“You love it.” I nip at her jaw.
“I love you,” she corrects, then gasps because I’ve found the spot that makes her forget arguments. “Damn it. Okay. Five minutes. But if someone—”
The door opens.
“OCCUPIED!” we yell together, jumping apart like teenagers.
“It’s me, you degenerates.” Ivy. Of course. “Your wedding planner’s looking for you. Something about speeches?”
“Tell her we’re dead,” I suggest, not letting go of Poppy’s waist.
“Tell her five minutes,” Poppy counters, trying to smooth her dress.
“I’m not telling her anything. She scares me.” Ivy’s footsteps retreat. “But I’m standing guard. You’ve got three minutes before I let her in.”
Poppy straightens my tie, fingers gentle now instead of urgent. “Come on. We have a lifetime for coat closet shenanigans.”
“Promise?” I catch her hand, threading our fingers together.
“Promise.” She kisses me. Quick. Perfect. “But first, speeches. And cake. And that dance you’ve been secretly practicing.”
“I haven’t been—” I start to protest, but she’s giving me that look.
“Mason sent me videos.” She’s smirking now, victorious.
“Traitor.” I shake my head, already planning my revenge.
“You’re going to be amazing.” Another kiss. “My husband, the secret dancer.”
My chest does that thing it’s been doing all day. “Say that again.”
“Which part?” She tilts her head, playing innocent.
“The husband part.”
She smiles. The one that still stops my heart, even after everything. “My husband.”
“Your husband,” I agree, pulling her close one more time. “Forever.”
“Forever.” She says it like a vow, like she means it down to her bones.
We sneak back to the reception, her hand in mine, both of us trying not to look like we just made out in a coat closet. Take our seats. Listen to speeches that range from heartfelt (Mason) to hilarious (CeCe). Cut the cake without incident, though George definitely tries. Dance our first dance to a slow, romantic song because Poppy’s a romantic and I’m a sucker for her.
“Not bad, counselor,” she says as I spin her, her dress flaring out around us.
“I had a good teacher.” I pull her back in, closer than before.
“YouTube?” Her eyes are sparkling with mischief.
“Mason, actually.” I can’t help but smile at the memory of my brother trying to teach me to waltz in his living room.
She laughs, the sound bubbling up. “Of course.”
The song ends. Another begins. Our people join us on the dance floor. Nadine’s doing something that might be the ElectricSlide with Father Murphy. Gloria’s teaching Nate to tango. George is… eating someone’s centerpiece.
“Should we stop him?” Poppy asks, watching the goat with fond exasperation.
“Nah.” I pull her closer, swaying with her. “Let him have his fun.”
