Page 113 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

My chest tightens, and I clutch his shirt harder. “I love you too.” The words tumble out, unguarded, the easiest truth I’ve ever spoken. “So much.”

His lips brush mine, just once, like a question. When I don’t pull away, when I lean in, answering with every inch of me, he deepens the kiss. His mouth is hot, demanding, stealing my breath and my sanity in equal measure. I fist my hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing?—

The mechanical Elvis starts playing "Can’t Help Falling in Love."

We break apart, laughing, breathless.

"See?" I gesture to the chaos around us. "This is what you’re signing up for. Protein powder empires and Elvis serenades and a family that thinks spirulina belongs in pancakes."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Yes." He tugs me closer. "Because you know what I remember most about Vegas?"

"The glittery cape you wore?”

"How you made me feel brave enough to want closeness.” His forehead presses against mine. “To want this. Intimacy. Something I never let myself have before. Something you gave me that I never want to lose.”

“You mean you wouldn’t even lose the Elvis decorations?"

“Not even Elvis." He grins. “Your harmonizing needs work."

"Excuse you, but I have it on good authority that my verse about PR crisis management was inspired."

“I’ll still want you—bad verses and all.”

"Prove it." I step closer. “Shut up and kiss me."

"Yes, wife."

There’s that word again.

Something I didn’t even know I’d want. An acquired flavor. And it tastes like permission. Like belonging. Like everything I've been afraid to need.

"Say it again," I whisper.

His smile is worth every broken rule. "Wife."

Then he kisses me like he means it.

The Elvis cutout falls over again, taking the rest of the decorations with it.

But neither of us notices.

We're too busy risking everything on a love that finally feels right.

29

SOMETHING ABOUT FOREVER

CONNOR

The thing about wedding preparations is that they're a lot like board meetings—excessive attention to minute details, too many opinions, and an overwhelming urge to escape.

"The boutonnieres have to be exactly parallel to the lapel," Grayson insists, adjusting mine for the fifth time. "Mac's very specific about the photos."

We're tucked away in one of the private rooms at The Evergreen Gardens, Seattle's most exclusive venue—where old-money rose gardens meet new-money glass pavilions. Rain patters gently against the windows, creating that quintessential Pacific Northwest ambiance that photographers apparently kill for.

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