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Her eyelids slip down.
I still can’t believe this stunning firecracker looks at me with that much emotion in her soft blue eyes.
“Yes!” she whispers. “Holt, yes. Because dammit if I don’t love you too…and it’s been building up for so long I think I’m gonna burst if you don’t kiss me right now.”
I’m springing up off my knees in a heartbeat, clasping that ring box to keep it safe while I bury my fingers in her hair and drag her in.
Nobody told me how sweet a kiss can taste until I’m sharing the first kiss I’ve ever had as someone’s fiancé.
Nobody warned me I didn’t know love or passion until Libby goes loose in my arms in a way that says she trusts me completely—now and forever. Body, mind, and soul.
Nobody said I wouldn’t know joy until the person who means more than anything else says I matter just the same to her.
And I don’t know how I ever called myself a man until I became the man I needed to be for Libby.
Our kiss comes slow, soft, like we’ve just transformed from lovers to betrothed, and now we’ve got to test it out to settle into our new identities.
That subtle hint of something else that makes every stroke of our lips somehow richer, fuller, filled with so much emotion it rocks through me.
I devour my fiancée, my future wife, my everything like a starved wolf.
We’re both breathless by the time we pull back.
Breathless, but smiling like the lovestruck fools we are. And her smile gets bigger as I steal her hand.
First I loop that bracelet around her wrist, then slide the delicate ring home on her finger. I’d guessed her size.
Guess I was an eagle eye because it goes down snug like it’s always belonged there.
Her eyes gleaming, Libby spreads her fingers, looking at the ring in awe.
“I never really thought about what kind of ring I’d like,” she murmurs. “Never even thought about getting married. But it’s like you picked what I’d choose for myself. It’s simple but it’s delicate and lovely and just…it’s perfect, Holt. How did you find the perfect ring for me?”
“By trying to know you better than I know myself, honey. Watching what you love, and what you care about. That’s what love means.” I curl my hand over hers, relishing the feeling of the ring captured between us, warming our fingers as I give her a tug toward the cliff. “Now let’s go throw some flowers, lady.”
25
One Horse Town (Libby)
First, a few words of advice.
Never make your sister your maid of honor.
Never let your sister plan your wedding.
Never let your sister sweet talk you into Ladies’ Night at Brody’s with dick-shaped drinking straws; never let your sister pick out her own bridesmaid’s dress, and never, ever let your sis know you forgive her for a lifetime of pure bull.
Because by the time it’s over?
You might just be down one sister.
I know I’m about to be, if Sierra doesn’t stop driving me out of my mind—and if she doesn’t stop fussing with my freaking hair.
I still don’t even have my dress on.
She’s standing over me in front of the mirror in the room at the Charming Inn that we reserved for bridal prep. I fidget in my chair while she curls my hair up into this mess on top of my head.
I look like I should be presenting a car or something on The Price Is Right.
Not like I’m about to get married.
“Stop it,” I growl, swatting at her. Carefully, seeing how she’s holding a hot curling iron. “Jesus, pile this up any higher on my head and they’re gonna think I’m a backup singer for Conway Twitty.”
“Who?” she asks, blinking at me in the mirror.
She’s looking better now.
She’s calmed down with the gaudy Vegas showgirl looks, and gone natural with her hair loose and breezy, comfortable in jeans and cute flowy sleeveless blouses.
She doesn’t look so starve-yourself-thin-until-you-die anymore, either.
I help, feeding her fresh-baked pies until she’s blue in the face every time she comes around the ranch. I’ll remake a country girl of Sierra Potter yet.
Her bruises are long healed.
Outside, anyway.
What’s hurting her deep down will take more than time to heal, and it’ll happen on her schedule.
But it feels like maybe she’s ready to try as she smiles at me in the mirror.
“Quit it, Libby,” she says, flicking the curling iron off and setting it down. “You’re giving me sappy looks again.”
“Am not!” I half-heartedly jab my elbow back at her. “Look, just let me have a moment of being glad you’re back, okay? It’s my wedding day. Can’t I do that?”
“You can.” She leans down, draping her arms over my neck and resting her chin on one of my shoulders.
When you look at us in the mirror like this, we don’t look that different.
