Page 26 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

But on that I’m wrong, because the chapel coordinator shuffles us all around so that the men go in first and I can’t get a clear look, but the one at the altar looks like an older woman in a normal outfit.

The door closes and the coordinator extends her arm in a different direction, “Please follow me.”

My roomies turn to me. I fill up my lungs, straighten my back, and say, “Let’s do this.”

We follow the stranger woman to a hidden alcove where another employee awaits. This one’s a guy and he starts passing stuff to the three of us—flowers.

Wait, what? I forgot that I needed to get a bouquet!

And right then, the most perfect arrangement appears in my hands like magic.

My jaw drops as I take it in, the sweet fragrance of fresh flowers and eucalyptus. I’m not very savvy about this but the palette is green and white, which instantly makes my belly feel warm, and the main flowers seem to be carnations. I didn’t know green ones existed.

The girls also have similar bouquets, only smaller. They look absolutely adorable in their pink dresses and with the flowers, and they’re smiling like nothing about this is a sham. Or like it’s gonna keep them entertained for the next five years. Maybe both.

The warmth in my stomach dissipates, giving room to nerves again. The words oh my word keep repeating in my head as I’m asked to remain alone in the alcove.

Right, the bride enters last and all that.

“Excuse me, miss,” a third employee says as he walks in dragging a rack with a ton of fabric hanging off it. “Which veil would you like to wear for your special night?”

A veil! I also forgot about that.

There must be at least fifty choices. I’m sure time is precious both in terms of money and also on account of all the people waiting outside to tie the knot.

I roam my eyes across the selection once and a ruffle catches my attention.

Clutching the bouquet against my chest, I reach for it and fan it out.

It’s one of the simplest ones, intricate lacework in the shape of… carnations? Seems like serendipity.

“This one,” I declare.

“Excellent choice, please allow me to fit it.”

Dude’s near my height, so I take a seat as he works on pinning the veil to my hair at the top of my head.

Suddenly, the veil comes over my face and oh, shit. This is really happening.

My legs are lead as I get back up. My head is also just as heavy. Veil guy ushers me toward the door and he says something. Going by his smile, it’s a good thing. I return the gesture and walk in. And freeze.

The wedding march plays from a piano delicately. The inside of the chapel is cozy—no basketball will be played here—and there are lovely green touches everywhere. In ribbons, flowers, even crystals. Nothing looks cheap, like actual effort was put into this. There’s only one problem, though.

I didn’t put any.

My eyes snap to Miguel and I really look at him.

He’s in a pristine white button shirt that without a doubt was tailor made. No off the shelves clothes would ever fit those massive shoulders and arms, and a tapered waist like that. Same for his blue slacks. His thighs and calves would rip normal pants off.

Also, how are his legs so freaking straight? Most people with his height have some bow to them. I look down at my legs. Even mine are a bit curved.

And there, pinned to his shirt pocket, is a tiny arrangement with one carnation that matches my bouquet.

Someone slides next to me and I jump. It’s Lucky. He offers me his arm and throws a smirk as a freebie. “Normally dads do this, but none of us are big fans of him, so I’ll be usurping him gladly.”

I shake my head in awe. “Never change, Lucky.”

“Definitely not planning to,” he says casually, and with no further warning he starts walking me down the aisle.

The wedding march continues uninterrupted. Flashes go off from the sides—someone’s taking pictures. Behind Miguel, Cade and Logan stand with matching green carnations pinned to their shirts. Also white. And they also wear blue slacks of different shades.

My eyes ping back to my bridesmaids in their varying pink shades. There’s no way this is a coincidence. These adorable jerks must’ve planned this behind the scenes so that we look like we meant to be here on purpose.

And the flowers too. And the decoration. And absolutely everything else I didn’t even imagine was necessary.

Well, that explains why Miguel has been busy texting the whole night. He was busy planning everything with whoever his cousin is.

My eyes narrow at him as Lucky and I approach, and Miguel tilts his head with some confusion.

Lucky deposits me right in front of Miguel, and the officiant between us starts talking. I can’t focus for shit, especially when Miguel’s lips are moving without making any sound.

You okay?

I return a tiny nod.

Miguel offers a hand and I take it. I need all the anchoring I can get.

This freaking guy starts to guide me through breathing exercises as the officiant keeps delivering the ceremonial speech.

My, er, groom’s attention goes to our joined hands and I realize that I’m squeezing his to death.

He runs his thumb across my knuckles and the most curious thing happens.

I actually calm down.

“And now, the vows,” the officiant says.

A long pause happens.

I also forgot that vows are a thing at weddings.

Miguel does the thumb-knuckle thing again, and his full lips stretch into an amused smile. “I’ll be your rock,” he says, all confident and relaxed. And adds nothing else.

The officiant blinks owlishly at him, and then turns to me in expectation.

Doubt flashes through my mind just one time. What I’m about to say is probably the most absurd vow this woman has heard, even accounting for the drunk marriages.

“And I’ll be your hard place,” I return.

Miguel chokes back a laugh. My lips twitch, and our composure shatters into unhinged giggles. It makes sense that a sham wedding should have crappy vows. Neither of us will forget that.

The officiant clears her throat and continues onto the last part of the ceremony. Meanwhile, Miguel and I are still fighting to stay serious, and for the first time all night I’m not freaking out. The fog in my head clears. I’m no longer strangling his hand.

“You may kiss the bride now.”

Never mind, my heart leaps in my throat.

Someone taps my arm and I half turn. Hope takes my bouquet and I automatically move back to the front. More flashes go off, and they’re almost blinding.

Miguel takes a step closer and gently holds the ends of my veil. I watch transfixed, as if this was a very interesting movie that’s happening behind a screen.

And then the veil is off. The cameras flash even faster. I blink almost violently between the lights and the fact that Miguel is bringing me closer, just like he did at the nightclub.

One of his hands circles my waist until his arm is around me, and I’m flush against him. It’s a jolt to the system—I can’t remember the last time I was held by a guy. I don’t think any of them ever did it so tenderly.

Wait, his other hand is cradling my jaw.

How? Why?

We’re not supposed to kiss.

I can’t unglue my lips to speak. Not when Miguel is looking at them like they’re the most interesting thing in the entire world.

Oh, gosh. Are they chapped? I didn’t think of fixing my lip oil. Is it gonna smear all over him? Argh, where’s the pause button?

Then he twirls me gingerly, putting his back between the cameras and I. He comes closer still and I swallow hard. His breath fans my face, revealing that he popped some mints before this. How kind. How nerve wracking.

I start lowering my eyelids and then he touches my lips?—

With his thumb.

The same one that soothed my knuckles earlier.

My eyes pop open. Miguel’s looking at me calmly, all hooded eyes but serious. His own mouth is pressed against the other side of his thumb, and the officiant announces us officially husband and wife.

Of course. Miguel would never betray my trust. I asked for a favor and true to him, he followed through. He even goes as far as shifting his head just a tad so that everyone else thinks the kiss is real. Our friends break into loud cheering, completely fooled by our act.

He might’ve been keeping track of the time because Miguel finally deems it reasonable enough, and carefully straightens me back up.

Everything feels like I’m underwater and my whole body burns.

Without looking at myself in the mirror, I know for a fact that my splotchy blush covers me from head to toe.

The officiant gets our attention again and presents the documents.

This is the real marriage—the one I need to defeat my male progenitor with.

Miguel is the first one who signs and when it’s my turn, I stare at his handwriting in fascination.

The signature is a handsome scribble, and his print name is large, easy to read, and friendly. It strikes me as so him.

Miguel Machado.

Machado.

Before I can overthink myself out of it, I sign my name as Audrey Machado.

Screw it. I’ll never be Audrey Cox again. The second I get home I’m shredding my previous name change application and throwing it like confetti in my living room.

When Miguel walks me down the aisle as my husband, and me as his wife, I’m free at last.