Page 21 of When it Sizzles

Wendy Ann

All the way through the airport, I’m floating on air.

Even sliding into a cab with a faulty air conditioner and sweating my way across the city in the desert heat can’t bring me down. Neither can the man peeing on the side of a casino, the flashing lights so bright they’re blinding even in the afternoon sun, or the billboard stating, “it’s only a gambling problem if you’re losing.”

The man on the Clark County courthouse steps, loudly proclaiming the end of days while petting a miserable-looking parrot on his shoulder, concerns me for a beat or two. But then Connor offers him twenty dollars to move into the shade on the other side of the building for the sake of Sharkbait—the parrot tells us his name himself, in a voice I swear is filled with very human gratitude—and I’m back on cloud nine.

God, Connor is just so…perfect.

So kind, so thoughtful, even to men who smell like they haven’t bathed in years and mangy little parrots. I know there’s a chance this is all an act he’ll drop as soon as he’s gotten what he wants from me—there are people out there like that in the world—but with every passing moment, the voice of caution is getting quieter and quieter.

After all, what on earth could he want from me, except…me?

That’s all I have to give. And while I’m not about to underestimate my own worth, my Self isn’t something anyone can take against my will. That part of me can only be accessed through love and care, not force.

I can’t imagine Connor forcing anything. He’s too thoughtful. Even last night, when he was doing wicked things to my body, he was careful to check in with me every step of the way.

The thought of those wicked things makes me shift my gaze in his direction as we fill out our paperwork in the waiting area.

Damn, he’s gorgeous. His profile is a master class in line and balance and when he glances my way, his entire face lights up as he whispers, “Is the romance getting to you yet?”

I grin, whispering back, “Totally.”

“Me, too. Even though this may be the ugliest room I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, returning to his form.

He’s right. The waiting room, surrounded by glassed-in cubicles on three sides, is decked out in various shades of beige and smells of stale onion bagels from someone’s breakfast.

Or maybe that’s the sweaty guy in stained overalls trying to fix the glitching florescent light in the corner…

This part of the process was never included in the sexy, impulsive, lets-elope-to-Vegas stories I’ve heard in my lifetime, but everyone who wants to get married in Sin City has to stop by the courthouse. Even movie stars. It’s hard to imagine the pop princess I once idolized as a kid stepping foot in this room with the stained drop ceilings and the squeaky fan oscillating in the corner, but she must have. The website was very clear—you can start the application online, but the couple must complete the process in person.

The couple…

We’re a couple.

I, Wendy Ann McGuire, am part of a couple and I’m getting married. Tonight. In just four short hours, in fact. I booked the eight p.m. slot at the Flashback Chapel, where they provide tuxedo and dress rentals for an extra fee, since we only had an hour to get to the airport and no time to go shopping.

“What decade do you think we should choose for the wedding?” I ask, as we’re waiting our turn in front of the one staffed cubicle. “The woman said it was a slow night so we could have our choice of the art deco room, the mid-century room, or the 1980’s room.”

Connor grins. “1980’s? I wonder what the tuxedo rental looks like for that.”

“Probably horrific. I’m sure the dresses are awful too, but when allowed to dry naturally, my hair does resemble a bad 1980’s perm, so…”

He laughs as he eyes my hair. “No way.”

“Yes, way,” I assure him. “I have the worst hair in the family. Apparently, I take after Dad, though he was bald by the time I was born, so I can’t confirm that with first-hand knowledge.”

“My dad is bald, too,” he says. “It’s a miracle I’ve held onto my hair this long.”

I cock my head to one side, trying to imagine him bald.

He grins. “Trying to imagine me bald?”

I laugh. “Yes.”

He mock-winces. “Yeah, it’s going to be bad. I have a giant skull with weird lumps at the back. I’m not going to be a handsome bald man. If you want to call it off now, I understand.”

Chest filling with that increasingly familiar warm, giddy-but-grounded feeling I’ve only felt with him, I take his hand and give it a squeeze. “Nah, you’ll still be sexy.”

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