Page 133 of Savannah Royals
“Not me,” I admit.
Matthew moves forward, and I give him my hand. Abe steps back, settling into a seat in the front row beside Tony and Ethan.
Matthew’s bright blue eyes latch onto mine. “Beautiful dress.”
“Thank you. It’s new.” Parisian House of Worth couture, pearls and lace, drop waist, and—of course—antique white. Smiling, I listen as the minister speaks. He uses many words, pretty words. Flowery words.
Yours. Mine. Ours. Forever.
Matthew slips a wedding band on my finger, and finally, I get to slide a ring on his. One that marks him as mine.
Yours. Mine. Ours. Forever.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the minister proclaims, “for the very first time as husband and wife, I present to you…Dr. and Mrs. Matthew DaMolin. You may now kiss your bride.”
Wife.
Not wolf. Not Royal.
Not Paul’s. Not Abe’s.
Matthew’s. Matthew’swife.
He dips me back and gives me the sweetest, simplest, most perfect kiss. I let him take my hand and raise it high. Everyone cheers as we run down the aisle together.
A new adrenaline rush fills me, the one I associate with being his.
It’s a different kind of rush, certainly, but it’s one we discovered together.Fromeach other, which makes it the only kind I’ll ever need.
And if my well-conditioned sticky fingers just so happen to dart in and out of a few pockets during the receiving line or swipe a diamond hairpin from a certain blonde Academy socialite’s head on the dance floor…well.
Maybe you saw me, maybe you didn’t.
Old habits and all that.
