Canon (Klein Brothers 2)

“Are you sure you’d be okay doing that?” I asked quietly.

His mouth lifted into a huge smile. “Are you serious? Fostering kids gives them a home we know they’ll be safe in. Adopting them gives kids who need their happily ever after parents who want to fulfill that dream, too. It’s a win-win.”

I didn’t think it was possible, especially not after last night, but when I threw myself at him, it was on a sob as more tears burst out of me. At least today, these were good, happy tears. Ones that I was more than okay to let him see me cry.

Minute-by-minute and day-by-day, this man had given me the world. And now he was giving me even more.

I had no way of knowing he felt the same way as he held me tightly against his chest, but I did know I’d do anything I could to make his dreams come true, too.

Six months later…

“I don’t want to do a dance at my wedding reception!”

The pout he aimed at me was downright pathetic. “If you really loved me, you’d do a dance.”

“No, if you really loved me, you wouldn’t even suggest this shit.”

With me glaring at him and him pouting like a twat, it was obviously going to come down to who was the strongest out of the two of us. I just had to let it be known that it was me who held that position.

The battle lasted up until five weeks before the wedding. Canon tried everything he could to convince me to do the damned dance, but I held on strong. I might not like social media, but I’d seen the videos of the types of dances couples did after their weddings.

I wasn’t going down like that. No way, no how. Not even the boxes of mint Ghirardelli chocolates he tried bribing me with would work.

The wedding reception…

“Smile for the camera, Mrs. Klein,” Canon whispered in my ear, making goosebumps pop up all over my arms. “You’ll thank me in twenty years when you get to watch it on our anniversary.”

And just like that, the goosebumps were gone. “No, it’ll just make me want to kill you. Again.”

Because I’d felt pity for him after he’d gone out of his way to give me the wedding of my dreams—not too big, not too small, and with bunches of jasmine flowers hanging around the venue and from the backs of the chairs—I’d given in and learned the damn dance.

It had involved us going to classes three times a week, and I hadn’t missed one. I’d also held back every time I wanted to lose my mind, and had bit my tongue—almost—every time I wanted to lose my shit when they’d added more moves in.

The dance instructor, the choreographer, and Canon had all worked together to create something that should have been beautiful, but I had the grace of an aging elephant. It was so bad that every time I caught a glimpse of us dancing in the mirrors, I’d cringe.

I was doing this for him. It was important for Canon, for some reason, we do this and that it got recorded. So, because I loved him, I was putting myself out there, leaving my comfort zone and dignity fifty-million light years behind me, and I was going to dance this fucking God awful dance through to the very end.

Which, by this point, I’d already been doing for three minutes and four seconds. Did I also mention he’d chosen the longest piece of music ever? Not even the large box filled with mint Ghirardelli Ned had given us as part of our wedding present would help me through this.

Speaking of, the former governor was sitting next to his daughter, his hand covering his mouth as he laughed his ass off. Seeing me watching him, he shot me a wink, and then threw his head back and burst out laughing after I gave him the bird.

We were coming up to the finale—the cheesiest part of the dance, and that said something—but the end was finally in sight.

Backing into my corner while he stood in his, I took a deep breath and began running toward him. My husband had his arms extended, ready to catch me when I jumped.

Except, when I did, Canon’s eyes widened, and then he ducked down and practically curled into a ball. This meant that, instead of doing the Dirty Dancing style lift, I ended up flying over his back and doing a half roll, half belly flop onto the hard dance floor.

The pain was immediate, and I knew as soon as I hit the ground that I’d hurt something. But I was now a wife, I had to and could be mature.

Sure, I wanted to throttle him with my garter. I wanted to stab him with my fork. I wanted to aim ten bottles of champagne at him and detonate the corks in his direction.