“No altar, just my desk,” I replied.
She smiled into her mug.
“How romantic.”
“It’s a very nice desk,” I said as I sipped my own coffee.
When we finished, we made our way to the office. I fought my urge to pick her up and carry her there. If I knew how, without further risk to her knee, I might have done it. But I also didn’t want to scare her. It seemed like we were reaching an unlikely agreement, and I didn't want to do anything to jeopardize that.
When we entered the office, Chandler stood near the fireplace, legal paperwork in hand, expression hovering between disbelief and professional commitment. Geoffrey stood beside my desk, posture immaculate, hands folded neatly. Belle leaned on her crutches beside me. She was wearing soft gray joggers and one of her faded band T-shirts. Her hair was pulled back loosely.
Not bridal. Not ceremonial. Just . . . real.
“And now we start our morning with wedded bliss,” Chandler said, smiling at Belle. “You sure you want to marry this–”
I huffed, stopping his sentence. “You agreed to officiate.”
“That I did. I just didn’t realize it would be before 9 AM, sir.”
Belle leaned slightly toward him. “He’s been like this since dawn.”
“I’m afraid he is always like this, ma’am,” Geoffrey added.
“I am standing right here,” I grumbled.
“Yes,” they replied in unison.
Chandler cleared his throat and pulled up the digital form. “Alright,” he said. “Under the authority granted by the extremely flexible laws of Ohio and a sketchy internet site . . . we’re doing this.”
Belle looked at me.
“You’re sure you don’t want flowers?” Geoffrey asked lightly. I shot him a glare, but he ignored me.
“Nope, I’m all set.”
“Cake?” He asked again.
“ . . . I do like cake, but I’m all set.”
“A promise of love to be taken back at a later date?”
“Absolutely not,” Belle said with a small chuckle. “All I need for the wedding of my dreams is the promise of health insurance.”
I beamed down at her. I couldn’t seem to stop myself. Chandler glanced between us like he had just been let in on a secret. I was too distracted by Belle to think anything of it.
He began. It was efficient. The legal language stripped down to essentials. When it came time to answer, Belle glanced at me. A flicker of nerves there now.
“Do you, Raphael Renault,” Chandler began dryly, “enter into this marriage of your own free will and with full awareness that this woman is absolutely out of your league.”
“I do,” I said.
Belle’s lips twitched.
“And do you, Isabelle Blythe,” Chandler continued, “enter into this arrangement knowingly, voluntarily, and with complete awareness that this man will be overbearing but in a loving way.”
She giggled. God help me, I would do anything to hear that again.
“I do.”
