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“Gordon Mason—”
“Thomas,” I whisper. “Thomas Mason.”
“Mr. Stirling, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I really do.”
I don’t remember what else is said, because Mase pulls me close and kisses me.
Mase
Fiona’seyesarehugewhen I place the ring on her finger. “Where did this come from?”
My smile widens as she brings her hand up for a closer look. I got the ring in the jewelry store without her noticing—a simple gold band with six small stones arranged in a flower. I slipped the box in my pants pocket, thinking I would save it to give it to her later, as a memento of our night together.
Now it’s her wedding ring.
“I thought it might come in handy,” I tell her, grabbing her hand to drop a kiss on her fingers. “It suits you.”
“I love it,” she breathes. “I love—it’s perfect.”
That would have been the time to say ourI love yous, and Fiona is as aware as I am about that. She looks at me helplessly. I’m not surprised she doesn’t say it—Fiona does everything with a purpose. She wouldn’t say it if she didn’t mean it, and why would she mean it when I’ve only known her less than a day?
She’s a romantic though, and there was always a chance she believes in love at first sight.
“I didn’t see you buy it,” she continues, staring at her hand.
“I’m sneaky like that.
“But I don’t have one for you.”
“We’ve got lots of time for that.”
We have lots of time for everything. It might not have been love at first sight for either of us, but it was love in fast forward for me. And there is a lifetime for Fiona to catch up.
We don’t have time for pictures, even though Elvis does his best to get us to pose. I take a few of Fiona with my phone, since I suspect she’ll want them later on, and a selfie of us as we walk out the door.
Then we’re in a cab, heading back to the hotel.
I’m a married man.
Chapter Twelve
Fiona
I’mgratefulMasegetsus a taxi to head back to the hotel because my feet feel like little blocks of cement and my walk has become a hobble.
Sore feet are what started this whole thing. This thing being our marriage. He was sweet enough to be concerned that my feet hurt and ended up marrying me. Who does that?
Mase does. And now he holds the door open, and I slide across the seat, the burst of air conditioning in the car a welcome respite from the desert heat. My green dress reminds me of a piece of wilted lettuce.
I got married in green.
Mase settles beside me and gives the driver the address. Then he turns to me with a wary expression on his face. “Okay?”
I laugh.
The laughter bubbles up like the champagne we drank so much of, part nerves, part relief, part plain giddiness. We just gotmarried. Who does that?
