Page 45 of A More Than Mayhem Christmas

Her grin matches mine. “You got it.”

After walking the length of the dock, I turn and face the altar, then wait. Once the first few chords of “What Makes You beautiful” by One Direction start, I don’t justwalkdown the aisle. I fuckingstrut,stopping to dance and sing, akascream, the lyrics with my girls. It is, by far, the most joy I’ve felt in the longest time, and I realize now, a little too late, that regardless of the physical distance—or the emotional one I’ve created between us—these people arestillmy friends for a reason.

I came here tonight because I didn’t want to be home alone on Christmas.

But that house, the home I grew up in—it isn’t my home.

The people here are.

When the song finishes, I walk toward Roman, who’s watched me the entire time with a giant grin on his face. When I get close enough, he offers me his hands, and for a long moment, we just stand there, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes, our smiles growing with each passing second.

And, because Logan is Logan and his main priority is finding out who won the best cake contest, his officiant speech goes a little like this:

Logan: “Roman, say I do.”

Roman: “I do.”

Logan: “Heids, same shit.”

Me: “I do.”

Logan: “Now kiss.”

Full disclosure: I didn’t think about the whole kissing thing when I agreed to this, but the moment Roman steps toward me, I freeze. And when his hand cradles my neck, his thumb under my chin, lifting my face up to his, I stop breathing. And when his mouth meets mine, I…

I black out.

Maybe.

Just a little bit.

I know that his touch is warm, and that his lips are soft, and that his tongue tastes like mint…

But… I don’t know how long we kissed for, and I don’t know what he sees when he pulls away and finally opens his eyes.

What I do know is that happened just now, I want it to happen again.

And again.

And again.

“Welp,” Lucy announces. “I got a stiff clitty!”

Me, too, Luce.

Me. Fucking. Too.

17

Mikayla

Both impromptu wedding cakes are horrid, and not a single one of us was prepared for just how bad they would be. Not even the guys who made them.

They’re both now in the lake, and we’re still at the dock while Logan stares me down, trying to communicate with his eyes alone.

Since it was supposed to bemywedding, the boys had already decided that I would be the judge of their little contest, which, the rest of us are just finding out now, has a grand prize of two dollars and fifteen cents.

“Logan wins,” I blurt out, just to get it over with.

---