Page 34 of Proposal Play

As if I have that kind of sway with the band. Still, I play along. “One hundred thousand dollars? Of course it comes with a brand-new tune from your favorite band.”

“Best date ever,” she shouts.

With a drink in her hand and her arms in the air, Maeve cheers as the opening notes fill the theater. Then he leads into the song, and the lyrics hit me like an arrow to the heart:Remember that promise we made? When I was little and thought I’d marry you? Now that we’re all grown up, I know just what I wanna do…

The words strike me, like a brilliant idea. Like a goddamn roadmap for the best night ever. For a second, or maybe more, I’m back in time to a night I don’t like to dwell on. To a night that made me feel things I shouldn’t really feel. But thanks to a Lemonade Affair and a brand-new song, I’m not holding back. I’m remembering a promise made at a wedding two years ago.

Maeve doesn’t need a husband. But she needs a big adventure.

“Remember how we haven’t planned our Big Adventure yet? Well, I’ve got an idea…”

12

ARE FLAMINGOS SULTRY?

Maeve

Never let it be said that I back down from a dare. And no one can, because a couple of hours later, I’ve got a marriage license in my hand, a daisy tucked behind my ear, and a white satin cami underneath Asher’s vest—now mine. Well, a bride’s got to wear white, so we grabbed one from an all-night lingerie shop. Because of course Vegas has a twenty-four-hour lingerie shop.

“It’s my bridal flair,” I declare, then glance at Asher, my eyes widening as a thought suddenly hits me. “What are you going to wear?”

Or maybe I shout it. It’s possible those Lemonade Affairs were stronger than I’d realized. It’s also possible I had more of them than I’d thought. Hard to say at this point in the night. All I know is everything feels warm and fizzy, inside and out. The lights are festive, the neon is blindingly bright, and the energy pulses through me as the car zips us back from the Clark County MarriageLicense Bureau to our hotel, where we booked a wedding in its little chapel.

“We have to get him a tuxedo!” I shout to the Lyft driver.

The driver chuckles. “Let me know if you want to stop at an all-night tux shop. We have those too.”

Asher sets a calming hand on my arm. “Let me point out the obvious—you’re not wearing a dress.”

“Oh! I bet they’ll have something at the chapel,” I say confidently, then turn to my best friend. “They have clothes to rent usually. One time, we were all at Elodie’s Chocolates, and the owner told us about when she got married in Vegas. At the same place! She said she rented a burgundy dress at the chapel they used, and her hubs got a velvet jacket, and they walked down the aisle to ‘It Had to Be You,’ and…”

Wow. Asher’s green eyes never stray from me as I babble. He really is good-looking. Like, ridiculously good-looking. Actually, he’s so good-looking it’s like looking at the sun. “You know what? You’re the hottest groom ever. Nobody has ever looked better in jeans and a Henley. In fact, you don’t need a tux. Wear that.”

He laughs dryly. “Thanks. I am wearing it. And I will.”

But then a thought occurs to me, and I lean in conspiratorially. “Wait, what color is your underwear? Are you wearing monkeys or dragons? Why won’t you tell me? Or do I just have to find out for myself?”

His clever eyes darken for a second. Turning smoldering. Flickering with heat. I like that too. I definitely like that. Like, ridiculously like it. I like it also when he smirks, leaning in close, his breath tickling my ear as he whispers, “Flamingos.”

I like it so much my breath catches. A shiver runsthrough me. From the closeness of him. From the way that word sounds strangely sultry. Are flamingos sultry? It takes me several seconds—maybe a minute—to process what he just shared because all I want to process is how good he smells after dancing. There’s a faint lingering scent of sweat, but even that smells fresh, mingling with the clean, oaky aftershave he always uses.

My best friend is really hot.

I mean, of course, he’s hot. I’ve always known this. How could you not know when your best friend is a sexy hockey player that women throw themselves at? But then I blink, realizing what he’s just said. “You’re wearing flamingo underwear?”

He shoots me a playful look. “It’s CheekyBeast’s newest style. But don’t tell a soul. That campaign hasn’t rolled out yet.”

“I’ll keep your secret,” I say.

“Good girl,” he says, lighting an unexpected spark in my chest from those two words. Words I wouldn't mind hearing again.

As we pull up to the hotel, which has a chapel inside, I’m struck with the strangest thought—I want to see my best friend’s flamingo underwear.

But you know what? That’s probably totally normal when you’re getting married as part of your annual Big Adventure, fulfilling a marriage pact made for fun one night at your brother’s wedding. A pact we’ll undo when we’re back in San Francisco. On the way over, we briefly talked about getting an annulment when we’re back home. But for tonight? I’m absolutely getting my money’s worth from the date I won.

The car stops at The Extravagant, and we tumble out. Asher holds my elbow, steadying me, and while I don’tfeel stumbling-drunk, I do feel like the world is tilted in our favor tonight. We walk into the hotel, under the chandelier, across the casino, through the concourse, past the CheekyBeast ad, and right into the chapel, where we’ve reserved the one-thirty a.m. slot.

As you do when you make marriage pacts.

---