Page 28

The cake was gorgeous. Three tiers of vanilla bean sponge with dark cherry compote and lemon mascarpone buttercream.

Hand-piped flowers. Subtle gold leaf. I hadn’t let the bakery handle it.

I’d made it myself, of course, and forced Patrick to promise not to drop it, poke it, or touch it unnecessarily.

He’d solemnly sworn, like a man going to war. We stood behind it now, surrounded by friends and family, all eyes on us as the photographer gave a soft, encouraging nod.

“Ready?” Patrick asked, the knife already in hand.

“I was born ready,” I muttered, posing for the photo like I hadn’t just been warned by three separate aunts not to savage the cake .

We sliced. We smiled. We posed.

Then came the real test: the feeding.

I turned to Patrick, holding a forkful of cake like a peace offering. “This is a sacred trust,” I whispered. “Do not smear this on my face.”

He grinned, that damn dimple flashing. “Of course not. What kind of monster would do that?”

“I swear to God, Patrick McCloud?—”

I didn’t get to finish. Because that’s when he gently , lovingly , and with extreme premeditation , smeared a perfect arc of lemon buttercream across my cheek .

The crowd lost it. Applause. Screams. Someone, it sounded like my mom, shouted, “Oh no he didn't!”

I blinked at him. He was grinning like a kid who just stole a cookie and knew he was still getting dessert.

“You have exactly five seconds to run,” I said calmly.

“You look delicious,” he replied, absolutely unrepentant.

I turned to Carol. “Bathroom. Now. Before I commit a felony.”

The barn bathroom had been stocked with everything from hairspray to bobby pins to an entire emergency sewing kit. Carol called it over the top ; I called it being prepared. With a grin, she handed me a towel and a bottle of micellar water like we were in a triage unit.

“I told you he was going to do it,” she said, gently dabbing the side of my face. “You’ve been asking for it since you made him wear those embroidered socks.”

“They said Husband of the Year. That’s not a punishment, that’s a branding opportunity.”

She raised a brow. “They were glittery.”

“So? Glitter is timeless.”

Carol snorted, reaching for a clean towel. “You really going to punish him on your wedding night?”

“I’m going to haunt him.”

“You say that, but I saw how you looked at him during the ceremony. You looked like a woman ready to die of happy exhaustion.”

I rolled my eyes. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

I smiled, finally feeling the sting of betrayal give way to amusement. “So much it physically hurts.”

We laughed, the kind of deep belly laugh that only comes after years of chaos and forgiveness and knowing someone all the way down to their nerve endings.

“Better?” she asked, holding out a mirror.

I looked. The frosting was gone. My makeup was… mostly intact. My dignity was limping, but recovering.

“Better,” I said.

“Good,” Carol said. “Now let’s go get revenge.”

I paused. “You have a plan?”

She smirked. “Oh, honey. You married a bear. But I raised a beast. ”

We reentered the reception like queens reentering battle, with clean cheeks and calm smiles plastered over our faces.

Patrick was still at the head table, chatting with Henry and watching the dance floor like he was king of the forest and not a frosting-smearing menace.

When he spotted me, his whole face lit up—pure sunshine, unaware that a storm was brewing behind my perfectly touched-up lipstick.

“You’re back,” he said as I approached.

“I am,” I replied sweetly, picking up a forkful of cake from the spare plate in front of him.

“I missed you.”

I smiled. “That’s good.”

Then, casually— very casually—I leaned in like I was going to whisper something sultry in his ear... and smeared the cake over his cheek. The people around us snickered; calls of payback ended in giggles.

Patrick's eyes were filled with love and amusement.

“Mrs. McCloud,” he said, fake stern. “You’ve broken the terms of the dessert treaty.”

“I was never briefed on the terms,” I said, lifting my chin. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He grabbed a napkin and wiped at the mess, then gave me a slow, promising grin. “You know this means war.”

I leaned in, just enough for only him to hear. “Not war. Surrender. Later. Upstairs.”

His pupils dilated like I’d injected him with hormones.

The sound of the DJ tapping his mic stopped our flirting banter, “Next up, a few words from the maid of honor... Carol Jameson.”

A few words. Yeah, sure. Patrick and I shared a concerned glance.

Carol was a writer. A writer of erotic fiction…

one never knew what to expect with her. Come to think of it…

I made a mental note to sneak a peek at her credit card statement the next time I was over.

The gift basket… it sounded just like her kind of idea.

Carol rose from her chair like she was taking the stage at the Oscars.

She looked stunning, wearing a wicked smile and with a gleam in her eyes that told me she was about to emotionally sucker-punch everyone at once.

She took the mic, raised her champagne glass just slightly, and began, “So. I’ve known Patrick since we were born. ”

A few heads turned. Even Patrick looked mildly concerned.

“I’ve seen this man with a bowl cut. I’ve seen him get bit by a goat at a petting zoo.

I’ve seen him cry when his favorite action figure broke.

I've seen him throw his first football—I still say it was way too soft of a throw, Henry.

" She raised her glass at him, and he laughed. "So, when I say I know him—I know him.”

Laughter rolled through the room. Patrick covered his face with one hand and muttered something about betrayal .

Carol pressed on. “And then, in high school, he fell in love with a girl I've known since kindergarten. A girl with big eyes, bigger dreams, and no idea she was about to turn Patrick McCloud into a simpering werebear . ”

I groaned. “Oh God.”

Carol winked at me. “She didn’t see it, not at first. Because Ella was too busy pretending she wasn’t also falling. Which was cute. And also excruciating, because my two best friends shared a love that put every YA movie to shame.”

More laughter. A few people clapped. Henry cheered from the back.

“But then life happened,” she said, softer now. “The kind of life that breaks things. That stretches you. That forces you to grow in the dark and decide if it’s worth trying again when the light finally comes back.”

She looked at Patrick. “You did the bravest thing I’ve ever seen, McCloud. You let her go because you thought it was the right thing. And then you did something even braver: you came back and proved her heart was worth earning again.”

Then she turned to me, and her voice went all wobbly.

“And you, El? You said yes. Even after all the hurt. Even after all the time. Because that’s what love is. It’s not perfect. It’s not easy. It’s showing up —again and again—and choosing each other even when it’s messy.”

I bit my lip. Hard, because damn it, the tears were about to spill.

Carol raised her glass, her smile turning fierce and a little misty. “To my two best friends. The boy I grew up with, and the woman I would set the world on fire for. To love, to stubbornness, and to second chances. And also to me—for not wearing white and stealing the show. You’re welcome.”

Laughter roared. People clapped. I was crying and laughing at the same time as I stood and hugged her hard.

“I love you,” I whispered.

She smirked. “Obviously. I’m fantastic.”

The lights dimmed, and the crowd hushed as the DJ announced our first dance.

"Shall we?"

Patrick held out his hand to me, and I felt like he was picking me up for the prom again.

My heart stuttered in my chest, and my knees went weak.

His hand was calloused and warm and gave me just the support I needed.

We walked to the center of the wooden dance floor, surrounded by candles and string lights that looked like stars had fallen just for us.

Patrick stepped forward, hand out, eyes warm. My husband. God, that still didn’t feel real. The first soft notes of Turning Page by Sleeping At Last floated through the air, and everything else—the guests, the clinking glasses, the remains of the cake war—faded away.

He pulled me into his strong arms like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it, even though we’d done it a thousand times before. Every sway of his body, every pass of his hand over the small of my back, told me one thing loud and clear: This man was mine. And I was his.

“You’re glowing,” he whispered against my temple.

“Stop it,” I whispered back, already fighting tears. “If I cry, I’m blaming you and the damn lighting.”

He laughed softly, then leaned in closer. “Mrs. McCloud.”

“Still not over it, huh?”

“Never. You’re stuck with me.”

I leaned my head against his chest. “Good. I like stuck.”

We moved together in slow, lazy circles. It wasn’t choreographed or polished. We weren’t performers. We were us. And somehow, that made it perfect.

Carol caught my eye once from the side of the dance floor—grinning, swaying, already pulling Ben toward her with one hand and reaching for another glass of champagne with the other. I noticed Gabe look away fast. Henry clinked glasses with… my mom? at the bar, teary-eyed but smiling.

But all I saw was Patrick. My bear. My safe place. My forever.

He leaned down, brushed his lips over my ear. “You know what I’m thinking?”

“What?”

“I think we should leave.”

I raised an eyebrow. “It’s barely nine.”

“I know.”

“You’re about to ditch your own wedding party.”

“They’ve had cake. They’ll forgive us.”

I laughed softly, heart full. “One more dance?”

He tightened his arms around me. “A hundred more. Starting now.”

So we kept dancing.

As husband and wife.

And the rest of the world spun quietly around us.