Page 47 of Bride on the Dotted Line

“Six two, but thanks.”

“How long did you say we have to go?” She slips the broken shoe off, then balances on one foot to take the second one off, too. “A couple blocks?”

My eyes widen, looking at the pattern of frost on the ground. “Too far to walk on bare feet.”

She straightens, trying to hide a grimace when her feet flatten on the cement sidewalk. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s freezing, Sienna.”

“Is it? I had no idea.”

I run a hand through my hair, amused. It’s been a long night. A few minutes ago, I didn’t want to go home. Now I want to take her, wrap her in a blanket on my couch, and hold her until the sun comes up.

Normal impulses. Totally professional.

“Alright,” I tell her, gesturing her toward me. “Come on. I’m going to carry you.”

She looks at me like I spoke French. “Carryme?”

“It’s only for a few minutes. Also, if someone snaps a photo, I’ll look like a hero. So, bonus.”

Sienna laughs, rubbing her free hand over her face. She jumps from one foot to the other, the curls escaping her updo bouncing.

“Fine, but only because my toes are turning to ice. And it’s good PR.”

I lean down, sweeping one arm behind her knees and the other around the small of her back, lifting her into a wedding carry. Sienna stiffens for a moment, then loops her arms around my neck without protest. She’s soft in my hold, and when she relaxes against my chest, something inside me clenches.

This is practical—a necessity. Not to mention part of the act of being husband and wife. But when Sienna brushes her fingers against the back of my neck, tingles web over my skin.

“See?” I murmur, adjusting my grip as I carry her up the empty, ice-dusted street. “Not so bad.”

She chuckles, her breath against my neck. “You say that like you’re not already tired.”

“I’m doing great.” I keep my voice even, but she’s closer than usual—close enough to hear the way my breathing has changed.

It’s not because I’m tired.

“I bet you say that to all the women you carry home,” she says.

“Only when it’s true.”

Her lips part like she has a response ready, but then she hesitates. Instead of speaking, she watches me back, searching me with her eyes.

I hold her gaze. “Problem?”

“No.” Her voice is quieter now. “Just wondering if it always feels this natural.”

I shift my grip on her, savoring the heat of her against me, the way she tucks herself closer without seeming to realize. "Carrying you?"

"No," she says, and then after a pause, "this."

She doesn’t explain what she means, but I feel the weight of it anyway. We look at each other, and I’m acutely aware that I’m walking a tightrope I can’t see, pretending I’m not waiting to fall.

I exhale slowly. "Only when it is."

“Right.”

The word lands low in my stomach, a spark waiting for air. I keep walking. Even the traffic from a few streets over seems to have toned down, silent except for the occasional car slicing through the night. The silken fabric of Sienna’s gown gathers under my hand.

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