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“You’re more than worth it.”
“I guess we have a deal.” Gemma clinks her glass against mine.
“To us.”
Her eyes sparkle in the dim lighting. “Indeed.”
Victory expands my diaphragm as I breathe in our bright future. I relax against the bench seat. It can’t get much better when my future wife is on my left and endless possibilities expand from beyond the window on the right. My fingers drift along her upper arm as I allow my thoughts to wander.
“Did your phone make a full recovery?”
Gemma huffs. “Yes, but my pride didn’t. Shy is never going to let me forget the day I fell in the river.”
“It’s dangerous to text and ride,” I tease.
“Someone should’ve quit hassling me so I could concentrate,” she fires in return.
That’s never going to happen. “Did you put on the protective case I brought over?”
“Yes, but it’s super bulky.”
“It’ll stay dry.”
She tips her face up to catch my gaze. “What about preventing sand from getting stuck in certain places?”
“I think we both enjoyed the process of removing it.” My cock twitches at the reminder of our bath together. That’s another water conservation habit we’ll be repeating often.
The blush blooming on Gemma’s face agrees. “Yes, that was… very thorough.”
From there, our conversation flows from one random topic to another. It’s easy and natural and proves how compatible we are. The limo coasts smoothly down the freeway. Just as we’re finishing the bottle of Dom, the bustling energy of downtown Minneapolis greets us.
Gemma gasps as we arrive at our destination. “The Four Seasons?”
“As if I’d bring you anywhere other than the state’s sole five-star rating.”
She blinks slowly. “Is that true?”
I shrug before opening the door. “At least in the hotel business.”
Her hand slides into mine as I help her out at the glitzy entrance. I offer her my bent elbow and we walk into the lobby. As I check in, Gemma admires the luxurious design. It’s bright and polished without being garish.
“Ready?” I turn from the front desk to catch her studying the enormous chandelier above us.
“To see our room?” Her skeptical tone is warranted.
She’s dressed to outshine a bride, which might be problematic. Only one way to find out.
I link our fingers and guide her toward the bank of elevators. When we get off on the fourth floor, soft music directs us to the pool plaza. The most coveted venue has been rented out for a private event tonight.
The live band gets louder the closer we get to the swanky space. Gemma’s liquid gait sputters to a stop when we approach the buzz of activity just inside the rooftop restaurant. My pulse thunders while she quickly catalogues the celebratory scene.
“Whose wedding is this?”
My head tips to the sign on our right. “Mr. and Mrs. Moreau.”
Her brow puckers at the unfamiliar name. “Friends of yours?”
“Nope.”
