Chapter 1 #2
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this alive.
We keep walking, and I slide an arm around her, pulling her into my side. She fits there too easily.
She smells incredible. Warm. Sweet. Dangerous.
We’re giggling like teenagers, flirting without restraint, and I know I want to take this woman home tonight. I want to make her forget everything but my name. I want to drag every breathless sound out of her that I can.
And then I see something that derails every single one of those thoughts.
We’re standing directly in front of a small whitewashed building with a neon-lit heart glowing over the door.
L’Amour & Luck 24-Hour Wedding Chapel.
I stop walking.
“Oh, look,” I say, staring at it like it just personally challenged me. “A classic Vegas landmark.”
She follows my gaze, then looks up at me with a grin that’s already forming.
“Do you think they have a ‘Grumpy Groom’ special?” She says it like she’s teasing, like this whole neon chapel thing is just a joke.
But something in my tequila-soaked brain latches onto it like it’s the greatest idea ever conceived by mankind.
We’re standing in front of the chapel window now. Plastic roses. Flashing pink lights. A cardboard Elvis giving a thumbs up like he personally endorses bad decisions and unpaid alimony.
She giggles and leans her head against my arm, nearly taking us both down because neither of us is walking in a straight line anymore.
“I’ve always wondered who actually does that,” she says. “Just… walks in and says ‘I do’ to a stranger.”
“You know what?” I say suddenly, way too loudly.
Her brows lift. “What?”
“I think they absolutely have a Grumpy Groom special.”
“Oh yeah?”
An idea is forming.
Big.
Bright.
Deeply irresponsible.
And instead of shutting it down like I normally would, I nurture it. Feed it. Let it grow.
“You want to know who does this?” I ask, swaying slightly but committed.
“Enlighten me, Hercules.”
“People who are sick of thinking.”
She blinks at me, trying to process through her own alcohol fog.
I grab her hand.
“Let’s do it.”
She bursts out laughing. “Do what?”
“Get married.”
Her mouth actually drops open.
“To each other,” I clarify, because apparently that needs clarification.
She squints at me like she’s trying to read fine print on my face. “You’re kidding.”
“I am extremely serious,” I say, which is hilarious because I am visibly not steady on my feet.
I pull her with me into the small lobby. The air smells like synthetic roses, floor wax, and choices people regret in daylight.
There’s an Elvis impersonator behind the counter who looks like he hasn’t slept since 1997 and possibly fought in a glitter-related war.
I grab her hand tighter—her small, soft hand—and march her right up to the counter with all the confidence of a drunk man who has never once read a legal document all the way through.
“Help you folks?” Elvis asks without looking up from his nails.
“We want to get married,” I say with the steady conviction of someone who just discovered gravity.
Beside me, Sunshine dissolves into giggles.
I look at her.
She looks at me.
This is a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
But my brain is currently operating on tequila fumes and her perfume.
Responsible. That was the word. I used to care about responsible.
Responsible, reschmonsible.
To hell with it.
For once, I want to be the guy who does the crazy thing.
“Yeah,” I double down. “We’re getting hitched.”
Elvis—Gary, according to the name tag—finally looks up.
“Right on,” he says, deeply unimpressed. “Fill out these forms.”
He slides a clipboard across the counter. It makes a loud scraping noise that feels profound for some reason.
We fill out the paperwork one after the other, giggling like teenagers.
At one point she signs her name twice and has to cross it out, which makes her laugh harder, which makes me laugh harder, which makes Gary stare at us like we’re feral.
We hand the papers back, and Gary ushers us through a set of red velvet curtains into a small chapel with a suspiciously stained carpet that has seen things.
“Alright,” Gary says, standing behind a small podium. “You got rings?”
I freeze.
Sunshine turns to look at me in exaggerated slow motion.
I look at her hand.
Then at mine.
Then back at Gary.
I drag a hand down my face. “No. Of course we don’t.”
Gary reaches under the podium and produces a small plastic box like a magician who’s lost faith in magic.
“We sell ’em. Fifty bucks. Rhinestones. Very shiny.”
Sunshine leans toward me, stage-whispering, “Very romantic.”
I squint at the box like it personally offended me.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur quietly, just for her. “I’ll make it up to you once you’re my wife.”
She studies me like she’s trying very hard not to laugh.
Then she turns to Gary.
“Fine,” she says brightly. “We’ll take the sparkly ones.”
Gary beams like he just closed a real estate deal.
He hands us the ringbox with two outrageously shiny rings.
“Okay, Gary, ah—Elvis, I mean,” I correct myself with a solemn nod, “please do your godly given duty now and marry me to this beautiful lady here.” I trail off, trying to remember something important. “To this lady, called Sunshine,” I add triumphantly when I remember her name.
Gary huffs. “Her name is Talia.”
I look at my fiancé. “Talia? Is that your name?”
“It sure is.”
“That’s beautiful,” I whisper reverently.
She folds her arms. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes, just like you.” I squint at her, my vision hazy.
Gary flips open a laminated booklet that has definitely seen more divorces than anniversaries. “Alright. Let’s get this show on the road.”
He gestures for us to stand in front of him.
We shuffle into position, facing each other.
The chapel is tiny. There’s fake stained glass. A plastic bouquet zip-tied to the wall. A speaker in the corner quietly playing instrumental Can’t Help Falling in Love.
This is insane.
This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
I try very hard not to lose it.
“Sir,” Gary says, solemn as a man wearing sideburns glued to his face can possibly be, “repeat after me.”
I glance at Talia.
She looks nervous. Thrilled. Drunk. Radiant.
My pulse kicks.
Gary waits.
“Okay,” I say.
And I don’t think about tomorrow.
I look at the woman in the yellow dress.
“Let’s do this.”