Just for This Moment (Wishful 4)

“I’m all in,” she said, without hesitation.

“You’re not nervous at all, are you?”

“No. Although we probably should’ve brought separate cars.”

“Why?”

“What if we run into people we know?”

“We’re forty-five minutes from Wishful. Who are we going to run into?”

“Need I remind you that Mississippi is one big small town? You never know.”

“You’re more likely than I am, and you’ve got those big movie star sunglasses blocking half your face and that scarf around your hair. It’s very Audrey Hepburn.”

She tipped those sunglasses down and peered over the top of them. “You should’ve worn a hat or something.”

“We’ll be in and out in a matter of minutes. It’ll be fine.” He slid a hand around her nape and tugged her closer, reveling in how readily she leaned into the kiss. Once Piper Parish made up her mind about something, she didn’t waffle.

“Mmm,” she purred. “Let’s go get a marriage license.”

The circuit clerk’s office was on the second floor, next door to the tax assessor’s office. Being mid-morning on a Tuesday, there wasn’t a line.

As they stepped inside, the clerk, a heavy-set, middle-aged woman beamed from behind the counter. “Can I help you?”

A public employee who actually likes their job. What a concept.

“Yes ma’am, we’d like to apply for a marriage license,” he said.

“Certainly. Here’s the application.” She passed a clipboard across the counter. “And I’ll need both your driver’s licenses.”

They handed the IDs over and took the clipboard over to a couple of vinyl covered chairs in the corner.

“You want to write or shall I?”

“My handwriting is probably neater,” Piper pointed out.

Myles handed the clipboard over.

“Full legal name.”

“Myles Beauregard Stewart.”

“Beauregard? Really?”

“I cannot be held accountable for my parents’ taste. What about you?”

“Piper Elizabeth.”

“So your initials are PEP?” He grinned. “Were you a cheerleader in high school?”

“I was not. Show choir. And now you know why I do not fall prey to the Southern addiction to monogramming.”

She filled in both their addresses, then paused. “Your parents’ names and address.”

“My parents? Why the hell do they need to know our parents information? I’m over thirty for God’s sake.”

“It’s probably to make sure we’re not cousins or something.”