I nodded.
His incredulous smile nearly broke my heart, it was that full of love.
The ceremony was a blur, and it was a small mercy for our guests. Even though it was just the first week of June, it was hot and humid and there weren’t any clouds in the blue sky, so we were all baking in the sun. I was sweating through my makeup, and there were undoubtably artists waiting to dab powder at me in the shade of the gazebo at the back of the garden, before Royce and I would pose for pictures.
Once we’d said our vows and exchanged rings, I couldn’t stop staring at the silver band across his finger. It was easily the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. It played a big part in how excited I was when it came time for Royce to kiss me.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the officiant said, his voice raised proudly, “I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Royce Hale.”
We turned to face the crowd and their thunderous applause, and a thrilled smile broke on my face. Perhaps the sea of happy people before us were all sycophants and didn’t really care, but they looked up at us with such excitement and joy I decided to accept it exactly as it appeared.
It was unavoidable how my gaze drifted to the couple in the front row on Royce’s side. Alice’s champagne colored dress had beads cascading down the front, like someone had tossed handfuls of glitter at her and they scattered over the fabric. She wore a perfectly manufactured smile as she stood beside her husband.
Macalister wasn’t smiling or clapping; his expression was fixed. To others, he might look mildly irritated or bored, but I saw the scowl aching to bow on his lips and the seethe locked in his eyes.
I tangled my hand tighter with my husband’s and gave him the biggest smile in my arsenal.
Royce was so exhausted by the end of the night, he fell asleep in the limo as it carried us toward the Four Seasons hotel. We’d spend our wedding night there, and tomorrow evening the Hale jet would take us to Nice, then we were on to Cannes where the yacht and her crew waited for us.
His hand was clasped in mine and nestled in the folds of my skirt, and I grinned at the ring gleaming on his finger. Would I ever get used to that? My smile grew wider, but it could also have been the three glasses of champagne I’d consumed on a mostly empty stomach. They’d been for medicinal purposes—my feet were killing me.
I’d expected the day to be long, but nowhere near as enjoyable as it had been—minus my visit from Macalister. Once I fully committed to my role as Marist Hale and treated the endless mingling as a game, it was . . . kind of fun. We’d put on a show and completed all the tasks required of us, cutting the cake and the first dance. We’d done our best to greet each guest and thank them for coming. We’d laughed at the toasts our siblings gave and kissed when people clinked their silverware against their glasses.
But we hadn’t gotten a moment to ourselves until the limo, and he’d faded fast. I decided to let him rest, not wanting to bring up what his father had said and mar an otherwise perfect day.
I took a picture of him asleep in his tux, me snuggled beside him, and posted it to Instagram, tagging it with all the hashtags I would have hated or called cheesy a year ago. But now I believed them. It’d been a hard road to get here, but maybe we were a fairytale romance. We’d earned our happily ever after.
When the car pulled up to the front of the Four Seasons and the doorman opened the back door, I nudged Royce. “Power nap is over, husband.”
He blinked his sleepy blue eyes and quickly became more alert, sitting up straight and flashing a lazy smile. “Okay, wife.”
The elevator ride up to the presidential suite was quick, and I carried my excruciating pink shoes in my hands as I strolled toward the bedroom and flopped down on the mattress, my dress and bustled train billowing around me. Royce shed his jacket and unbuttoned his vest, and he leaned against the doorframe, watching me as he loosened his tie.
“You hungry?” he asked. “Want me to order something?”
“I’ll be asleep before it arrives.” I rose onto my elbows, half sitting up so I could look at him directly. “I can’t believe I married you.”
He understood exactly how I meant it, and the corner of his mouth quirked upward. “I can. I had you the minute I said you looked like Medusa.”
I pressed my lips together. He was right, but it had taken me a while to figure it out. “And when did I have you?”