Chapter 26
AMELIA
Itold Gage I’d be ready in half an hour.
I was wrong. It took me exactly sixty-two minutes.
Because even though Tim promised not to push me into anything, he still spent twenty minutes telling me why “a little highlighter isn’t makeup, Amelia” and “blush is just bringing warmth back to your face after the weed stole it.”
I caved. Obviously. My brother is relentless, and I’m still stoned.
Not stoned stoned. But enough that when he started explaining the “geometry of facial structure” I nodded like it made perfect sense and let him direct the makeup artist. At one point, I asked if my pores could hear me, and Tim just stared at me for a full ten seconds before saying, “Babe, no.”
All of this means Gage has been waiting for me for thirty-two minutes.
So, now I’m here, standing at the back door of the house. Ready. Heart pounding and hands shaking. About to step into whatever obsessive and sacred moment Gage has planned for our first look. And trying very hard not to cry until at least after I’ve seen his face.
I take three deep breaths. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The air tastes like . . . air. Huh. That feels profound. Everything feels profound. Maybe I really am still high.
I open the door and—
Oh my god.
I freeze.
Because there’s a path.
A wooden walkway laid across the grass that absolutely, definitely was not here earlier.
It stretches from the back of the house toward the garden where our wedding will take place.
And it’s lined with what has to be hundreds of candles in tall glass hurricanes, their flames flickering with a soft glow in the late afternoon light.
The flames are dancing. Like, actually dancing. I watch one for probably too long, mesmerized by the way it moves, and wonder, is fire alive? That feels like something I should know. But right now, I genuinely can’t remember.
Rose petals are scattered everywhere. Across the wood, between the candles, drifting over the edges onto the grass. Blush and cream and the palest pink, as if someone took a sunset and just spilled it for me.
I crouch down, carefully, because this dress cost more than my piano— Wait. Did it? I think it did. Shit, I can’t remember right now. I’ll have to circle back to that because I’m more interested in the petals for now.
I touch one. It’s soft. So soft. “You’re doing great,” I whisper to it. Then I realize I’m talking to a rose petal and stand up quickly, hoping no one saw that.
And the flowers.
Holy shit, the flowers.
The forest looks like it bloomed just for this.
Arches made of dark, weathered branches curve overhead. Not perfectly spaced, but wild and deliberate. They’re woven with deep burgundy roses, trailing greenery, and pale pink peonies that have absolutely no business being alive in November.
I stare at one of the peonies. “How are you even here?” I ask it out loud. “November is not your month. Imported, probably. Gage would do that. He’d resurrect a flower if it reminded him of something I said once.”
God, I’m having another conversation with a flower.
I need to get my life together.
But everything is impossibly, devastatingly beautiful. And all I can think is when did he do this? How did he do this?
My throat tightens. My eyes flood. Because Gage did this.
This path.
This moment.
This memory I’m going to carry in my heart for the rest of my life.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, and my voice cracks on the words. “Oh my god.”
The tears are coming now. Fast. Unstoppable.
I press both hands to my face, trying to hold it together, but it’s useless. I’m fully crying and I haven’t even moved yet.
“I’m crying because I love him,” I announce to absolutely no one. “Not because I’m high. This is love crying. There’s a difference.” I wipe my eyes. “Though I am still high. But that’s separate.”
Tim is going to be so mad that I’m crying off his geometry. I don’t care. Because this . . . this is everything.
I take a shaky breath and step onto the wooden walkway. The planks are solid under my feet. Secure. Which, of course they are. Gage would never let me walk on something that wasn’t.
The candlelight dances and the rose petals flutter as I walk along the path. And even though the air is crisp, I’m not cold. Hidden heaters tucked along the path cast just enough warmth to reach me. Gage thought of everything. I’ll never be cold in a world he’s built for me.
I pause mid-step because that thought hits me again, differently. “He built this world for me,” I whisper. My eyes well again. “He literally built a temperature-controlled path.” I’m definitely crying again.
Every step I take, I fall harder for the man waiting for me.
And then, I can see him.
At the end of the path, the trees open up, and . . . I stop breathing. There’s a glass structure nestled at the end. Temporary and magical. Like someone bottled starlight and built a glass greenhouse to trap it.
I stop and just stare. “Is this real?” I whisper.
I blink. Look again. It’s still there.
“Okay. Real. This is a real glass building.”
I touch my face to make sure I’m real. Yep, I am. Still me. Still getting married in a fairytale.
Gage is standing in the center of the greenhouse. His back is to me. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders broad and perfect in that tuxedo jacket that I already know is going to wreck me.
He’s standing in front of a beautiful vintage couch that’s surrounded by flowers and candles. Twinkle lights are strung overhead. It’s so beautiful I can barely process it.
My vision blurs with fresh tears. My chest aches. I have to stop walking for a second because my legs are shaking and my heart is doing something that feels borderline dangerous and I can’t . . . I can’t breathe around how much I love him. Around how much this moment means.
I swipe at my cheeks with trembling hands, probably fully ruining my makeup, and force myself to keep moving.
One step.
Then another.
Gage turns just as I make it to the end of the path.
His eyes find mine.
And in that instant, the world disappears. There’s no noise. Nothing. Just the man I married in secret. Waiting to see me like it’s the first time all over again.
I step inside the warm glass greenhouse and the door clicks softly closed behind me. Gage doesn’t move at first. He just drinks me in, dragging his eyes over every part of me. My face. My dress. My everything.
Then, slowly, he comes my way. He stops just in front of me. Close, but not touching. His eyes are glassy. His breathing is uneven.
“You okay?”
It’s not a casual question. I know he means it in ten different ways.
Are you still high?
Are you warm enough?
Are you holding it together?
Are you ready?
I nod, but my throat’s tight again.
The glass walls are very pretty. Are they humming? Or is that just me? I think my heart is humming.
I manage to keep all of that inside my head where it belongs. Good job, Amelia. Gold star for not saying the weird thing out loud.
“Are you?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me.
Then, he says, “I’ve been waiting too fucking long to look at you like this.” A pause. “You have no idea what that did to me.”
He lifts a hand and slides it into my hair.
I lean into it.
He exhales.
My voice is barely there when I speak. “Of course I do.”
I search his eyes.
“You think I didn’t feel every second of it too?” I move into him, reaching for his jacket. “I hated that I couldn’t scream it to the world that we were married.” I tighten my grip on him. “That you were mine.”
His hand slides from my hair to the back of my neck, fingers spreading there as if he needs to feel the shape of me, own the shape of me. His other hand grasps my waist.
“Say it again. Tell me you hated hiding it.” He brings his mouth to my ear. “Tell me you wanted to tear the world apart every time I had to act like I wasn’t already yours.”
I don’t even hesitate.
“I wanted to mark you.” I press my body into his.
“Every time we went out, I wanted to leave something on you so everyone knew.” I bring my hand up to curl around his neck, gripping him possessively.
“I hated any woman looking at you like you didn’t already belong to me.
Like they had a fucking chance. I wanted to stab them when they stared at you for longer than a second. ”
He goes still.
Gone.
His hold on my waist turns positively feral. His hand at my neck tilts my head, and then his mouth is on mine. Not slow. Not sweet. It’s hunger and heat and him making sure I remember exactly who I belong to.
When he finally breaks the kiss, he rasps, “Good. Because if one more man had looked at you like he didn’t know better, I would’ve put him through a fucking wall.”
He drags his thumb across my lip. “You wanna mark me?” His eyes bore into mine. “Princess, I’ve been waiting for you to show them I’m yours. I want you to fucking brand me so no one ever forgets.”
Holy god, the things my husband says to me.
I can’t process this. Not right now. Not with all these feelings coming in so hot and fast. I’ve never been high in my life, and I can’t decide if I ever want to be again.
I can’t decide if it’s the weed making me feel like every part of me is turned inside out, or if it’s being loved by Gage that’s doing that.
This man who builds me greenhouses and paths and fairytale fucking forests . . . and then says things like that.
This man who doesn’t just love me. He gives himself to me.
I don’t know where to put my feelings.
I want to mark him. I want to cry. I want to climb him like a fucking tree and make him say that again.
I want to run laps. I want to scream into the woods.
I want him.
I have him.
But I want more.
So much more, but I don’t even know what more is.
I grip his jaw. “I fucking love you, Gage. So fucking much. And I don’t think I will ever recover from the way you’re looking at me right now.”
“Fuck,” he growls, and then his mouth is on mine again, and I’m drowning in him.