Page 85 of Kissing for Keeps
My phone buzzes, and I pull it from my suit pocket, glancing at the text preview and frowning.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Mom before slipping farther from the group and making a call.
When I return a few minutes later, my frown has been replaced by a smile and a bundle of nerves.
“There you are,” Madi says when she catches sight of me. She comes over, and I wrap her in a tight hug. “So happy for you, Mads.”
“Thanks, Jack,” she responds softly while holding me tightly.
We head inside and make our way upstairs to the marriage room, which has a dozen or so chairs set up in front of a mahogany desk.
Madi and Rémy take their seats in the middle, with Siena and Mom next to Madi and Michael Scott and me next to Rémy. It should be André in my place as one of the witnesses, but Rémy made me feel like he really wanted me to be one when he asked me to step in. He’s a good guy.
The mayor, a middle-aged woman in a navy business suit, will be running the ceremony. She stands behind the mahogany desk, wearing a sash the colors of the French flag, draped from shoulder to waist, and holding a leather folder in her hands.
She reads from her folder in quick but clear French. Thankfully, they’ve provided an interpreter since otherwise, the mayor could be initiating my sister and her soon-to-be husband into the Illuminati, and I’d be none the wiser.
After verifying she has the right couple for the scheduled ceremony, she says a few general words about marriage.
“Marriage is the ultimate leap of faith,” the interpreter translates, “choosingtodayto tie all of your tomorrows to someone else’s, pledging to make the sacrifices that will maximize your happiness and success together, whatever good, bad, and hard the future holds.”
From the corner of my eye, I glance at Siena next to Madi. Her focus is on the interpreter, giving me the opportunity to really look at her. Her hair is pulled back, braided and twisted so there are none of the usual stray hairs hanging at her neck.
It’s insane to be thinking about Siena as I listen to these words about marriage, but I guess I’ve passed into crazy territory, because Iamthinking about her.
Maybe it’s not insane, though. I’ve dated a lot of women over the years, and things with Siena were different from the start.
“The act of marriage,” the interpreter continues, “is a promise to be there for one person above all others, to lean and be leaned on, to trust and be trusted.”
I take in a breath, feeling the weight of those words. That sort of responsibility—that vulnerability—has scared me my whole life. But as I look at Siena, it’s something I can see myself taking on.
She glances over at me, her cheeks turning pink as she finds me looking at her.
I offer a little smile, but my thoughts are somber. Even though I want to take on the responsibility of being there for Siena, to show her I’m serious about it, that opportunity is tied to losing the trust of my sister. It seems like a lot to hope Madi will give me a fourth chance to prove I’m ready to be a real brother to her, but I’ve got to hope for it.
Madi and Rémy stand and approach the desk as the mayor reads from the civil code about spousal expectations in France. Two minutes later, they’re asked the question, both responding with a happyoui.
They’re pronounced married, and just like that, after less than fifteen minutes, Madi is a married woman, kissing her husband. Kissing himthoroughly.
I’m grinning so widely my lips might split, but I can’t help sneaking another glance at Siena.
She’s looking at me, too, smiling every bit as widely. Hopefully, she realizes right now thatthis—the moment Madi and Rémy got married—is what all this has been about. No mistake in the planning can overshadow this moment.
31
JACK
It’s late morning,and the sun has crested the chateau walls and treetops, filtering through the archways of the cloisters where we’re setting up for the reception. I’ve been awake since six, helping Siena and her family decorate for the outdoor ceremony, the cocktail hour that follows, and the reception that followsthat. Siena has her game-face on, entirely focused on putting together the puzzle pieces she’s worked so hard for months to collect. She’s wearing sweats, her hair wavy from yesterday’s braids but held up with a claw clip.
I’m strangely nervous on her behalf. I want this day to feel successful for her sake as much as for my sister’s.
My phone buzzes—look at me, keeping my phone on me at all times—and I whip it out anxiously. When I see the text there, I do a fist pump.
“What’s that for?” Siena asks as she carries a centerpiece to the table nearest me.
“Oh”—I stick my phone back in my pocket—“nothing. My team won.” Seems like a believable excuse.
“What team is that?” She tilts her head to the side, then shifts the centerpiece slightly right.
