12. Are Flamingos Sultry?

12

ARE FLAMINGOS SULTRY?

Maeve

Never let it be said that I back down from a dare. And no one can, because a couple of hours later, I’ve got a marriage license in my hand, a daisy tucked behind my ear, and a white satin cami underneath Asher’s vest—now mine. Well, a bride’s got to wear white, so we grabbed one from an all-night lingerie shop. Because of course Vegas has a twenty-four-hour lingerie shop.

“It’s my bridal flair,” I declare, then glance at Asher, my eyes widening as a thought suddenly hits me. “What are you going to wear?”

Or maybe I shout it. It’s possible those Lemonade Affairs were stronger than I’d realized. It’s also possible I had more of them than I’d thought. Hard to say at this point in the night. All I know is everything feels warm and fizzy, inside and out. The lights are festive, the neon is blindingly bright, and the energy pulses through me as the car zips us back from the Clark County Marriage License Bureau to our hotel, where we booked a wedding in its little chapel.

“We have to get him a tuxedo!” I shout to the Lyft driver.

The driver chuckles. “Let me know if you want to stop at an all-night tux shop. We have those too.”

Asher sets a calming hand on my arm. “Let me point out the obvious—you’re not wearing a dress.”

“Oh! I bet they’ll have something at the chapel,” I say confidently, then turn to my best friend. “They have clothes to rent usually. One time, we were all at Elodie’s Chocolates, and the owner told us about when she got married in Vegas. At the same place! She said she rented a burgundy dress at the chapel they used, and her hubs got a velvet jacket, and they walked down the aisle to ‘It Had to Be You,’ and…”

Wow. Asher’s green eyes never stray from me as I babble. He really is good-looking. Like, ridiculously good-looking. Actually, he’s so good-looking it’s like looking at the sun. “You know what? You’re the hottest groom ever. Nobody has ever looked better in jeans and a Henley. In fact, you don’t need a tux. Wear that.”

He laughs dryly. “Thanks. I am wearing it. And I will.”

But then a thought occurs to me, and I lean in conspiratorially. “Wait, what color is your underwear? Are you wearing monkeys or dragons? Why won’t you tell me? Or do I just have to find out for myself?”

His clever eyes darken for a second. Turning smoldering. Flickering with heat. I like that too. I definitely like that. Like, ridiculously like it. I like it also when he smirks, leaning in close, his breath tickling my ear as he whispers, “Flamingos.”

I like it so much my breath catches. A shiver runs through me. From the closeness of him. From the way that word sounds strangely sultry. Are flamingos sultry? It takes me several seconds—maybe a minute—to process what he just shared because all I want to process is how good he smells after dancing. There’s a faint lingering scent of sweat, but even that smells fresh, mingling with the clean, oaky aftershave he always uses.

My best friend is really hot.

I mean, of course, he’s hot. I’ve always known this. How could you not know when your best friend is a sexy hockey player that women throw themselves at? But then I blink, realizing what he’s just said. “You’re wearing flamingo underwear?”

He shoots me a playful look. “It’s CheekyBeast’s newest style. But don’t tell a soul. That campaign hasn’t rolled out yet.”

“I’ll keep your secret,” I say.

“Good girl,” he says, lighting an unexpected spark in my chest from those two words. Words I wouldn't mind hearing again.

As we pull up to the hotel, which has a chapel inside, I’m struck with the strangest thought—I want to see my best friend’s flamingo underwear.

But you know what? That’s probably totally normal when you’re getting married as part of your annual Big Adventure, fulfilling a marriage pact made for fun one night at your brother’s wedding. A pact we’ll undo when we’re back in San Francisco. On the way over, we briefly talked about getting an annulment when we’re back home. But for tonight? I’m absolutely getting my money’s worth from the date I won.

The car stops at The Extravagant, and we tumble out. Asher holds my elbow, steadying me, and while I don’t feel stumbling-drunk, I do feel like the world is tilted in our favor tonight. We walk into the hotel, under the chandelier, across the casino, through the concourse, past the CheekyBeast ad, and right into the chapel, where we’ve reserved the one-thirty a.m. slot.

As you do when you make marriage pacts.

Once we’re in the foyer, we sign papers with the couple who runs it—a sturdy, bald man named Hitch Malone and his busty wife, Mrs. Matrimony. When she tells me they have a Marilyn Monroe-style dress that would look fabulous on me, and a tuxedo with ruffles that would suit Asher perfectly, I revise my decision on a tux and a dress.

“Pictures,” I tell Asher, breathlessly. “We’re going to need photos for the album. I don’t want to be in a jean skirt. This is like a costume party. We need to do ourselves up in full regalia.”

His smile is a little wicked, a lot pleased. “When in Rome, Maeve.”

I sigh, feeling bubbly and electric, and alive in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. “I could kiss you.”

For a second, his smile fades, replaced by something deeper, more intense, that flickers in his eyes—a look I can’t quite place. Even as the warmth from the Lemonade Affairs starts to fade, that look makes my heart skip a beat. I push the thought aside, focusing on the fun of this. “You’ll look good in ruffles,” I tease.

“No one looks good in ruffles,” he counters, shaking his head.

“No,” I say, stepping closer, insisting, “A man who can pull off flamingo underwear will look good in ruffles.”

Asher laughs, but there’s something tender in his eyes, something that makes me feel invincible, like I’m not teetering on the edge of a career disaster. Like anything is possible tonight.

Thanks to him. He knew I needed this.

He turns to the couple in charge. “I’ll take one tux with ruffles,” he says, his voice steady.

Hitch chuckles and claps him on the back. “Good man. It’s wise to listen to your soon-to-be wife. And I’ve got one just your size.”

Mrs. Matrimony turns to me, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Let me take you to the bridal suite. I can fix your makeup a little bit, sweetheart. You’re going to want the pictures with your new hubs to look fabulous, aren’t you?”

“He’s actually my best friend,” I say, the correction slipping out before I can stop it. But when I glance at Asher, other words slip out too. “Isn’t he hot?”

Mrs. Matrimony smiles knowingly. “It’s a good thing you feel that way about your soon-to-be husband—we all need a hot friend in our bed, don’t we?”

Marital advice from Mrs. Matrimony, but I don’t bother to correct her this time. There’s no point. Asher and I are here, honoring our playful marriage pact and having the biggest adventure of our lives. Besides, people seem to like to give us life tips. Me, I understand. I scream hot mess . But he’s got his act together, so who knows why we’re a magnet for it?

Before she takes me away though, Hitch calls out, “You got a special song, lovebirds? If not, I can play my cover of ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love.’”

It’s adorable that Hitch has recorded the Elvis tune, but that song feels like it belongs to other couples. To couples who spend a year planning a wedding, to men who drop down on one knee in Paris, to women who cry real tears at a proposal—not to partners in crime having an adventure just for one night.

I’ve got some more playful options on the tip of my tongue, like “Accidentally in Love” or “We’ve got Tonight,” so I turn to Asher to toss them his way. He looks so good, in his jeans and Henley, that my pulse kicks a little faster. But he’ll look good in a tux too, and that’s when I know our song isn’t either of those.

I know what our song is. “‘The Way You Look Tonight,’” I say.

His lips quirk up in a grin. “Perfect.”

And briefly, I wonder why it’s so perfect to him, but the thought falls from my head when Mrs. Matrimony leads me to a mirrored door that opens into a large wardrobe. This must be the bridal suite. It’s full of gowns with sequins, satin, and swishy fabrics, and behind the closed door Hitch calls Asher away to another part of the chapel. I take a deep breath, running my fingers over the clothes, letting the messy joy of the moment wash over me.

Fifteen minutes later, I feel kind of beautiful in this soft white dress that clings to my curves and my pink boots, but I stop at the chapel door as my thoughts start to clear. Am I drunk? No. I’m definitely not. But I’m tipsy still. Definitely.

And even so, I want to do this. Life is for the living. I’ve been chasing my dreams ever since my mother shared her dying wish with me: Follow your dreams.

I don’t know if I ever dreamed of getting married, but I’ve always dreamed of squeezing every drop of richness and sweetness out of life, every single day.

This has to count, right?

As “The Way You Look Tonight” plays over the sound system I tell myself it doesn’t matter that I’m blurring the line between best friend and husband. The song is both perfect and perfectly ephemeral. Like tonight.

This is a moment that will inspire a painting, a story, a memory I can call upon later when I’m feeling blue and need to believe in hope again. I can capture the way I feel on a canvas when I return home. That’s what Asher gave me so many years ago when we became friends, and that’s what he gives me every day.

With my heart full, I step down the aisle toward my temporary husband, letting myself soak in the joy of this moment—nothing more, nothing less.