Page 20

YOURS, MINE, OURS

Luke

God fucking damn it all to hell, my husband can kiss.

That shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Dean’s lips are perfect.

Soft-looking and pillowy with the cutest little cupid’s bow arch at the top.

His breath smells like peppermint and when he grows out his facial hair, he always keeps it tidy.

I’ve seen his various bottles of beard oil littered around the bathroom.

Dean McKenna’s mouth was made for kissing.

That’s probably why I’m still thinking about it minutes after he pulled away.

After the commissioner declared us married, all the fanfare was over.

Having signed the marriage certificate before the ceremony, with Kira providing a signature as our witness, we were ushered back out to reception where the document was notarized and filed.

We’ll receive our copy in the mail in two weeks, but as of right now, Dean and I are married.

“So, who’s changing their last name? Or are you gonna hyphenate like Kira and Warren?

” Camila asks as our group pushes out the heavy mahogany doors of City Hall and wanders back out onto the street.

It’s cold as hell in this neighborhood, but back on our side of the city there’s no wind.

It’ll be the perfect afternoon for the picnic I have planned.

“No! Don’t hyphenate. Dean, you should take Luke’s last name. I like the idea of being the only McKenna kid left,” Kira says, poking her brother in the arm while she talks.

“We haven’t talked about last names yet, Keeks.

But I’m cool with whatever Dean wants to do,” I say, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck.

The truth is, I haven’t stopped thinking about the list of rules on Dean’s phone and the way we both “signed” that “document” with a C and an M.

I might have jotted “LCM” on a few Post-its around the offices at the broadcast network before balling them up and burying them at the bottom of trash cans just to see how it feels.

I’ve been like a schoolgirl doodling her crush’s name on her notebook, admiring how good they look together .

Except I can’t have a crush on Dean.

He’s just my husband.

“We’ll consult the kids. Maybe it will be best to let them have final say on any big, name-changing decisions,” Dean says with a laugh.

“Yeah, great idea. If we leave it up to the twins, we’ll be Misters Dean and Luke Taylor Barbie Bluey Swift,” I chuckle.

“Better than Ollie’s choice. We’d be Dean and Luke Waaaahhh Pfffft.” He presses his cheeks together and makes a grotesquely hilarious noise that sounds exactly like one of Ollie’s infamous after-meal farts.

“Well then we’d have to hyphenate, of course.”

“Obviously.”

I look at Dean, taking in the amused smile on his face and the way his grey eyes have gone soft and fuzzy around the edges.

I remember a few years ago when Gigi got really into reading people’s auras.

It was around the time that the twins were going through their terrible twos, and I think she was just looking for anything to distract her from the chaos.

She used to tell me that my aura was always some shade of red, and that that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

She said I was passionate, confident, assertive.

That I knew how to get shit done, but that I was also susceptible to falling into the more vibrant side of the spectrum.

There, I’d find myself easily frustrated and angered and quick to jump to conclusions based on emotions.

Dean, on the other hand, has a bright yellow aura—at least, according to Gigi.

She would always say that Dean’s aura shines out, radiating positivity, warmth, optimism, and an emotional intelligence most people don’t even know to strive for.

I don’t know if I believe in all the hippy-dippy, root chakra, spiritual wellness shit my sister was into, but I know she was right about Dean.

He’s all yellow, shining out bright and content to let the rest of us bask in the warmth of his glow.

He’s the calm to my chaos, the kindness to my impatience, the solid to my shaky ground.

Whether it was sitting by my side while I was the world’s biggest dick recovering from surgery, standing by me through the loss of Gigi, or the way he’s not only dropped everything to help me time and time again, but has slid right into my house and home and made himself a part of my family, his brightness keeps me tethered.

He reminds me that there are still good things in this world, and that I might even be deserving of some of his goodness.

He’s bled himself dry for me time and time again, and never hesitates to make the next cut whenever I’ve needed him. So much so that he just fucking married me.

I take it back. I don’t deserve him. Not one single bit.

And yet, the gorgeous man staring back at me with his hands tucked into the pockets of his perfectly-fitted suit pants is all mine.

His parents and sister have been chatting away while I’ve lost myself to my thoughts and my husband’s twilight eyes, but the feel of James Adler’s gaze on us breaks the spell.

I sneak a peek at the larger-than-life football team owner out of the corner of my eye, and I catch him assessing Dean and I with an intense look on his face.

He takes a step forward and I suck in a breath, bracing myself for whatever it is he’s going to say to me.

I would like to think that ten minutes after a marriage ceremony might not be the best time to publicly ream a former employee out for misconduct, but I’m also aware that world-running billionaires like James don’t play by the same set of rules.

I turn to him, and he steps in until we’re practically standing chest-to-chest.

“For when one of you inevitably says ‘fuck it’,” he says, reaching into my suit jacket and sliding an envelope into the interior pocket.

F or when one of you inevitably says ‘fuck it’ .

Does that mean…does James know that this marriage isn’t for real?

He simply winks, and that all but confirms it.

Well, I hope we can count James in as one of our safe people…

When he backs away, he puts a hand around Camila’s shoulder.

“Tía, Pops, IronDad, what do you say to joining your daughter and my wife and me for lunch? We’re all child free for the rest of the afternoon, and I think the newlyweds could benefit from some alone time.”

With a chorus of yeses, James takes our rag tag group of unexpected wedding guests under his wing and leads them to an awaiting town car. Meanwhile, Dean and I stand three feet apart while I awkwardly fiddle around in my pocket for my phone to check the time.

“Should we—” I start when I see that it’s only a little past two.

“Maybe we should—” Dean says at the same time, and neither of us finishes our sentence.

I purse my lips while Dean kicks an invisible rock on the sidewalk, quietly whispering a curse in Spanish under his breath.

This is so fucking awkward. Why didn’t we talk about this part?

I felt prepared for the actual wedding part.

I feel prepared for presenting a united front in court when it comes to the custody of the girls.

What I’m not prepared for is the part where I’m now legally bound to my best friend who, up until two weeks ago, all of my feelings about were mostly platonic and appropriate. But now I know what his lips taste like, and I don’t think that that’s something I’ll ever be able to forget.

I wasn’t prepared for just how fucking badly I want to kiss him again.

Fuck, that kiss. It felt so good. Not just physically—though my body certainly wasn’t complaining about the hum of electricity that shot through it when Dean’s tongue swept into my mouth.

It felt good emotionally, too. I’ve never felt a sense of security in a first kiss.

That feeling of absolute rightness, like there in the middle of the kiss is exactly where I was meant to be.

I didn’t think first kisses like that existed outside of romantic comedies and the tattered paperback novels Gigi would buy from used book stores.

I should have known, though. Everything about Dean has always felt right. I shouldn’t be surprised that his kiss swept me off my feet and made me feel at home all at the same time.

“It’s early,” I say, clearing my throat. “I thought we’d be waiting much longer. What should we do with the rest of our day? ”

“I don’t know. Everything feels like it’s either too fancy or not fancy enough to follow up tying the knot.” He pauses and runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Fuck. This is weird, isn’t it?”

I can’t decide if I should feel relieved or humiliated that Dean feels this sudden awkward tension as well. I shrug.

“It's a little weird. I mean, we just got married. I think that even the happiest couples must feel a little strange after they say ‘I do’, right?”

I try my best to give off an air of nonchalance, but I don’t think I could be less nonchalant if I tried. I think we both know that most couples who are fresh from the altar are either too busy getting to the party or…well—getting busy—to think about how strange the sudden shift in dynamic feels.

It’s weird, when I showed up here this morning and Dean was freaking out, it made me feel unusually zen.

Almost like I knew that if he was losing it, I needed to be level-headed enough to get us in the door and down the aisle.

It was an unexpected flip in our dynamic.

Usually, Dean is the one always needing to play the calm to my chaos.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Hey, what did James stick in your pocket before he left?

” Dean asks, his eyes flicking down to the lapel of my suit.

Damn, I was so wrapped up in the simmering awkwardness and the memories of that mind-altering kiss that I already forgot about James’s gift—and the way he totally caught on to my swooning over Dean.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the envelope and open it up.