Page 92 of Not My Christmas Wedding
“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Ford pulls me close, his strong hands at my waist, and dips me backward until my curls nearly brush the ivory runner. His lips find mine in a kiss that tastes of promises and champagne, stealing my breath completely.
The room erupts in thunderous applause and wolf whistles that seem distant beneath the drumming of my heart. When he finally rights me, my cheeks flushed and lips tingling, I slip my fingers between his. We turn toward our guests, a sea of beaming faces and teary eyes, and Gina passes me the bouquet, my fingers trembling.
Together, we glide down the aisle, my dress whispering secrets against the floor, and push through the heavy mahogany doors into our future.
Ford drapes the plush white mink shawl across my bare shoulders, his warm fingertips lingering against my collarbone. He guides me through the French doors onto the estate’s stone terrace, where fat snowflakes drift lazily from the sky. The crystalline flakes catch in my eyelashes and melt against my flushed cheeks as thousands of fairy lights twined through the surrounding evergreens transform the garden into a winter wonderland.
His breath forms delicate clouds between us as he searches my eyes. “Are you happy, Mrs. Stokes?” he asks.
“I’m perfect,” I reply, pulling him in for a kiss. “This is more than I ever wanted.”
“That’s how I feel every day I’m with you.” We kiss again, the snow swirling around us, and I can hardly believe this is real life.
“Thank you for never giving up on me,” I say, intertwining my fingers with his. “If you hadn’t held out for us, we might not be here.”
“I’d wait for you forever, Harper.”
“Oh good, you’re not having sex in the coatroom,” Gina quips with a smirk, and I laugh, regretting telling her what happened at her wedding. “We’re ready for you in the receiving line.”
“There’s still plenty of time for us to hit the coatroom,” Ford says, helping me up the stairs. “And you look stunning, baby.”
The entire town has shown up for our wedding, including Asher and Kenzie, as they line up to extend their best wishes.
Asher offers a half-hearted handshake and hug, his palm clammy against mine, his cheap cologne unable to mask the faint scent of stale beer. His jacket has a noticeable stain on the lapel, and the shadows beneath his eyes tell their own story.
I have to stifle a laugh, pressing my lips together. It’s as though he’s wearing a neon sign that reads SINGLE AND LIVING IN MY MOM’S BASEMENT. It only took two months for his divorce to be finalized.
Kenzie steps through the receiving line a few people behind him, her hair back to her darker color as she approaches in a figure-hugging merlot dress. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes when she says, “You make a beautiful bride, Harper. Congratulations and best wishes,” her manicured fingers lingering just a moment too long on my arm.
“Thank you, Kenzie,” I respond before hugging her.
Since her wedding, she’s attempted to change her ways. Sh’e’s still manipulative, but she’s hones about it. Seeing how far people were willing to go to ruin her day showed her themistakes she’s made. It helped her realize that she wanted Asher for all the wrong reasons and didn’t actually like him.
We enter the reception hall, where crystal chandeliers cast honeyed light across the sea of round tables draped in ivory linen. Cheers erupt as silverware clangs against champagne flutes, the sound like delicate wind chimes in a summer breeze.
Ford’s arm tightens around my waist before he dips me backward, my curls cascading toward the polished oak floor. His lips find mine, tasting of mint and promise. When he rights me, my cheeks flush with warmth that spreads to my fingertips.
Laughter ripples through the crowd like sunlight on water, and I feel a profound gratitude that not a single whisper mentions the coincidence of our wedding falling exactly one year after Kenzie and Asher’s doomed ceremony, or how today marks the anniversary of when I was supposed to marry someone else entirely.
In this moment, wrapped in twinkling lights and Ford’s steady gaze, it’s just us. Ford and Harper Stokes.
