Page 18 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)

In a deliciously tailored navy suit that can barely contain his physique and his long hair slicked back but fighting to fall forward, he is the ultimate eye candy.

But it’s the look on his face that makes my breath catch. He’s gone still, except for the small parting of his lips. There’s nothing showy to his reaction. He’s not crying for effect or for some videographer.

Yet he looks reverent.

Exactly how I’d want the man I love to look at me in a wedding dress.

Rusty, Fletch, and Sean’s brother, Patty, stand behind him in their own formalwear. Standing just off-center with notes and a Bible, Tripp nods as I reach the mound. (He got officially licensed two days ago.)

My dad kisses my cheek before he takes his place.

Then Sean reaches out.

And I take his hand.

His thumb brushes mine, like he’s telling me it’s okay. We’re in this together. But there’s a hint of something more to his touch. Or at least that’s how it feels, considering his eyes haven’t left my face since I stepped onto the grass.

I know, because mine haven’t left his, either.

But that’s what you do during your wedding. You let everything else fade into the background, because all that exists are the two of you.

Right?

Soon, we’re saying vows, Tripp is asking if anyone has any objections, my dad is eyeing my brothers like he’ll ground them if they so much as clear their throats.

It’s nice. Lovely, even.

More than I expected.

And then, Tripp pronounces us man and wife.

“You may now kiss the bride,” he says.

Whoa.

I forgot about this part.

Getting married is one thing. Sealing it with a kiss? That’s another.

My lungs pinch with nerves and maybe excitement?

It’s hard to tell, but whatever cocktail of emotions Sean is serving in me, it’s making it harder to breathe, making me almost have to pant to get air.

Sean puts his palm on my face, his hand as steady as his eyes are sure, and he guides my mouth to his.

Our lips brush in an echo of our first two kisses, but it’s sweet and almost stately and perfectly appropriate for the moment.

But then Sean snakes an arm around my back, his fingers clutching my waist, and he pulls me close. I feel him smiling against my mouth as his beard grazes my skin. It’s somehow prickly and smooth in a way I like more than I should, with that intoxicating oaky smell.

When he spins and dips me, a small squeal escapes me. It feels both spontaneous and like we’ve been doing this for years. Like we’re not faking.

At all.

I laugh, even as our lips press together—this time firmer and deeper, chaste yet charged. One of my hands finds the back of his neck, my fingers tugging on his long hair. The other hand clutches my bouquet like it’s going to keep me from falling.

“Come on,” I hear one of my brothers grumble .

Sean pulls me back upright, and we’re both grinning when we part.

I wipe lipstick from his mouth with my thumb; he swipes his finger along my chin, checking for beard-burn.

It’s such a strangely adorable, intimate moment that I feel a warmth inside me.

Whether it’s panic or hope heating me, I’m not sure.

But the feeling lasts through the toasts. Through the dinner and dances. Up until the moment it’s time for us to get into his truck, complete with cans tied to the back, and drive back to his place.

A place Scottie had some of my things moved into last week, because I was too busy prepping for the wedding.

And by busy, I mean overwhelmed.

Overcome by the reality that the marriage license is only the beginning.

But we’re here now.

Sean parks in the back of a converted brick building, tucked down a sleepy street off a main road. It looks like it used to be the kind of general store you’d see on Main Street USA, but now it’s split into two apartments, with ivy crawling up the walls.

The lot is lit by a single overhead lamp, casting soft gold over the hood of his truck. There’s a small wooden staircase climbing one side, framed by crepe myrtle trees. The faint scent of honeysuckle carries on the night air.

We walk up the steps, the boards creaking slightly beneath our feet—not in a way that feels rickety, but in the way that shows it’s been well used and well cared for. Like the stairs have stories.

One day, mine will be one of them.

The landing is narrow and framed by a railing that looks like someone recently sanded and painted it. There’s a simple coir mat at the door and an overgrown rosemary plant that makes the air feel fresh and homey.

“I think this is the moment I sweep you off your feet,” Sean says with a half smile as he unlocks the door and pushes it open.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say.

“Someone could be watching. This town has eyes everywhere.”

I laugh and then laugh harder when he scoops me up like I hardly weigh a thing. He opens the door and maneuvers me in—we’re both a little too tall to make this easy—and then he kicks it closed with his foot and sets me down.

Close.

“Welcome home,” he says. His eyes aren’t dancing or twinkling, though. His brow feels a little too heavy.

I place my hands on his chest for a quick moment?—

And then I pull my eyes away and turn. “Let’s see what we’re working with,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. Trying not to read into how the mood has become so much more serious.

His place is exactly what I imagined: neat, simple, masculine without being performative. Wooden floors and walls. A leather couch. Clean counters in the galley kitchen. There are no weird smells. No leftover bachelor energy. No last-minute stress-cleaning vibes (painted rail aside).

Only Sean.

I look around, trying to picture myself here, not as a guest or someone passing through.

Just ... here.

“You’ll take the bed,” he says after a beat, nodding toward the hallway. “Scottie made sure your sheets and pillow are on it, but there are extra blankets in the closet if you want it.”

I blink. “Wait. What about you?”

“The couch is a pullout, and the guy at the home goods store promised me it could comfortably hold a bear.”

“Sean.”

“Kayla.” His voice is firm but warm. “In no universe could I let you sleep on a couch.”

I almost argue, but instead I smile. Maybe I shouldn’t admit this, but the truth is, this is how I’d hoped he’d treat me. Not like a visitor, but as someone too important to make sleep on his couch, all the same.

Yeah, I definitely shouldn’t admit that.

Especially because I’m apparently so selfish, it never occurred to me that he’d be the one sleeping on his couch.

“Thank you, Sean.” I glance around at his home and see evidence of things moved, shelves cleared, space made.

That space is for me.

“Thanks for everything,” I say. “This is a huge ask.”

“I know. I’m the one who asked.” One of his eyebrows shoots up, and it’s just teasing enough to lighten the moment. “Do you know what it’s like thinking I’m taking you off the market? I feel like the king of the world.”

I smile, and my finger traces my lips of its own accord. “Even if it’s … unconventional?” I say, because I can’t bring myself to say one of the other—truer—words that pop into my head: fake. Temporary. A big fat lie.

“I’m not picky,” he says. “I’ll take what I can get.”

He says it easily, like it doesn’t cost him anything.

But I’m starting to wonder what it’s going to cost me.