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“Nathan, Lis. Lis, Nathan.” I can feel the sparks flying between the two of them before I even finish introducing them.
I swear; I even see Lis shiver as he shakes her hand.
“A pleasure, Lis,” Nathan says. “Ah, Tanner...”
I nod, straightening my bow tie and taking a deep breath.
It’s time.
They have to play the wedding march twice. Every hoity-toity, elbow rubber in the congregation is holding their breath.
By the end of the song, the second time around, even I’m finding myself waiting to exhale.
Monique, Marge, and a half-dozen of the Dirty Little Angel models are dressed in matching pink bridesmaid gowns and waiting for Elsa on her side of the church.
And me? I’m staring down those double doors at the other end of the aisle like I’m challenging fate itself to keep Elsa Blakely from me.
So, when she throws those doors open and stands there between them—clad in white lace, framed by sunlight and six months pregnant with my firstborn child—I’ll admit it.
I fall in love with her all over again.
“Tanner Sharpe,” she says, and I fall in love with the way my name sounds on her tongue.
“Elsa Blakely,” I shot back at her.
“You rat fucking bastard,” she snarls, and the whole congregation gasps.
Not just because she’s swearing inside this beautiful cathedral I booked for us, but because
as Elsa marches into the church, they get the first good look at her that they’ve had in six months.
Looks like we did a better job of keeping this pregnancy thing under wraps than I had even hoped.
“Darling,” I coo at her, grinning like a jackass. “You haven’t changed one bit.”
“Cut the shit, Tanner!” Elsa snarls theatrically, tossing her hair and veil back over her shoulder. “I want you outside. Now! We’re settling this once and for all.”
“Is that so? What do you think you’re going to do, Elsa? Fight me?”
“Outside!” she snarls again, marching out.
I just look at the congregation and shrug. What can you do?
I follow her out, feeling our entire audience get up to spectate.
The fight that ensues outside isn’t important. We say a bunch of bullshit that we don’t mean—mocking at reopening old wounds that have long since scarred over and throwing some more snappy insults back and forth.
Elsa and I have always known how to put on one hell of a show. I can tell from the tension in the air around our audience that they’re buying it, too—every last ‘Go to hell’ and ‘Fuck you.’
It’s almost fun, bickering with Elsa like this.
Staged, scripted and artfully choreographed.
But not nearly as fun as what comes next.
She slaps me first, insulting my manhood and accusing me of a dozen other transgressions that I’m sure I’m entirely guilty of.
When she tries to slap me again, I catch her wrist.
