Hundreds of flat, beautiful snowflakes were floating down from the heavens all around them, settling delicately on the stone ground and getting caught in Liza’s elegant brunette up-do.
“Snow,” he murmured, trailing the falling flakes with his gaze all the way from the clouds to where they briefly hung from Liza’s long, obsidian eyelashes.
Her smile was huge. “I didn’t think it ever snowed here!”
Brennan shrugged. “I’ve honestly never seen snow. Not like this at least.”
“Wow.” She skimmed her gaze around and then her eyes met his. “Snow in New Orleans. On the day of your wedding. This has gotta be some kind of sign.” Ever the focused, task-oriented woman that she was, Liza wrapped her arm around his waist again and nudged him to keep walking.
“A sign of what?” Brennan asked, holding her close while they approached the other door.
“Honestly?” Liza paused as he pulled the door open for them both, and she smiled incredulously. “That if you’re actually getting married, literally anything is possible.” She stepped inside and turned around, holding out her hand to him. “So let’s go kick off the celebration of your amazing,amazingnew life.”
39
FRENCH QUARTER, NEW ORLEANS
Well, she did it.
Skye was now Mrs. Brennan Riley. She’d made it through the marathon that was the receiving line and making the rounds with Brennan and his parents to speak with a number of people who were too important for just the receiving line, and she’d only had to escape to a quiet back room with Liza and Savannah twice so far.
“Fair warning,” Liza was saying, Savannah securely attached to her hip while the two women snuck back into the ballroom, which was packed to the gills with all those people and a bunch of truly elegant, Christmas-inspired wedding decor, “we’re about to have to do a really gross shot.”
“I don’t even care how gross it is,” Skye said, gathering the thick, heavy layers of beaded, antique lace into her fists and hoisting it off the ground, “I need something to take the edge off, because according to what I’ve been told, this thing is going to last for at least another two hours.”
Liza laughed, looping her free arm around Skye’s as they weaved their way around the perimeter to the bridal party’s long table at the front of the ballroom. Brennan and Connor were waiting for them, casually conversing and looking like a sexy ad for designer men’s formal wear, and the sight of them threw Skye back into the loop of disbelief that this was actually her life now.
“Wait.” She grabbed Liza’s forearm to pull her to stop. “I’m having a moment.”
“Okay, that’s okay, girly.” Liza stood in front of her and started going through the motions of a guided breathing exercise that had helped calm Skye’s nerves when she didn’t have time or privacy to strike the Superman pose. “Inhale for three and then—”
“No, not that,” Skye said hastily, pulling Liza’s arm to turn her in the direction of their hot men. “That.” She giggled quietly and lowered her voice, speaking right next to Liza’s ear. “Those two fine-as-fuck guys in tuxes are our husbands, sis.”
Liza matched her discreet laugh and whispered back, “Hell yeah they are. We are some lucky bitches!”
The two women snickered mischievously for a second when Savannah chirped, “Luh-lee bith-ay! Fi-yah duck!”
“Oh my God.” Liza exhaled long and loudly. “Well, I guess now we’re going to have to do something about all of our tendency to cuss like sailors.” She tugged Skye’s arm to keep walking. “I think I’m going to start a swear jar or something because this is going to be an impossible habit to break with all these foul-mouthed veterans, who are way worse than we are.”
By the time the two women reached their fine-as-fuck husbands, the other foul-mouthed veterans—who were also looking fine-as-fuck in the classic Armani tuxes that Brennan had selected for them—had arrived for the infamous gross shots.
“All right, all right, all right,” Connor declared, slapping his large palms together and rubbing them eagerly as Liza stood next to him. “It’s time for the Flaming Dragons. How many do we need?”
He raised his chin to nod at each person in the group as he silently counted, and Brennan slid up behind Skye to hold her close and rest his chin against the side of her head. “Could we possibly do a different shot? I hate Flaming Dragons. They’re fucking nasty, Sarge.”
“That’s why we do them,” Frankie cut in, grabbing the top of her strapless, hunter green bridesmaid dress and tugging it higher. Her to-die-for cleavage jiggled and bounced as she adjusted her dress. “They’re the great equalizer, Riley. Your boujee ass is gonna hate it right alongside us plebes.”
Brennan grumbled in the back of throat and then lowered his face to nuzzle the spot below Skye’s earlobe. “You smell good enough to eat,” he murmured, causing a flush of heat to spread through her body.
“You know what, Frankie,” Carson said, joining them and standing next to where Gabe was seated at the last chair on the far end of the table with Gunner, his stocky, yellow lab, service dog at his side. “I think you and Luke secretly love this nasty shot. I can’t think of any other reason why y’all started picking it for—”
“For fuck’s sake, where is Luke?” Frankie moved to stand behind Gabe and set her hands on his shoulders, giving him a firm pat. “Where’s your bruh, bruh?”
Gabe’s pewter eyes flashed with annoyance, and he offered a grouchy, gravelly, “Hmph.”
Brennan inched Skye closer to Gabe and angled them in the direction where he appeared to be staring. “Did he leave?”
“Nope,” Gabe clipped, raking his fingers through his close-cropped, yet thick, dark hair and offering the subtlest jerk of his chin at something across the cavernous, chandelier-lit ballroom.
