Page 41 of Roman and Jules
Jules couldn’t stop smiling. Her parents had come to her wedding the second time around. Roman’s father and Great-Aunt Priscilla were also scrunched next to the other guests at the Chapel del Frate in those cheap metal chairs done up with silk roses. Mercutio whined at their feet—no doubt the pup wanted a chair of his own.
Dear Aunt Priscilla wiped her forehead under her mass of red hair and fanned her face with one of those complimentary decorative foldout fans that Father Lawrence had supplied at the front of the room. She’d also helped herself to a hefty handful of mints, leaving a pile of wrappers on her lap.
Roman’s great-aunt had gone through with her threat and cut both her boys out of the will. After viewing the footage of that night, she’d decided to make Jules her sole heir. Jules was more than fine with that, as long as she wasn’t forbidden to get into any fights of her own, which seemed likely since her soon-to-be Aunt Collette had pulled a fit at the decision. Both she and Ty had stayed away from Roman’s wedding as protest.
Everyone was fine with that.
Jules came down the aisle in her cowgirl boots—Roman had insisted she wear those, though her gown this time was far more elegant, with a delicate lace peau de soie overlay bodice and gobs of sheer silk chiffon that made up her skirt. It flowed softly around her legs. She picked it up with one hand, and with the other waved at her band members from PotPan. Angelica blew her nose loudly into her tissue and waved back.
Roman’s eyes were bright with eagerness as she came closer. He wore a dark blue suit with his collar open at the neck, not so different from that first night he’d married her. His mischievous expression wasn’t so different either, though his eye this time, and not his cheek, was bruised by Ty’s fist.
As soon as she reached him, the officiator, Lawrence, clasped both of their hands in his. “Well, this marriage is a little less hasty than your first. You’ve known each other a bit longer, I suppose, though not long enough in my opinion. We can always wait a few more months to be sure.”
Roman’s jaw tightened. Jules had been the sentimental one who’d chosen the Chapel del Frate. It was far from her previous dreams of a wedding in the spacious fields of South Carolina with her cows and her pastor, and Roman had been adamantly against it, mainly because of this guy. “We’re ready,” Jules reassured them both.
“Have you the rings?”
Taking a steadying breath, Roman dug out a few rings from his jacket pocket. He had the one she’d won off him on their first wedding night and his mother’s ring. “Which one, Jules?”
She pointed to his mother’s, and he stuck the other onto his pinky. Lawrence watched on with approval, turning to her. “You love him, I presume?”
Jules beamed. “Very much.”
“Who?”
Their friends and family shifted in the crowd at the unusual line of questioning. Roman widened his eyes at her, and she coughed into her hand to cover her laugh. “Roman.”
“Oh very good, very good,” Father Lawrence said. “Then let us free you from your shameful state of being half married, half not—that is if no maidenly fears prevent you from taking this man?”
“No, we’re good,” Jules hurried to say. “No maidenly fears here.”
If Lawrence went off on how their passionate love would die out as soon as it started, she knew Roman would lose it. Already his eyes danced between frustration and amusement. “I mean we’ve all done this once before, right,” Roman said, “including you Lawrence, so it can’t be so hard to just… do it.”
Lawrence gave him a hard stare, and lifted his chin imperiously to ask the crowd, “Is there anyone here who objects to these nuptials? Say it now.”
He’d omitted “…or forever hold your peace.” What had Roman done to him in his past life? Jules suspected that this most suspenseful part of the ceremony was invented solely by Hollywood, but Father Lawrence had adopted it with a vengeance and even dragged it out for dramatic emphasis. Roman pretended to wipe his head free of sweat.
“Anyone?” Lawrence asked hopefully.
That did it. Roman leaned his head back. “Okay, we’re good now. Let’s do this.”
Jules suspected he was punished with even more waiting time for the outburst. After an appropriate silence and no sign of Ty Bolt storming through the chapel doors, the officiator shrugged. “Okay, then with the power vested in me by the state of Nevada, I declare you man and wife.”
Lawrence hadn’t changed up the ceremony at all. “Man?” she mouthed to Roman.
“Yes, woman. That’s what he means.” Roman pushed aside her veil for his kiss. Finally, she was his. The freedom that rushed through her at being his wife in name, soul, and body was tantamount to her joy at sharing her life and future with him—even his dog, if she were honest.
She drew back from his kiss, her arms caught between them both. “I like this tradition,” she said and worked her hands free so she could hook her fingers behind his neck.
“Yeah, and we’ve got one more.” He picked up his phone for a selfie, and somehow managed to kiss her even more thoroughly for the picture.
A wedding photographer could’ve done that a lot better, and she elbowed him, “Donotsend those to Ty.”
He smirked. “I already have.”
“Roman!”
“Relax—he blocked my number.”
“Good.” Though she couldn’t be sure.
Family and friends were already getting to their feet, and Roman took her hand, running her through the rice and flowers thrown over their heads as they made their way down the aisle and out the chapel doors to his Harley. His bike was covered in pale ivory orchids.
He handed her a white helmet and she put it on while he gently fastened it around her curls. He kissed her forehead before getting on his bike. She hitched up her gown and slid in behind him, holding him tightly. The engine growled to a start and they drove off, the cans and ribbons dragging behind them.
Just married.
Let the paparazzi spin a story on that.
The End
