STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

“I want to kiss you, Melissa,” he says, finishing the scene. “That’s all I ever want to do.”

That’s it— the scene is over— but we’re staring at one another, and I feel the tears on my cheeks bounce away when my lips curl into a smile. Tyson returns it, and steps forward, taking my hand and pulling me tight to him in front of everyone. He presses his face against the side of my head and whispers, so that only I can hear, “I want to kiss you, Anna. That’s all I ever want to do.”

“People are watching,” I answer shakily.

“I know. I should never have cared that people were watching,” he says, and then pulls back, tips my chin up, and kisses me. The girls behind me snicker, Trishelle whoops from the audience, and I have no idea if on stage kissing is allowed during the audition process, but all I care about is the way Tyson’s arms are squeezing me tighter, lifting my feet off the floor, protecting me, holding me, having me.

“Hey! You forgot these!” a familiar voice— Trishelle— hisses from the front of the stage. I can barely see her, but suddenly a bouquet of flowers comes skidding across the stage toward me. Tyson stoops to pick them up, then hands them to me.

“Wait, what?” I ask, taking them, more confused than ever.

“Trishelle told me I should surprise you today,” he says, smiling. “I just came to bring you the flowers. When you switched scenes at the last moment…well…I know a good thing when I see it.”

“Trishelle! That’s why she was so on edge! Clever,” I say, shaking my head. “I owe her.”

“We owe her,” Tyson says, kissing my temple. “I love you, Anna.”

I flush, nodding my head. “I love you too.”

And he kisses me again, and again, until I know that it’s always been true.

Epilogue

“I’m just glad you let us choose our own dresses,” Trishelle says to me, smoothing down the front of her lavender bridesmaids dress. I gave them— Trishelle, two of my cousins, and Tyson’s sisters-in-law, Ashlynn and Astrid, are all wearing lavender dresses, but they’re all slightly different. The idea of forcing my friends into outfits I chose isn’t really my thing, so I just gave them a color and told them to buy whatever dress they want. They all look gorgeous, and the slight variations in the lavender fabrics means when they stand together they look less like a girl band and more like a bouquet of flowers.

“Speak for yourself. I went through like twenty dresses before I found one that fit right,” Ashlynn— Sebastian’s wife— says. “Fitting anything over this is a nightmare.” She gestures to her belly. She’s actually only a few months pregnant, but has already reached the stage where total strangers feel comfortable commenting that she’s “about to pop”. Three people at the wedding reception have said it already. I’m pretty sure that the fourth person who says it is actually going to get popped— with the back of her hand.

Despite getting engaged the same day as my college graduation, Tyson and I’s wedding was a long while coming. First were the logistics; Tyson didn’t go pro as a player, but as a businessman and recruiting consultant.

It meant we had a generous budget, but also meant we had to schedule everything around football season— especially since Sebastian and Carson’s pro contracts were renewed. I’d never in a million years have thought football would have such a profound impact on my life, but one glance around the room proves it true— the place is packed with teammates, hulking guys whose suits were surely custom made, and the groom’s cake is in the shape a football field, complete with marzipan players ready for the snap. It’s ridiculous. I love it.

The second reason the wedding was so long coming? Tyson’s parents. Dennis Slate is in jail, and from the looks of it, will be for a long while. Tyson’s mother was furious with all three of her sons for “abandoning” their dad, and refused to speak to any of them for over a year.

Tyson was the one that finally broke the ice, driving all three of them to her house and reminding her that they were still her sons, and they weren’t going to abandon her— no matter how angry she was with them. Mrs. Slate still looked worried and tiny, like she doesn’t know how to exist in a world without her tall, strong husband by her side, but she’s here, and she’s smiling, and she even helped us with a little of the planning.

It’s not perfect— but then, nothing is.

“I thought you were throwing the bouquet next,” Tyson says, stepping up to the cloister of bridesmaids around me.

“She is. We’re just trying to convince her to hand it to me straight away,” Trishelle says. Tyson rolls his eyes at her good-naturedly.