“Cecelia.”
That one word, spoken in that tone, is a warning that I take seriously. Vincent never uses my given name, or even ‘Sissy’, for that matter, unless he’s genuinely annoyed.
“Come on into the living room, Vin. We need to talk,” I say over my shoulder as I waltz in and immediately walk over to the bar, grabbing two beers, just in case.
He accepts his, grimacing—Vincent likes English beer, and not the ‘watered down American variety’—and spears me with a look.
“I have a few things to say, so let me finish before you go all Vincent on me. One, I want to know whether you love me at all. See, I love you, and I really want that sentiment returned before we can go any further. Two, I want to know if, now that we’re not having a baby, you still intend to marry me. Three, you need to quit talking about moving. Four, yes, that was probably Eric calling, since I’ve been getting crank calls for well over a week now. And lastly, five, if you don’t really love me, please, just let me go so I can go on with my life.”
When I finally wind down enough to look back at him without hyperventilating, it’s to see him laughing silently at me, his full lipped mouth spread so wide I can count his teeth without trouble.
“I’ve always appreciated your lack of guile, dove. Have I told you that lately?” he asks on a laugh, his body language going loose and relaxed as he leans back in his chair and sips his beer.
“Good, because I’m not into playing any more mind games. Now answer the damn question. Do you or do you not love me?”
“Of course,” he answers, seeming offended. “Do you think I fly across the country only to endure hours of interrogation from your brother just for laughs? I’ll have you know—”
He doesn’t get any further because I’m in his arms and kissing him to death, my mouth grinning so hugely it’s hard to kiss without our teeth clacking together.
“You could have said something, Vincent,” I say later, after some really intense love making—oral only for the time being, thanks to Doctor Barrows. “I’ve been all wound up and miserable. I even painted a gloomy landscape!” I accuse, slapping his chest.
He chuckles and pulls me back to his chest, his fingers running through my hair in a comforting caress that lulls me.
“I haven’t answered any of your other questions, so let’s clear a few more things up before you fall asleep, dove. Yes, I love you, wholly and completely. Of course we’re still getting married; that’s never been up for debate. We won’t move if you don’t want to, and though those leads on Brennan did not pan out, I will find him, even if I have to do it myself.”
I fall asleep a few minutes later after a toe-tingling kiss, a smile on my face and the sudden idea for a new piece swirling at the edges of my consciousness.
Chapter Twenty Six
“Oh, my God. Who elected me to walk down the aisle in lieu of a bridesmaid?”
I giggle at Parker and turn away from the mirror to see him sprawled across the sofa in the little room I’ve been allowed to use to get ready for the ceremony.
Mama and Daddy have flown in for the little service and the wedding breakfast, along with Justin and Bee. While I still consider Bee a friend, I haven’t been that up to a reconciliation, so that’s left Parker as my only pal, and thus his recent designation of bridesman, my take on the modern manmaid.
He’s dressed in a white tux, his only consideration to my color scheme a bright yellow rose, pinned rakishly to his lapel.
“Me,” I say, giggling when he scowls and eyes the bouquet I’ve gotten him.
“Can I at least ditch the flowers? Jesus, Sis, if your wedding pictures leak to the press I’ll be a laughingstock.”
“Nope. I want you strolling your sexy ass down that aisle holding those flowers as if you were born a freaking queen. This is my day,” I warn, my eyes daring him to naysay me.
It’s something I have to do. Not because I’m some sort of sadistic bitch or anything, hell no, that designation belongs fully with Julia, the woman I’ve convinced to attend my wedding in the hopes of setting Parker up with his long lost love.
Her reception had not been warm till I’d let it slip that Parker was performing bridesman duty. That she’d loved, a lot. To the point that I’d had to listen to her chuckle for a full two minutes before she’d whammied me.
If Parker carried a bouquet, she’d be there with bells on. And she’d go so far as to give ‘the asshat’ a chance to convince her of his worth.
The things I’ll do for love are just plain weird, so I’d agreed and spent the next two days bullying Parker into accepting the inevitable. He’s gonna walk me to my guy, carrying yellow roses like a pro, or I’m gonna drag him there by the roots of his hair.