Dropping down to one knee, I grab her hand. “Frisky Mittens, want to go to a twenty-four-hour chapel and tie the knot?”

She hiccups, then laughs and tugs me in for a sloppy kiss that tastes like tequila and fruit mixer. “When in Vegas . . .”

12

One sideburn slides off the man’s face.

It’s mildly distracting. But nowhere near as disturbing as the officiant’s gold leisure suit. The one-piece has a collar that could double as wings, and is the very definition of skintight. It hugs every inch of his body, and yeah, I do mean inch.

Sorry, not sorry. He’s wearing a fucking unitard. Hard not to notice shit.

“Is he Leisure Suit Larry or Elvis?” I hiss to Natalie. When the venue has a name like Larry, Lana, and the King’s Full-Service Quickie Weddings, he could be either.

She nods at the guy, who’s got a full perm going on, taking kinky curls to new heights, and whispers to me, “Or Richard Simmons got a new gig.”

Only it’s not a true whisper. It’s a drunk whisper. So she’s not quiet in the least, but I doubt the exercise fanatic double cares, since I’m pretty sure he’s stoned. Looks that way, as he fumbles around for the wedding bands while we stand at the front of the tiny chapel. That’s part of the full service—two gold bands for fifty-seven bucks. What a steal.

He reeks of pot, and judging from the Bob Marley tune playing as our wedding music this second, I’m guessing he was toking up before the limo dropped us off a few minutes ago, right after we grabbed a marriage license before those offices closed at midnight. The swanky black stretch number waits for us in the lot. I sprung for the best on my wedding night. That’s just the kind of swell fellow I am.

Fishing around in the breast pocket of his suit, the dude grabs the rings, and holds them up. “‘Got ’em.” One slips from his fingers. “Oopsy daisy.”

That sends Natalie into peals of laughter, and she grabs my arms, clutching me as she holds on. I chuckle, too, because everything is funny tonight. And everything is awesome, like my life is bobbing on a raft in an infinity pool under the warm sun, drinking a piña colada without a care in the world.

Natalie runs her hands up and down my arms, and I wiggle my eyebrows. We can’t stop flirting, touching, giggling.

The dude bends to fetch the ring when I hear the telltale sign of stitches coming undone. I’m not sure what part of the leisure suit has popped open, but I decide to keep my eyes fixed firmly on the bride-to-be, just in case Larry Elvis Officiant is a commando-style guy.

“That’s the real oopsy daisy,” Natalie says, and now I’m the one to crack up, grasping her trim little waist in my hands. Nothing quite like laughing like a hyena at your own nuptials.

“All set now,” the guy says, and then he cups his hand to the side of his mouth and shouts, “Hey Lana! Can we get some grand finale music?”

A woman in a white Elvis suit, her breasts spilling out from the mostly unzipped zipper, pops in and gives a big thumbs-up. “Oh, look at the happy couple,” she coos, then points overhead. Maybe to the sound system at the chapel, which now pipes in the opening bars of a song I recognize as soon as I hear the first line about what wise men say.

A strange thing happens to my chest again when I turn back to Natalie in my arms. It’s like my heart is being squeezed. I blink, trying to center myself, but it’s hard when she’s staring at me as Leisure Suit Larry clears his throat, and the King croons in this most romantic song about fools rushing in. I kind of feel like I’m floating. Must be all the liquor playing tricks on me, making me smile like an idiot as Natalie looks at me, her eyes big and full.

The officiant hands me her band, and Natalie and I move apart briefly as he runs through the familiar vows. We exchange rings, and as I stare at my newly adorned finger, something unnamed bubbles up inside me. I step closer to Natalie once more, clasp her hands in mine, and words tumble out in a rush. I’m telling her how gorgeous she is, and how much I’ve loved working with her, and how ridiculously fun this night is, and then I’m saying all sorts of things about what the future holds, and doesn’t hold, and I can barely keep track of everything I’m saying. I’m just serving up all that feels true, past, present, and future. She nods vigorously the whole time, and I love this about her—she fucking gets me. Then, that unnamed thing in me shifts, and now it tightens, ratcheting into worry. Before I know it, I tell her the most important thing I’ve ever told her. And I find myself making her promise to hold me to it.

“Just promise me, Nat. Promise me, promise me, promise me,” I say with a harsh swallow, and then I wait.

But not for long.

“I promise, Wyatt. I promise. I promise. And I get it. I do. I really do.”

The momentary tension inside me vanishes in an instant, and my world is all hazy, sexy, intoxicating goodness once more.

I put my hands on her face and then kiss my wife for the first time—a searing, deep, passionate kiss that’s a reminder of how utterly fucking amazing this night has been. She sways slightly as I kiss her, and I wobble then find my footing, and we separate at last, grinning like fools rushing in.

The officiant clears his throat. “There is no more dwelling at the Heartbreak Hotel for Natalie and Wyatt, and now these two are stuck on each other. By the powers vested in me by the great state of Nevada, and by the King himself, I now pronounce Natalie and Wyatt husband and wife. But remember there is no return to sender. So, it’s time for you all to get shook up. You’re married!” He thrusts his gold-satin covered arms in the air and hoots. “I would tell you to kiss the bride, son, but you already did, and I bet you’ve done a helluva lot more. So be on your way, and do some more of that!”