Page 130 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

“Webb!”

From the bed behind me, his voice came low, amused, and far too awake.

“I was wondering when you’d find that.”

I twisted around so fast that I nearly toppled again. Webb was sprawled across the bed, shirtless and completely at ease, with that infuriating, lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What the hell is this?” I screeched, holding the paper aloft like it might catch fire in my hand.

He yawned and stretched like a cat. “That's our marriage certificate.”

“I thought this was Gladys and Ira’s!”

He shook his head, still grinning. “Nope, that one’s framed in their suite. This one’s ours. You, me, and…well…Elvis.”

“Elvis?” My voice rose another octave.

“You don’t remember?”

I stared at him, horrified.

“You demanded the full Elvis experience,” he explained, clearly enjoying himself. “Wouldn’t stop dancing in the parking lot until they brought him out. You called him ‘The King’ and asked if he’d sing Hound Dog while we said our vows. He did, and you cried.”

I stared at the certificate, then flipped through the stack of photos, my heart pounding.

There I was, in my navy corset dress and smudged eye makeup, holding a plastic bouquet with toilet paper trailing from my hair like a veil. Webb stood beside me, looking smug and thoroughly amused. Elvis—complete with a rhinestone jumpsuit, sunglasses, and a wig that was 100% slipping—was mid-hip thrust in at least three of the photos.

“Oh my God,” I whispered. “We didn’t even get married in a cute little chapel. We got married in a drive-thru by an off-brand Elvis impersonator.”

Webb didn’t even try to hold back his laughter. “Come on, it’s cool. We can say The King married us.”

I dragged myself into a seated position and glared at him over the edge of the bed. “You think this is funny?”

He looked at me, really looked at me, and then burst into a fresh round of laughter. “You look like a raccoon that licked a plug socket.”

I picked up the nearest pillow and hurled it at him, missing by a mile. “You’re dead.”

“Technically,” he drawled, grinning as he caught the pillow, “I’m your husband, so if you kill me, you inherit half of this hotel room.”

Despite the throbbing in my head, the sheer absurdity of it all hit me like a wave—and before I could stop it, I started laughing, too.

Of course we'd gotten married by Elvis in Vegas. This was us: ridiculous, spontaneous, completely out of our minds… and somehow, absolutely right.

I rubbed my temples, staring down at the certificate again, and whispered, “God help me…I married my best friend in a rhinestone drive thru.”

I didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

Webb

The thing was—I should’ve seen it coming.

We were walking the Strip with everyone, bouncing from bar to bar like we were still in our twenties, and Gabby was in rare form. Her hair was slightly windblown, herdress swishing around her legs, and her cheeks flushed from dancing and maybe three cocktails too many.

And every time we passed a wedding chapel, she’d point dramatically and yell, “I do!”

At first, I just laughed, then I started tallying them.

By the fifth “I do,” I nudged her. “You know, if you keep proposing, I’m gonna start charging a ring fee.”

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