17. Annie
2 Years Later
September 3rd
I wake up to Chris’s fingers brushing my hair off my neck. The soft warmth of his lips on my skin next. His body warm and firm at my back.
“Did the alarm go off?” I murmur, snuggling deeper into him. We were up late last night helping put the final decorations in place and hanging out with friends and family, so our sleep-in was planned.
“Not for another twenty,” he admits, his hand settling on my stomach and his lips on my jaw. I take his hand and guide it down between my legs. The noise he makes into my neck when he finds me already wet is almost as good as his touch. I turn to kiss him. He lifts my leg over his hip and pushes inside me. He fills me completely, and I sigh at how perfectly we fit together.
“The next time I’m inside you,” he whispers, “you’ll be Mrs. Marchetti.”
I laugh. He’s said that before, and I’m still Annie Martin.
Our first wedding was supposed to be at his family’s Wisconsin cabin over Memorial Day weekend in May, but we ended up in Missouri chasing a massive tornado outbreak. We made another attempt in July. Most of his family came to Texas to spend the Fourth at my aunt and uncle’s place, but we were in North Dakota following one of the most photogenic storms I’ve ever seen.
“We’re getting married today,” he insists.
Maybe. The forecast for severe weather was marginal five days ago. Three days ago, it had increased to slight. Last night—
“Stop it,” he murmurs into my neck. He knows what I’m thinking about, but he also knows how to distract me. His fingers circle my clit, and my thoughts drop away until all that’s left is sensation.
It doesn’t matter if we make it down the aisle today. This man is already my future.
Eventually, we untangle, fully satisfied. The shower is barely big enough for both of us, but by dallying in bed, we’re now running late. Chris washes my hair. I soap up his body, and we put ourselves further behind schedule because we can’t stop touching, can’t stop kissing, until we’ve both come undone at each other’s hands.
My tiny house—our tiny house now—sits not too far from our bigger house on the fourteen acres of land we bought outside of Oklahoma City. It mainly functions as an office, but we decided to sleep here with his family and my aunt and uncle staying in our house for the wedding.
We take the short walk over to join everyone for a late breakfast. Charlie greets us at the door—my tiny house isn’t big enough for her energy levels, even at her age—and I kneel to cuddle her. Chris ruffles her fur and calls out to his nieces running down the stairs.
It’s noisy and chaotic in the best way, having so many people under one roof. My parents didn’t come, citing my track record for not getting married. I don’t care. My aunt and uncle are here for me.
Throughout breakfast, Chris keeps sneaking glances at his phone. I know by the expression on his face that today’s severe weather setup is looking better and better by the hour. When I catch his eye, he gives me a sheepish grin and puts the phone away.
We leave everyone to clean up and head back to the tiny house to prepare.
Chris quickly kisses me and goes upstairs to the bedroom to get dressed while I duck into the office. I’ve turned it into a dressing room, with a full-length mirror in one corner and a smaller mirror on a shelf behind the desk. I slip into my bra and underwear and wrap a robe around me before I tackle my hair. There’s a lot to do, and I foolishly waved off an offer of help from Chris’s sisters.
But it’s not like I haven’t done this a few times already.
I keep my hair simple, pinning back a few strands from the sides and letting the rest cascade around my shoulders and down my back in soft, loose curls. I only glance at the laptop on my desk every few minutes. Chris’s eyebrows had shot up the last time I saw him check his phone.
Maybe I’ll have a little look.
I fire up the laptop and check the Storm Prediction Center first. Their latest forecast has just come out, showing a moderate risk of strong tornadoes to our northwest.
I suspect the best way to ensure an active chase season—or off-season, considering it’s September—is to try to get married.
The models show storm initiation by 2 pm, with storms underway by 3 pm, firing up along an outflow boundary from yesterday’s storms.
Dammit.
It looks good. Really good.
We’re supposed to get married at two. Photos after. Backyard barbecue to follow.
I close the laptop and bite my lip, wondering if Chris has seen this. Then I hear him coming down the stairs. I expect him to burst into the office, but I hear the screen door instead as he leaves the tiny house.
It takes some effort not to trail after him, but I force myself to sit down and start on my makeup. Ten minutes later, the screen door slams again.
The office door opens, and he walks in wearing joggers and a T-shirt. There’s a determined look on his face. “Can you be ready in fifteen minutes?” he asks.
“Yes.” I drop the brush on my desk, get to my feet, and head for the door. My cameras are all packed so it’ll take me two minutes to throw some clothes—
Chris catches me before I make it, kissing me for a long moment. When he pulls back, I’m holding the garment bag containing my wedding dress.
“We’re not missing this wedding again,” he says with a smile. “The Officiant is on her way. I told everyone to meet us outside in fifteen.”
I nod, kiss him on the cheek because this is perfect, and shove him out the door. “Pack my bag for me!” I call out as I close the door.
“On it!” he says, taking the steps two at a time.
I set my suitcase full of cameras outside the room, along with the laptop, and shut the door.
Five minutes later, Chris knocks and tells me he’s about to load the SUV and will meet me in the garden. No jokes, quips, or concern that I might run in the opposite direction because he knows I’ll be there.
I’m not running late, but I snatch my low-heeled sandals, grab the gauzy ankle-length skirt, and run.
Chairs have been set up haphazardly in front of a wedding arch draped with tulle and silk flowers, but I barely notice as I come to a complete stop.
Chris is standing under the arch, talking to the harried-looking officiant. He’s foregone the suit coat, and the sleeves of his white button-up are rolled up to his elbows. His father is hovering, attempting to fuss over his hair. It’s sticking up as if Chris has pushed his fingers through it a few times.
“Ah, there you are,” my uncle says, coming to stand next to me. He straightens my veil and reminds me to put my shoes on. My aunt comes over with a bouquet of roses in various shades of blushing pink. Considering this is our third attempt, we prepared for a fourth—all the flowers are silk.
Chris looks my way and freezes mid-sentence. The look on his face as he takes all of me in gives me goosebumps.
Someone cues up some music on a Bluetooth speaker.
This is it, and it’s perfect.
My aunt and uncle hug me and then take their seats.
I float down the aisle—Charlie by my side—to the man I love.
The ceremony takes less than five minutes. I spend the whole of it lost in Chris’s deep blue eyes. We stumble through our vows because we can’t look away from each other. We can’t stop smiling, either. He slips a ring on my finger, I slip one on his finger, the officiant pronounces us married, and Chris pulls me in for a soft, sweet kiss. Charlie barks, and everyone laughs.
We take photos with our families, then run hand in hand back to the tiny house, stripping out of our wedding clothes and into something more comfortable for the drive.
In the short time between Chris loading the SUV and the start of the ceremony, his sisters have thoroughly vandalized it, writing Just Married on both the back and front windows and hanging white ribbons from the instruments on the roof. Chris yells at them as he pulls the decorations down and deals with the tin cans strung up to the back. I gather the balloons that fill the cab, tie them in bunches, and hand them to the kids. There’s a hamper in the backseat, and I take a peek inside. It’s packed with lunch and wedding cake.
Chris jumps into the driver’s seat, and I climb into the passenger seat. “Ready to go, Mrs. Marchetti?” he asks with a smile, kissing my hand.
I’m giddy with happiness as I smile at him. “Let’s go get some storms.”
He starts the engine, and we wave at everyone gathered along the driveway and head off down the road.