13. Wait for It

13

WAIT FOR IT

Asher

Standing in front of the gleaming white altar, I’d like to say I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.

But I can. This feels like an inevitable adventure for us. Like that marriage pact was never merely an offhand comment made at her brother’s wedding. It was a real promise that if she ever needed a husband, I’d step up.

But she wanted an escape from the frustrations of her career, if only for a night.

And this wedding is just that. The chapel is a blend of old Vegas glamor and kitschy charm. Red velvet drapes frame the walls, and gold accents shimmer in every corner. It’s the kind of place where anything can happen, and probably often does.

Mrs. Matrimony fusses over Maeve one last time, making sure the Marilyn Monroe-style dress is perfect on her. Spoiler alert: It is. Maeve looks stunning. Better than she did in the vest, and that’s saying something .

“You’ll look fabulous in those pictures, doll,” Mrs. Matrimony whispers to my temporary bride before stepping back to join Hitch.

Now dressed in an Elvis jumpsuit because, of course, it’s Vegas, Hitch adjusts his oversized sunglasses. “Ready to make it official, lovebirds?” he asks, sounding like the King as Frank Sinatra plays softly in the background.

I answer with a confident, “We are.”

“Let’s do this,” Maeve echoes.

“How about we kick this ceremony off with some vows? What do you say there?” Hitch asks.

Maeve’s eyes widen, but then she seems to go with it, tossing the question to me. “Where did you put the vows, honey?”

She’s such a troublemaker. But I know a thing or two about thinking on my feet.

I tap my temple. “Right here.”

“I can’t wait,” she says, in a challenge.

I step closer to Maeve, my hand slipping into hers. “Maeve,” I begin, ready to dive into something that’ll make her laugh—like I pledge to be the best husband for one night , since we’ll unwind the clock on this marriage tomorrow. But I flash back to earlier in the hotel room, when she opened her heart and shared her fears. While I can’t commission a big painting for her, or land her a coveted gallery spot, I absolutely can let her know that I’ll be by her side through those ups and downs. So with more gravitas than I’d expected, I say, “You’ve been my best friend for years, the person who shows up when I need it, who asks no questions, and who’s always up for the wildest adventures—like this one.”

She smiles so big, so beautifully, that my heart tugs. Maybe even aches a bit. A reminder that I best not stay in this zone too long.

I steer the vows into lighter territory. “I can’t promise I’ll be a perfect husband,” I say, then cough subtly, leaning into the Just Fun order from the menu at last, adding, “ tonight . But I can promise I’ll always be there for you.”

Maeve’s eyes sparkle playfully as she takes a breath, her grip on my hand tightening. “Asher,” she begins, and there’s a tenderness in her expression that catches me off guard. “You’ve been the constant in my life when everything else felt like chaos. For years, you’ve been my rock, my partner in crime, and my biggest supporter.”

And…she’s following my lead. Speaking from the heart. Like we’re renewing our vows—of friendship. My chest warms a little unexpectedly.

“I don’t deserve you, but somehow you’re still here, hanging out with me.”

“You do,” I assure her. She gives more than she realizes.

Her smile returns, and with it, a hint of mischief. “I can’t promise I won’t drag you into more schemes, but I promise I’ll always have your back…” She takes a moment, then mimics me as she adds, “tonight.”

Right as Frank hits that word in the song too.

That last word lingers— tonight —a reminder of the sheer temporariness of this union. But so do the others—words like rock , and supporter , words like constant and for years. And as they hang in the air, everything else fades away. It’s just us, standing in this chapel, making promises that feel entirely true.

I kind of don’t want to move. I sort of want to stop time. I know we should exchange rings, since the clock is ticking. I bet there’s another wedding scheduled any minute, but I’m enjoying the view of Maeve too much right now, especially when she finishes her vows with, “Also, I told you you’d look hot in ruffles. And I was right.”

It’s the strangest compliment I’ve ever gotten, and it makes my skin sizzle. My pulse surges. And my thoughts tumble free before I even want to stop them. “And you’re stunning,” I rasp out, heat in my voice. I wonder if she notices the bedroom tone. I wonder, too, if I care that I’m a little see-through right now.

I don’t get an answer since Hitch clears his throat, bringing us back to the practical details. “And now the rings,” he says.

Mrs. Matrimony offers a satin pillow that holds two shiny gold bands. We take them, and I hold Maeve’s gaze once again as I slide the ring onto her finger. Probably best for my control—frayed a little thin as it is—to return to the style of the vows, so I say, “Maeve, with this ring, I promise to get to the bottom of the warm nut conspiracy.”

She snorts. She actually snorts, clutching her stomach briefly. Then she turns almost serious as she takes my hand. “Asher,” she deadpans, “I promise I’ll always be ready to start and end a bidding war for you.”

“It’s a deal,” I say, grateful for the levity, but when I stare at the metal on Maeve’s finger, I feel a little like I’m floating above this scene. How the hell can my ring look that good on her finger?

Must be the fading remnants of my buzz, that’s all.

“By the power vested in me by the state of Nevada, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Hitch declares, utter delight in his voice. “You may kiss the bride.”

Maeve looks to me, eyes bright, lips parted, zero reticence. Then, she lifts her chin.

Holy fuck .

She’s asking for a kiss.

Which means…I wouldn’t be stealing it this time since she’s giving it.

I’m not a professional athlete for nothing. When I spot an opening, I go for it. I close the distance between us, cup her cheek, hold her face. I pause, but not because I’m hesitating—because I want her to feel the anticipation. To crave my kiss.

Maybe even to beg for it.

I slide my thumb along her cheekbone, stroking her soft skin. Her eyes pop. I run my thumb back down, along her chin. When her breath catches, I wait a little longer, then murmur in a low, but commanding tone, “Ask for it.”

She shudders. “Kiss me,” she pants out, desperate, needy.

I brush my lips to hers, but the instant we touch, I can’t hold back. I clasp her face in both hands, taste her mouth, and kiss my best friend in a whole new way.

It’s a soulful, lingering kiss that thrums deep in my bones. She’s soft in my arms, her breath gusting across her lips. A whimper crosses them too, and it sounds like a plea for more.

I want to swallow all her sounds, let them lead me on into the night.

Because they are not platonic.

They are not friendly.

They are unbearably sexy and needy.

Maeve Hartley tastes incredible, and this kiss rattles through my entire body, touching every damn corner of me. I don’t let go. As I kiss her more deeply, I’m struck with a cold, new clarity. It wasn’t merely affection I felt all along. It wasn’t simply lust either. It’s a whole lot more than basic attraction.

I’m wildly, annoyingly obsessed with my best friend.

Otherwise known as… my wife .