Page 89 of Worth the Fall

"My wife," he repeats, this time with more conviction, his lips curling into a slow, teasing smile. "You have no idea how good that sounds."

I grin, feeling my cheeks flush. "Oh, I think I have some idea."

He chuckles, the sound low and delicious, before leaning down and brushing his lips against mine. The kiss starts soft, but there’s a hunger behind it, a deep sense of longing that catches me off guard in the best way.

"I’ve been wanting to call you that for so long," he murmurs against my lips, his voice thick with emotion. "To know that you’re mine—not just in my heart, but in every way."

I laugh softly, my hands sliding up to rest on his chest. "I was already yours, Miguel."

His eyes darken at my words, his hand sliding up my back to cradle the nape of my neck. "Not like this," he says, his voice a little rougher now. "This is different. This is forever."

The weight of his words settles between us, heavy and electric, and before I can respond, he captures my lips again, this time with more urgency. His free hand slides to my waist, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.

The kiss deepens, and I lose myself in him—the way his lips move against mine, the way his hand grips my hip like he can’t bear to let go, the way his heart pounds beneath my palm.

"Miguel," I whisper when we finally break apart, my forehead resting against his. My voice is breathless, my cheeks flushed, and I know I probably look as dazed as I feel.

"Yes, Mrs. Ramirez?" he teases, his lips brushing against mine again in the lightest of kisses.

I laugh, swatting at his chest playfully. "You’re really leaning into this, huh?"

"Oh, you have no idea," he says, grinning as his hand slides to my thigh, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through me. "I’ve waited long enough, Mia. I’m not holding back now."

I’m about to respond—probably with a sarcastic comment to keep things light—but the intensity in his eyes stops me. There’s something raw there, something vulnerable and deeply loving, and it makes my heart ache in the best way.

"I love you," I say, my voice soft but steady.

He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he presses a kiss to my temple. "I love you too, Mrs. Ramirez. More than you’ll ever know."

And with that, the rest of the world fades away. In this moment, it’s just us—two people who have finally found their forever.

CHAPTER 20

Miguel

Ithought planning a wedding—especially my second wedding—would be easier. After all, I've been down this road before. Pick a date, book a venue, hire a wedding planner to do the rest, and show up in a tux, ready to say "I do." Simple, right?

Wrong.

Dead wrong.

Turns out when you’re marrying the queen of type A personalities,shewants to handle every detail which means I now have to also handle every detail…

The stack of wedding magazines on my coffee table keeps multiplying like they're breeding overnight. My email inbox is flooded with vendor quotes that make my eyes water, and my credit card company probably thinks I've lost my mind. But this time is different. This time it's Mia, and everything has to be perfect—even if that perfection comes with a heavy dose of chaos, courtesy of my enthusiastic wedding planner.

"I'm telling you, Daddy, you need a princess carriage," Felicity declares, stomping one tiny foot on the floor for emphasis. Her dark curls bounce with indignation as she clutches her glitter-covered notebook. The Wedding Planner Extraordinaire sash she made herself sparkles under the livingroom lights, sending tiny rainbow reflections dancing across the walls.

"We don't need a carriage," I say for what feels like the hundredth time today alone. I try to keep my voice calm, even as I spot more glitter falling onto my freshly vacuumed carpet. "We're not royalty."

"But Daddy!" She throws her hands up, scattering even more glitter. "How is Mia supposed to make her grand entrance? On foot? Like a regular person?" The horror in her voice suggests I've just suggested we have the wedding in a dumpster.

Mia, sitting cross-legged on the couch with her laptop, snorts into her coffee. Her eyes meet mine over the rim of her mug, dancing with barely contained laughter.

"Felicity, sweetheart," I try again, "I don't think?—"

"It's in the rules!" she interrupts, stomping her foot again. This time, her light-up princess shoes flash with each stomp, adding a disco effect to her protest.

"What rules?" I ask, genuinely baffled. When did weddings get rule books? And more importantly, who let my five-year-old read them?

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