Page 120 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
I’ll never tell.
“Oh!” My mother flutters her hands in my direction. “That reminds me. I’m supposed to let you know the florist hung some mistletoe over the dance floor. Everyone’s expecting you to kiss during the first song.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.” I wag my eyebrows. “I’ll be sure to warn Sara.”
“Want us to wait for you two before we go in?” Nella asks.
“Nah. You all go ahead,” I say. “I want to be alone with my wife for a moment.”
They disappear into the Tavern at the same time Sara floats out into the hallway. She’s a vision in white—all silk and seed pearls and smiles—plus the leather cuff that matches the one I never take off. I may never get over the sight of her. Or the fact that we finally belong to each other.
“Hey there,husband.” She draws the word out like she’s savoring it. “Sorry about that little pit stop.”
I tug her into my arms. “And I’m sorry about your lipstick.”
“What about my lipstick?”
“I’maboutto mess it up.”
“Wait!” She throws a hand up between us and presses her palm against my chest, but she can’t stop laughing and her eyes are all lit up.
So I pull her even closer. “I think we’ve waited long enough.”
“Be gentle with me,” she whispers.
I cup her chin lifting her face to mine. “Your wish is my command.” Then, with all the love in my bursting heart, I tenderly kiss the bride.
Her lips are sweetness and spice. Fire and ice. Sara’s every color on the spectrum. And since I already know there’s mistletoe above the dance floor, I want this kiss to be just for us.
When we finally break away to catch our breath, I couldn’t care less that my mouth is smeared with some shade of lipstick calledappleorchimneyorcherry Chapstick.
“Hold on.” Sara studies my face, then draws her thumb across my lips, but her gentle touch accomplishes less cleaning of lipstick and more … caressing of my mouth. “I adore this mess,” she tells me softly.
A low groan sounds in the back of my throat. “If we don’t get into that reception now,” I tell her, “I may just throw you over my shoulder and take you home.”
Heat flickers behind her eyes. “I may not mind.”
“Don’t temptme, wife,” I growl.
“Hmm.” Her lips slip into a mock pout. “My parentsdidpay a lot to rent this place out, though.”
“They did.”
She draws her lip under her teeth. “And I suppose you’re worth the wait.”
“So are you.” The words come out gruff, choked with emotion. Quite frankly, I’d wait for this woman forever.
So I slide my hand into hers, and together we head into the reception to greet our guests. When we enter, the DJ’s playing some old classic love song. I think it’s Frank Sinatra. As soon as he spots us, he plucks up his microphone. “Friends and family of the bride and groom,” he announces. “Please help me give a big round of applause for the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Fuller!”
The crowd goes wild, hooting and hollering, and clapping their brains out. But instead of moving directly onto the dance floor, I lead Sara over to the DJ platform and reach for the microphone myself. The DJ grins and passes it to me, lowering the music. I take a deep breath, and survey the room full of beaming faces. Our wedding guests. Everyone I care about on earth gathered in one place.
For us.
“Hello, there!” I boom into the mic, then I yank it away and lower my voice to avoid any screeching feedback. “Today I stand before you as the happiest man who’s ever lived.” My voice cracks a little, and I shift my weight. “That’s thanks in part to all of you, but especially thanks to her.” I clutch Sara’s hand and hold it up high, grinning like a total fool. “Ladies and gentlemen.” I turn and bow to her. “My wife.”
Everybody cheers, and the DJ starts playing, “All I Want For Christmas is You.”
Truer words never belted out, Mariah.
