Page 76

And when it’s done—when we’re finally pronounced husband and wife—Wes dips me back into a kiss that makes the entire church erupt.

Later we dance under the stars, surrounded by everyone we love, while Wag tries to steal an entire roast chicken off the buffet table.

The night ends with sparklers and Wes whispering in my ear, "You’re stuck with me now, Quinn Archer.”

"Good," I whisper back. "Because I’m just getting started."

And for once, I don’t worry about tomorrow.

Because tonight?

This is everything.

Chapter twenty-eight

Wes

The cruise ship is bigger than any arena I ever played in—shining decks, endless buffets, and staff who smile like they’ve been trained by angels. But even all the grandeur doesn’t compare to Quinn’s face when we board.

Her eyes go wide as she spins in a slow circle, taking it all in. "Wes," she breathes, clutching my arm, "this isn’t a honeymoon. This is a floating palace."

"Six weeks, all over the world," I remind her. "No pagers. No rink. No emergencies. Just you and me."

She looks at me like I just gave her the moon. "You planned this?"

"Well, Abby helped. And Liz helped me pick out travel shoes. Oh, and Jake may have Googled ‘best cruise adventures for newlyweds’ and printed me an itinerary."

She laughs, then grabs my hand and drags me down the hallway. "Come on, Mr. Archer. Let’s see our suite."

Our room is all ocean views and luxury linens. There’s a welcome platter with chocolate-covered strawberries and a card that reads, "To Wes and Quinn—Bon Voyage!" in Abby’s unmistakable swirly handwriting. Quinn flops backward onto the bed and lets out the happiest sigh I’ve ever heard.

"So, this is married life?"

"No," I say, climbing in beside her. "This is the honeymoon part where we pretend life is only room service and open seas."

We spend our first two days just unwinding. Naps. Poolside lounging. Late-night dancing. Quinn wears sunhats and laughs in foreign cities, and I keep thinking: this is the kind of peace I didn’t know I needed.

Then karaoke night happens.

I’m not a singer. I’ve never been a singer. But Quinn? Oh, she throws herself onto the stage like she’s auditioning for a pop star competition. She belts out “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” with so much enthusiasm that even the DJ forgets to cue the next track.

I think I’m safe until the crowd starts chanting my name.

“Wes! Wes! Wes!”

She grins at me like a devil in sequins. “Come on, Mr. Hockey Star. Time to show us your pipes.”

Before I can escape, I’m pulled onto the stage and handed a mic. The next thing I know, we’re butchering a duet of “Islands in the Stream,” Quinn dramatically pointing at me during every line. I sound like a goat getting a haircut, but the applause afterward is thunderous. Quinn bows deeply. I salute like an army general. We laugh until we can’t breathe.

The next night, we’re roped into a limbo competition. Quinn makes it to the final round, doing a "cuchi-cuchi" shimmy that would make the amazing Charo proud.

I barely survived the first pass under the stick before crashing into a decorative palm tree.

“That’s it,” I wheeze, flat on my back. “I’m officially old.”

“You’re officially mine,” she says, hauling me up. “And I love your dad moves.”

The cruise becomes a string of hilarious memories: a conga line on Caribbean night, embarrassing poolside trivia wins, and one unforgettable dance-off where Quinn somehow convinces the ship’s captain to join.