Page 54 of Stick Break
She scrolls, her fingers brushing mine, her skin warm and soft. “Oh look, you can get married in a palace in Portugal.” She gasps. “They do horseback entrances.”
That’s when I notice her hand again. Bare. No ring.
“Shit. We don’t have a ring.”
She holds up her fingers, examining them with mock horror. “We’ll just say it’s being sized.”
“Great idea,” I say. “Just make sure you tell your Mrs. Callahan it’s massive. Like, five karats minimum. Ice rink on your finger.”
“Wow,” she says dryly. “You’re so generous.” She wiggles her finger again. “If I were into bling, that would be lovely.”
I smile but something tugs in my chest. “My ex loved jewelry,” I murmur. “I think I bought out half of Tiffany’s during that relationship.”
Her posture shifts slightly, like she no longer wants to dredge up the past on this glorious day.
“Come here,” I say softly.
I slip an arm around her and guide her closer until she’s curled into my side, her cheek resting against my chest. I breathe her in—sun, salt, something sweet and uniquely her—and hold her like we’ve always fit.
She lets out a sigh that melts into me.
No spotlight. No cameras. Just us, floating in borrowed peace.
She sighs, the kind that melts into bone and breeze, and as the sun warms her skin—and mine—her voice goes all soft and sleepy. “Okay… so five-carat ring, Italy wedding. Next summer?”
“That sounds about right,” I murmur, letting my hand drift in slow, lazy strokes along her arm. Her skin is warm from the sun, smooth under my palm, and I want to memorize how she feels right now—safe, close, real.
“I like sage, and other shades of greens,” she adds, the words slurring gently with drowsiness.
“That works for me, too.”
“You in a tux, and me in a ballgown dress,” she whispers. “I love the ballgown cut.”
Of course she does. She’s the kind of woman who could pull off classic, dramatic, and fairy-tale all at once.
Fairy tale, something you don’t believe in, Rip.
“Roman’s wife, Gabby, used to design wedding dresses,” I say. “She’s insanely talented. Doesn’t do it full-time anymore, but she made Paisley’s dress. She still takes on projects for friends. I bet she’d jump at the chance to design one for you.”
“That’s sweet,” she murmurs, eyes still closed, her cheek resting over my heart like it belongs there. And maybe it does. Maybe it always did.
What the hell am I even saying. None of this is real. Just a game. A fake story to fool our neighbour. Except… if it’s fake, why does it feel like this?
Her fingers trail down my chest, slow and distracted. “Do you think our friends will come? I mean… Italy’s a big ask.”
“Oh, they’ll come,” I say without hesitation. “No way will Roman miss the chance to make an inappropriate toast.”
She gives a sleepy little laugh. “So, he’s your best man?”
“Of course.” I glance down at her, catching the tiny flicker of uncertainty in her features. “What about you? Who’s standing beside you?”
There’s a pause. It stretches between us like the space between stars.
“I’m not sure yet,” she says finally.
“That’s okay. You’ve got time.”
And I wish—selfishly, foolishly—that I could see her with the other WAGs. That she could meet them, laugh with them, feel what it’s like to be part of something. Because I know, without a doubt, they’d adore her. And she’d have too many options for maid of honor, not too few.
