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“As long as it’s your dream,” I say, pressing her hand to my lips.
The reception fills the restaurant of the grand hotel we’re staying in.
When we walk in, a hostess stands beside a pink board that says, Claim Your Parking Spot. Each name card has a toy car on it.
The hostess smiles at us. “You two are at the wedding party table. You don’t need a placard.”
“Damn. I wanted a toy to take home,” I grumble.
Reese giggles. “We’ll get you one later.”
Tucking my arm around her, I lead us to our table.
The tablecloth is white. The border looks like a road separated into two lanes by pink lines, and there’s even a pink ruffled skirt under it. The napkins are also pink, wrapped by a chrome napkin holder with a toy car glued to the top.
I get my wish after all. Reese and I have white limos waiting at our spot.
A small water bottle with a hot-pink ribbon tied around it and a black-and-white-checkered border waits at each place setting. A black heart centers the pink wrapper with our names in white letters.
I do a double take, squeezing my wife’s hand.
My wife. Holy shitbuckets.
I’m going to enjoy every bit of reminding myself I’m a married man.
More guests file in as everyone gets settled, folks who come to give us their best who weren’t at the private ceremony.
Sabrina and Magnus Heron stroll up to us, each carrying a white card attached to a model Aston Martin.
Brina hugs Reese. “Congratulations.”
Mag slaps me on the back.
“You finally got the ball and chain. Welcome to the club. I wish you’d told me you needed my jet for a lady. I’d have never charged you.” He looks at Reese and back at me. “She’s a beauty.”
“No hard feelings, Heron. Everyone came out ahead with the plane, but the biggest winner was me.” I say, just as the champagne flutes make their way to our table.
I clink my glass against his and then give Reese a knowing smile. I promised her I’d only have three drinks tops. Then it’s back to non-alcoholic sparkling cider.
I’m a changed man, all right, thanks to her, and I aim to keep it that way.
“Where is everyone?” Brina asks.
She must be looking for Paige.
About that time, the rest of our family comes staggering in. Only Millie stops to take a placard before running to our table.
“Uncle Nick, look! I got another car.”
“I see that. We’ll get together and show off our collections soon,” I tell her, ruffling her curly hair.
Abby sits next to Reese. Millie stays next to me, still chattering on about her toy cars and how she wants to “vroom, vroom like Auntie Reese someday!”
Ward takes the seat beside her. Paige links her arm through Sabrina’s and they disappear together with Mag following at a distance a little while later.
Grandma takes her rightful place at the head of a long table worthy of Camelot.
My eyes fall on the centerpiece—what else?—a pink Cadillac overflowing with fresh flowers. There’s one at every table.
Abby beams at us, admiring how much I love her sister. It’s heartening to know her only family can rest easy, knowing Reese will always be taken care of.
“Open it!” Millie hands me a water bottle.
I twist the cap off and hand it back to her.
“God, Nick, I love the centerpieces,” Reese tells me later for the third time.
“I was afraid you might be more of a Ferrari girl.”
“Hell no. This is perfect. We need to do a road trip down Route 66.”
I smile because it’s so fucking Reese, and I make a mental note to make sure she gets her way.
There’s another table along one side of the room with the same road-trimmed cloth and fluffy pink skirt. This one has a pale-pink sign that reads, Fuel Stop.
I can’t make out everything from here, but I see a glass water container labeled “coolant” and a three-tier wedding cake, each layer wrapped in a pink ribbon, and capped with a miniature couple on top sitting in a limo.
The bride is in the driver’s seat. And beside the table, there’s an old-fashioned cotton candy machine that makes me smile.
No question, we both poured our hearts into giving this wedding—and each other—the little quirks we deserve.
“Dare I ask what’s over there? It smells like heaven,” I say.
“Cotton candy, champagne flutes filled with white jelly beans, and hubcap dispensers of random candies over on Candy Lane. You can see the cake, additional coolant, and a washtub filled with glass sodas ringed with car-shaped bottle openers, skewers—”
“Hold up. Stoplight skewers?” I ask.
“Kiwi, pineapple, and a strawberry on a stick. You’re welcome,” she says, pausing to peck me on the cheek. “Plus, there’s popcorn and chocolate donuts from the best shop in Chicago arranged to look like tires.”
I let out a low whistle, more amazed than ever with the woman I love.
