“Your turn, little lady.”
I guesslittle ladyis better thankids.
I exhale slowly, focusing on Logan’s eyes and not his smile. They’re not even just beautiful baby blue. They have a hint of something else. Something brighter. Nearly turquoise. And for some unknown reason, that pisses me off even more. He does not get to have beautifully complex eyes. Nothing about him is allowed to be complex. Fuck that. “I, Olivia Kingston-St. James, promise to not stab you, Logan Adler, with my shoe or a kitchen knife?—”
Rafe coughs, and I turn and give him the finger.
“Fine. Or any knife, for that matter, for the foreseeable future. Even when you say or do stupid things.”
“Like?” Logan asks.
I shrug. “Like breathing or speaking or not listening to me when I tell you how to renegotiate your contract.”
He grins, and it’s less cocky and slightly more charming this time, and suddenly, I’m smiling too. Which is mildly horrifying.
Elvis launches into the rest of the ceremony as my brain catches up to exactly where I am and exactly what I’m doing.
This is insane.
Reckless.
Possibly careless . . .
And the chances I’m going to regret it tomorrow are sky fucking high. But as Elvis announces, “You may kiss the bride,” I look up at my brand-new husband and freeze. Because Logan doesn’t look like he thinks this is a stupid idea.
Fuck me.
He looks like he wants to devour me.
His hand slides slowly around the back of my head, calloused fingers digging into my hair. “Last chance to run, Olive.”
My stomach somersaults. “I don’t run.”
“We’re going to have to work on that too.”
Before he gets a chance to seal this ridiculous deal with a kiss, I press my lips to his cheek. “The fuck we are, husband.”
Rafe and Serena clap behind us, and I turn to see my cousin, clearly concerned and yet possibly amused. “Congratulations,” she whispers, definitely questioning whether she should be congratulating me or committing me. “Umm... where to now?”
“The bar,” I announce looking between her, Rafe, and my new husband. “I think I need a drink.”
“Livvy . . .”
Why does Serena’s voice hurt?
“Liv . . .”
And why the hell is she shoving what feels like her elbow into my back?
“Olivia, I swear to God, if you don’t turn off your goddamned alarm, I’m going to throw your phone out the window.”
“It’s Vegas, little Kingston. The windows don’t open.”
Fuck me.
That voice.
Vegas.
