Page 39 of Beauty and the Beach
“All right,” the bald man finally says. He smiles at me. “Where’s the bride-to-be, eh?”
“No idea,” I say. I take a swig from my water bottle, and then another, and then one more. “We’re not currently on speaking terms.”
“You’re not currently—you’re not—what?” He dabs nervously at his brow, hurrying around the counter. “You’re—I mean to say—” He clears his throat and leans closer. “You’re supposed to get married in three minutes,” he says under his breath.
“Correct,” I say, shotgunning the rest of my water in one gulp.
I’m about to pull out my phone and call her, but just as I’m reaching for it, the handle to the office turns.
And there she is: my bride.
The nervous little man jumps, just like I knew he would when he saw her—a grim reaper, silhouetted in the doorway, cloaked in billowing black, gathering those doomed to die.
“A short, legally binding ceremony is our preference,” Itell him, standing up and straightening my suit jacket. “I’m sure you understand.”
His gaze jumps back and forth between Holland and me, and he bobs his head. “Of—of course,” he says quickly. “You have the marriage certificate?”
Wyatt produces it from seemingly out of nowhere; he passes it to the man, who nods again.
“Come on,” I say to Holland. She steps in and closes the door behind her; our officiant’s face pales noticeably.
“Right,” he says with a nervous little laugh. “Right—here, then? Is anyone else joining you?”
“It’s just us,” I say. “And here is perfect. Proceed, please.”
I just need this part of the process to be over and done.
Holland comes to a stop at my side; she doesn’t look at me. We both stare at the man as he glances at our marriage certificate and then begins to speak, his eyes jumping between us as though he expects us to stop him at any time.
“We gather here today to celebrate the joining of Phoenix Park and Holland Blakely in holy matrimony,” he says.
And his words—they’re just words, but somehow the already-quiet office falls completely silent; the clock ceases to tick, the paper in his hands ceases to crinkle or rustle. My whooshing pulse and the words coming out of his mouth; those are the only things I hear. A vague sense of foreboding fills me, fog creeping into my chest cavity, ghosting around my ribs and clouding around my heart. That fog thickens when the man glances up at me, questioning, but I just nod.
“Do you, Phoenix Park, take Holland Blakely to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
I clear my throat as my pulse pounds behind my eyes, against my sternum.
“Yes,” I say.
The man nods and then looks at Holland.
“And do you, Holland Blakely, take Phoenix Park to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
My gaze flies to her, my shoulders tense.
Because in this moment, I truly don’t know what she’s going to say. Up until thirty seconds ago I would have said she would go through with this, but thefeelingin this room—it’s heavy. Significant.
I didn’t think it would be like this.
“Yes,” Holland says quietly, and relief, sweet and potent, floods through me. “I do.”
The man stands up a little straighter; he seems just as relieved as I am. My heart beats faster still as he goes on, but it’s no longer frantic or anxious; that pulse feels strong, healthy, full of life.
“By the power vested in me by the state of Florida,” he says, and I could swear his words are louder, “I now pronounce you married.”
Just like that, Holland Blakely becomes Holland Park.
I look at her; she looks at me. We both swallow, and I see the same weight settling on her shoulders that I feel on mine; it’s something indefinable, intangible, but undeniably present. A shiver runs down my spine, goosebumps on the back of my neck; then we break eye contact, and the moment is gone.
