Page 33 of One Pucking Heart

“Wow.” His bright blue eyes trail my body. “You look fucking amazing.”

“So do you.” His brown hair with strands of golden highlights falls in a perfectly disheveled mess, that look that says, I just stepped out of the shower looking like this, when, in reality, he probably fussed over and used a lot of product on his hair to achieve such a look. He hasn’t shaved, so his face is covered in a short stubble, which somehow increases his sex appeal ten times over. He bites his full bottom lip, his chest rising with heavy breaths.

“You ready for this?” he asks, bending his elbow.

I slide my arm through his. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

He leads us out of the building and toward an antique bubble-gum pink convertible. It’s the most adorable vehicle I’ve seen. The top is down, and the leather interior matches the hue of the exterior. The whitewall tires are pristine. “Oh my gosh! Is that for us?”

“Sure is. It’s a 1956 Ford Thunderbird. If we’re going to meet Elvis, we’re doing it in style. Don’t worry, the chapel is close, and I’ll go slow so I don’t mess your hair.”

I giggle, smiling wide. “I don’t care about my hair. This is amazing, Beck.”

He hurries around the car to open my door, and I slide onto the pink leather seats. I explore the old-fashioned interior with my hands. All the parts and knobs are probably close to seventy years old, yet they shine like new. The owner of this car takes great care of it. It must cost a fortune to rent.

Beckett gets in, starts the car, and takes hold of the big black steering wheel. “Let’s do this.”

Extending my freshly manicured hand out past the open window, my hand dips in the breeze as we drive down the Vegas Strip. It’s full of life, colors, lights, and sounds, making me feel alive. Beckett turned something I was dreading into an adventure, and I’m so grateful he did. Today has been incredible.

We pull into the parking lot of the little white chapel, and Beckett tells me to stay put. He exits, jogs around the front of the car, and opens my door. He extends his hand, and I take it, accepting his help out of the car.

The interior of the chapel isn’t as cute as the exterior. It’s outdated and gaudy, with bright red carpet. It’s quite ugly, but I find the decor’s abrasiveness adds to the charm of the place.

A woman named Molly instructs us to fill out the paperwork that will make the marriage legal. She goes over the wedding procedure itself, which takes no more than twenty seconds to explain. Weddings here are no fuss. “Okay, and you booked the deluxe wedding, so you’ll receive a video and picture package.”

I look at Beckett, and he shrugs. “I’m sure your dad will want pictures of his only daughter’s big day.”

This wedding isn’t in the same universe as the agreed-upon courthouse wedding, but I can’t complain. The truth is, someday, when I’m old and rocking on a swing with my grandbabies on the porch of my mansion that I purchased with my late father’s money, I’ll want to look back on the crazy stunt I pulled to get there.

Molly continues. “In addition, your package comes with flowers, so go ahead and choose your bouquet from the cooler over there.” She points toward a wall of fresh bouquets behind a glass door.

I scan the entire wall of flowers and finally choose a bouquet made of white lilies with light pink accents. Bringing the bouquet to my nose, I inhale. Lilies have the best scent and remind me of my mom. They were her favorite flower. When I turn around, Beckett is no longer in the lobby.

“You’re all set. Time to walk down the aisle,” Molly instructs and points at the double doors that lead to the chapel.

“Oh okay. Do I just start walking?”

“One second.” She fiddles with a knob on the sound system. The song “Going to the Chapel of Love” by the Dixie Cups starts playing. “You’re all set. Anytime you’re ready.”

My head falls back in a laugh. “Oh, Beckett.” I grin as I start down the aisle.

Beckett and Elvis wait for me at the end, and the closer I get to them, the more my smile grows. The music stops, and Elvis belts out in a sultry singing voice, “It’s now or never…” He looks at the pair of us and says, “Follow that dream! Don’t be cruel. This isn’t a one-sided love affair.”

Looking at Beckett, I press my lips in a line, trying not to laugh. Elvis is throwing together his song titles in an attempt at a comedic performance, I hope. He’s either trying to make us laugh, or the impersonator is delusional.

He continues. “I think my 1958 hit says it best, now look each other in the eyes and repeat after me. I want you.” He motions for us to repeat.

“I want you,” Beckett and I say in unison.

Elvis continues. “I need you.”

“I need you,” we repeat.

“Finally, I love you!” Elvis dips to his knee in an odd re-creation of a move the late singer used to do.

I look at Beckett and want to giggle, but his face is serious. “I love you,” he says.

My stare darts to the plump guy, with only the vaguest resemblance to the late singer, marrying us. He’s leaning back, and the verdict is out whether he’s doing yet another dance move or if he’s having some sort of back spasm.

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