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I breathe out, talking back to my buzzing brain that’s telling me I’m still so impulsive. It’s no big deal. It’s for less than two months. It’s just to save my business and, you know, my life.
I steal a glance at Gage, at the steadiness in his eyes, the sturdiness in his broad shoulders, the calm in his handsome features.
No, it’s our business. We’re in this together.
“Thank you,” I say, my throat tightening with emotion. Then I add, “Gage Reginald Archer.”
He dips his head, laughing. “You were checking out my ID?”
I shrug playfully. “Maybe I was. Is that a family name?”
“My grandpa’s. Margo’s late husband. He taught me how to throw a fastball. What’s your middle name?”
I wish mine had such a good story. “Calliope.”
He waits for me to say more.
“My parents claimed it was for the muse,” I explain, and I don’t hide my skepticism.
“And…?”
“But I found a photo where they met. A bar named Calliope.”
He nods, seeming to take that in, then adding thoughtfully, “We met at a bar.”
“Your bar. You weren’t drinking. Neither was I,” I point out.
“And I’m stone-cold sober now,” he says.
And marrying me anyway.
“Please fasten your seatbelts,” the cheery voice of a flight attendant says overhead. “We’re about to take off.”
Yes, we are.
28
IT HAD TO BE YOU
Gage
Fake engagement. Real marriage. Both have an expiration date, so what’s the difference? This next legal step is just more of the same.
That’s what I tell myself to keep my focus narrowed on the mission today in Las Vegas—getting hitched. That’s the one goal I have. I’m not going to linger on what’s next. I’m not going to think about how much I like spending time with this woman. How often I think about her. How deeply I want to protect her from anything and anyone. Most importantly, how hard it will be for me to pretend my feelings for her aren’t fast becoming real.
I’m going to stay lasered in on the goal like I’ve done all morning so far. First at the airport in San Francisco, and now as our Lyft arrives at The Extravagant Hotel on the Strip. I thank the driver, then step out of the sedan, marriage license in hand.
Our flight landed right on time so we cruised over to the Clark County Marriage Bureau, striding in the second the doors opened at eight. Now, it’s eight-thirty, and our I do appointment is in one and a half hours.
With no luggage and no room to check into, I figure we’ll grab a bite to eat, maybe brainstorm the Special Edition menu for next weekend over eggs and coffee. We head through the revolving door into the opulent hotel, its lobby glittering with a huge chandelier that’s dripping with faux gemstones. I picked this hotel for one reason only—its chapel had the earliest opening in the city for a no-frills wedding. But as I walk past a fountain that’s sparkling with imitation sapphires and rubies, I wonder if I made a mistake with the all business strategy. I glance skeptically at my clothes—boots, jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, cuffs rolled up.
“I should go get a sports jacket or something,” I say, plucking at my white button-down.
Elodie stops in front of a roulette game, the wheel spinning, as she gestures to her shoes. “Don’t you dare. I’m wearing jeans and sneakers. You said casual last night,” she says sternly. “So I followed orders.”
“Right, right,” I repeat. “Just a no-big-deal wedding. Like we agreed to.”
Hell, this quickie wedding is more shotgun than my actual shotgun wedding more than a decade ago. I suppose there’s no point in dressing up. We’ve got a two o’clock return flight, which should give me just enough time to make it to Eliza’s karate class this afternoon.
