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The question—and the skin-on-skin touch on her back—made breathing difficult. Which wasn’t so good for formulating complicated responses. Fortunately the answer was simple. “You,” she finally said. “I choose you.”
Relief, joy and fire flashed in his eyes, and with a lightning-fast movement, Hunter hauled her against him. Her body collided with his and she sighed, her heart melting as she curled into his embrace.
His chest was hard. Protective.
The hand on her back was warm. And gentle.
Sandwiched between the perfect combination of unyielding strength and soothing comfort, she inhaled his familiar woodsy scent. The surge of happiness overwhelmed her and she buried her face against him, his soft jacket absorbing the embarrassing wet tracks on her cheek.
After a minute, Hunter said, “Just promise me something.”
She slid her arms around his waist, blinked back the remaining tears and looked up at him. “Anything.”
He glanced at the two coffin bars surrounded by guests dressed in black, their feet obscured by the mist from the fog machines. “No Elvis at the wedding,” he said. “And no Goth-themed receptions.”
Finally allowing herself to trust the joy, she let a smile creep up her face. “Can I ask the winner of the Pink Flamingo drag queen pageant to officiate?”
Hunter’s eyes briefly flickered wider—but to his credit he said nothing.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Now who’s afraid?”
“Good point,” he said, his brow creased in humor, his fingers caressing her skin.
“So, tell me...” Her mojo firmly back in place, she flashed him her most charming smile and tipped her head curiously. “What kind of songs does The Hitchinator offer when I accept your proposal?”
A secretive smile spread across his face, and the light in his slate-blue eyes grew warmer. “I’ll resend the message so you can hit ‘Yes’ and find out.”
