Page 41 of Roundabout

“You’re worthy,” he says, his glassy mocha-swirl eyes holding mine.

“And you’re early,” Beckett tells him. “We’re supposed to give her to you.”

“She’s not yours to give. She’s mine to take.”

“Actually, fuckwad, she is. I claimed her for us from the start. Remember, Angie?”

I shake my head, my loose curls tickling my back from the movement.

“Yeah, it was back at Creekwood, that one night you fell asleep on the couch while we were watching Tremors. I asked if we could keep you.”

“Did I answer you?”

Beckett grins at Marc, then Coty.

It’s Marc who says, “You didn’t really have to.”

“I think this is answer enough.” Beckett holds his hands out, gesturing to the canyon.

“Isn’t it bad luck to see the bride before she even makes it to the aisle?” I ask instead. Of course they can keep me. Theirs is the only family I’ve ever felt like I truly belonged.

“Uh, neighbor girl, there is no aisle. We’re having a wedding in a fucking meadow on three hours’ notice.”

I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I wanted to keep an eye on you,” Coty says more like a threat than anything—a delicious threat—and even though it’s a chilly day and I’m not wearing much, my groom’s words are what have me fighting a shiver as we stare each other down.

“I’m not running,” I promise softly but vehemently.

“Sorry. I misspoke.” With one hand in his suit pocket, he closes the distance, putting us toe to toe. “I’m going to keep an eye on you. Today and every day after. Not because I think you’ll run, but because if you do, I want to be right next to you.”

“Sucker,” Beckett breathes on a laugh, and Coty puts his erect middle finger in his face, not taking his eyes off mine.

“That might be difficult.”

The space between Coty’s eyebrows crinkles. “Why?”

“Because I’m faster.”

His face smooths out on a smile very similar to the one I feel myself wearing.

The song I chose as our opener starts up from the area we should be congregating right now. It’s “Collide” by Rachel Platten, and after listening to the first forty-five seconds, Coty whispers, “This is for me?”

“This is for you.”

His forehead kisses mine and our bodies start swaying together, slow and steady, the familiar tang of his spicy coconut scent infusing the fresh air around us.

“I can’t promise you perfect ’cause I’m not perfect,” he tells me.

Recognizing the same vows he told me a decade ago when we first made our relationship official, I say, “I can’t promise you easy ’cause it won’t be.”

“But I can promise to be here for you through it all no matter what, loving you in any way you’ll allow me for as long as I’m breathing.”

“Whether that makes you my husband or not is up to you—”

“I’m your husband.”

I laugh before finishing, “But my feelings remain the same.”