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I’m safe. I’m secure. I’m about to marry the man who’s always made dreams worth having.
If this is real life, God let me live.
And if this is just some surreal fever dream, never let me wake up.
* * *
I’m still dreaming several days later as soaring music floats through the air like perfume.
The beat matches the legion of smiles bursting at the seams. If half the town hasn’t turned out for this, I’ll be shocked.
Marty looks sharp, more grown up than I’ve ever seen him in my life with a charcoal-grey suit and a pride in his eyes that makes me want to cry.
We decided he’ll stand in for Dad, so he does the honors, escorting me down the aisle where my destiny awaits.
Weston stands there like my own personal Mr. Darcy, his face tight with so much emotion.
Excitement. Nervousness. His usual dash of grump.
And is that...awe?
Oh my God.
He’s looking at me, isn’t he?
You’d need to set off a glitter bomb to peel my eyes off him. He’s wearing a vintage black-and-silver pinstriped suit with black-and-white wing-tipped shoes.
Handsome isn’t strong enough a word.
He’s so flipping fire—as the cool kids say—that my heart might never restart.
The entire wedding has a lovely Roaring Twenties theme, with the women in colorful flapper garb and the men dressed up like gangsters and tycoons from the era. It was his idea, and it was total catnip I gobbled up the instant he suggested it.
My dashing groom is also a catnip overdose.
Thankfully, I only go lightheaded for ten long seconds before remembering how much I love him, buzzing with a high that already has me happy crying.
Dear Lord. How will we even make it through the ceremony?
Somehow, as I slip my hand in his and we mold our fingers tight, I remember my courage.
Even as we share our vows, I shiver with the glorious reality that I’m actually getting hitched to this man.
First come the traditional, familiar lines everybody knows, followed by original promises we’ve both written.
“You’ve always been the hero of my dreams, West,” I tell him, blubbering into the mic. “I’ve loved you since I was twelve years old when you made me want cookies. I could rattle off some sappy jokes about chocolate chips, but...I’ll leave that for you. I’m ready for a lifetime of laughter, love, and so many dumb dad jokes. I’m ready to be your wife.”
I only cry a little, okay?
That dancing gleam in his sky-blue eyes helps me keep my crap together.
“Not a dry eye in the room, so we’re doing something right,” he says, taking the mic and a good, slow glance at our peanut gallery. “Even the wedding cake’s in tiers.”
I groan, face-palming while laughter rips through the crowd.
Of course, he wants to start off a life of bad jokes now.
Of course.
