“Were you going to get down on one knee too?”
She shrugged. “I hadn’t really mapped it out that far. All I knew was I wanted to marry you and I didn’t want to wait any longer.”
His eyes twinkled, a sparkle in them that seemed to say he had an idea. “You know what? I don’t want to wait any longer. What do you say we get married this weekend?”
She couldn’t contain the grin, and didn’t even try to. “Why I thought you’d never ask.”
* * *
Over sushi and more kisses, calls were placed, information was looked up on phones, pictures of the ring were texted, and decisions were made.
When they left the restaurant, he arranged for a limo with the parking attendant. They were driven along the Strip, enjoying it in the way that lovers did: up and down, inside and out, hot, wet, hard, and most of all, full of passion. Deep, true and endless passion.
“This will be one of our last times making love as Julia Bell and Clay Nichols,” she whispered to him as they finished another round in the car, the neon lights of Bally’s flickering outside, illuminating the night sky.
“I am one hundred percent okay with that,” he said. “But maybe we should cap it off with a quickie by the Welcome to Vegas sign?”
She winked. “You are my naughty, dirty, delicious man.”
“I am, and I always will be,” he said, and soon he was taking her by this icon of the city, moving quickly, the risk of getting caught part of the thrill. But they had luck on their side now, and they got away with it scot-free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sunday, 11:49 a.m., Las Vegas
A pile of white tulle, lace, silk, organza and satin littered the couch in the dressing room of the bridal store inside the Caesar’s Palace shopping mall. The shop attendant had helpfully corralled all the simplest dresses in Julia’s size, but none of them worked. They were all ready-to-wear, designed for a quickie Vegas wedding, but they weren’t right for her.
“I can’t get married in any of these,” Julia said, her lips curving in a frown as she surveyed the heap of cast-aside choices.
“Obviously,” McKenna said, rolling her eyes from her perch next to the detritus of wedding gowns. The dresses, though gorgeous, were all simply too much. Too much skirt, too much trim, too much flare. Julia’s style had never been showy. Sure, she liked to dress sexy, but she preferred a neat, clean look.
“Why is it obvious?”
“Because you were never meant to be married in a bridal gown, dork,” McKenna said with the same sassy confidence she displayed on her fashion blog when she dispensed clothing advice.
McKenna and Chris had landed in town an hour ago. Clay had arranged for the private jet to pick them up in San Francisco and bring them to Vegas for the wedding. Julia didn’t want to get married without her best friend—her sister—by her side.
By nine that morning, the bride and groom had already obtained a marriage license. God bless the state of Nevada—no waiting period needed, and the county’s marriage bureau stayed open every day, including weekends and holidays. By ten, they’d found a justice of the peace online who was available that afternoon. That wasn’t difficult either—in Vegas, they were practically on call, ready to perform ceremonies like doctors delivering babies.
Julia narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean? I’m not classy enough to be a bride?”
McKenna laughed and shook her head. “Hardly. What it means is your style is not typical bride.”
“What’s my style then?”
Her sister smiled knowingly. “Chic. Maid-of-honor chic.”
Julia parked her hands on her hips. “You’re the maid-of-honor,” she said.
“I know. But I also know fashion, and I know you looked too stunning for words at my wedding, so . . .” McKenna let her voice trail off.
“So . . . so what?” she asked curiously, motioning for her sister to give up the goods. “I love that dress, but I don’t have my maid-of-honor dress with me. I didn’t know I was going to get married this weekend. And besides, it’s black. So what do I do?”
“You might not have your maid-of-honor dress, but I do,” she said, looking like the cat who ate the canary. Or maybe just a really tasty tuna. McKenna tapped her overnight bag that was still with her.
“But the dress is with me in New York,” Julia said, pointing in the general direction of the east coast.
“True. And that’s why it’s a good thing I know the owner of Cara’s Bridal Boutique where we got your dress. Because I called her this morning and asked if she had your maid-of-honor dress . . . in white.”