Matt yelling “Get a room!” from behind me.
I pulled back just enough to rest my forehead against hers.
“I love you,” I said. “I love you so much it scares me sometimes.”
“Good.” She sniffled. “I like you scared. It humanizes you.”
I laughed, pressing another quick kiss to her lips. “Ready to get married?”
“We’ve been married for a year. You're the one who decided we needed a do-over.”
I shook my head. “It's an upgrade.”
“Same difference.” But she was smiling, radiant despite the tears, clutching her bouquet in one hand and my hand with the other.
I turned to face the officiant, and Davina turned with me. She froze as she studied the man standing in front of us, his average build, his graying hair, his kind face. Recognition dawned slowly, like the sun cresting a hill.
“Wait.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Wait. I know you.”
The officiant smiled, and something in that smile must have triggered a cascade of hazy memories, because Davina's eyes went wide.
She turned to me, mouth hanging open. “Oh my God, Dallas. Is that…”
“Davina.” The officiant spread his hands, his smile widening. “It's wonderful to see you again. Under better circumstances this time. You were considerably more... spirited the last time we met.”
“I was hammered the last time we met!”
“That too.”
She spun back to me, looking half-delighted and half-horrified. “You tracked down our Vegas Elvis?”
“I prefer the term officiant,” the man said mildly. “Though I have to admit, performing ceremonies in the full regalia does have a certain theatrical appeal.”
“He's not wearing the costume today,” I pointed out. “I thought that might be a bit much.”
“A bit much.” Davina was laughing now. “You flew our Elvis impersonator to Florida to marry us again.”
“His name is David. He's a retired accountant from Reno who does the Elvis thing for fun.” I grinned. “And he was thrilled to do a proper version, his words.”
“This is insane.” She shook her head, but she was beaming. “You are insane. This whole thing is insane.”
“Is that going to be a problem?”
“Absolutely not.” She squeezed my hand. “Let's do this. Let's get married by our Elvis.”