“Do you, Collette Marie St. Pierre, take Justin Michael Crawford to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
She looks at me, those hazel eyes, full of tears and joy and fear and certainty all at once. “I do.”
“By the power vested in me by the District of Columbia, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
I kiss her, in a government building, under fluorescent lights, in the middle of the night. And it’s the best kiss of my life. She laughs against my mouth, and I taste champagne and tears and the beginning of everything.
“Congratulations,” Diane says. “Now, please go home. I’m exhausted.”
Don’t have to tell us twice. We sign the certificate and stumble out into the DC night, married, laughing, and holding hands. She stops on the sidewalk and looks at me.
“We just got married.” Those hazel eyes are open and bright.
“We just got married.”
“In the middle of the Christmas party.” She giggles.
“Worth it.” I pull her to me and kiss her again, on a sidewalk in DC.My wife.“Let’s go home, Mrs. Crawford.”
She grins so wide it takes up her entire face. “Let’s go home.”
The plane ride back is quiet. She falls asleep on my shoulder, her hand still laced through mine, the marriage certificate folded in my jacket pocket. I stare out the window and watch the coast slide by and think about what we’ve done.
You just married Collette St. Pierre.
Pierre and Felix are going to kill you.
But she’s worth it.
32
COLLETTE
We stumble through his apartment door early in the morning, married. The word keeps bouncing around my skull like a pinball.Married.I’m married. To Justin Crawford. Fish. Number twenty-two. The man my brothers warned on the team not to touch me. I married him in a government building in DC, wearing a party dress and no underwear because I left them on the floor of a hotel room twelve floors above our Christmas party.This is either the best decision you’ve ever made or the most spectacularly insane.Why can’t it be both?
He closes the door behind us, and I turn to look at him. Navy suit, rumpled now, silver tie, loosened, hair wrecked from my hands. Eyes bright and tired, and so full of love it makes my chest ache. And on my finger, a toy ring he got at a convenience store.
“Hi, wife.” He says it softly, like he’s testing the word, like he can’t believe it’s real either.
“Hi, husband.” The second I say it, my eyes fill with tears because itisreal. We did this. We actually did this.
He crosses the space between us in two steps, cups my face, and kisses me. Not the desperate, hungry kisses from the hotel room door. This is slow and deep, claiming. This isI married you,andyou’re mine,andI’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you know it.
“I want to take this dress off you,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Then take it off me.”
He turns me around gently and finds the zipper at the back. He pulls it down slowly, his knuckles grazing my spine, and the silver fabric pools at my feet. I’m standing in his apartment in nothing but heels and a plastic wedding ring, and the way he looks at me when I turn around makes me feel like the most beautiful woman on the planet.
“You’re my wife,” he whispers, and his voice cracks on the word.
“I’m your wife.”
He picks me up, not the frantic lift from the hotel door. This time, it’s gentle, one arm under my knees, one behind my back, and he carries me to his bedroom. He lays me on his bed, stands over me, and takes off his jacket, tie, and his shirt, followed by his pants and boxers. Each piece falls to the floor until he’s standing there naked, and I’m lying here naked, and there’s a plastic band on my finger that says this man belongs to me. He climbs over me and settles between my thighs, resting his forehead against mine. We breathe together. His hand finds mine, and our fingers lace together, the ring pressing between us.
“I’m going to upgrade this as soon as I can,” he says, kissing the plastic ring.
“I think it’s cute.”