Page 147 of Big Dick Energy

Brooke's voice rang out: “I'm going to need so much therapy after this.”

Everyone laughed, including us, and the tension broke like a wave.

David cleared his throat, visibly moved. “Well. I think we can safely say those were the vows the first ceremony was missing.” He produced the rings I'd had designed. A simple platinum band to match her new engagement ring. “Shall we proceed?”

We exchanged rings with trembling fingers and whispered promises. I slid the band onto her finger, watching it settle against the diamond I'd given her moments ago and the wedding band I’d given her at the first wedding. She did the same for me, her touch gentle, reverent.

“By the power vested in me by the state of Florida and a surprisingly thorough online certification program,” David announced, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Again. For the second time. Officially and soberly.” He spread his hands with a flourish. “Dallas, you may kiss your bride.”

I didn't need to be told twice.

I pulled Davina into my arms and kissed her like the world was ending, like she was the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth, like I could pour every ounce of love I felt into that single point of contact. She melted into me, arms wrapping around my neck, kissing me back.

The crowd erupted. Applause, cheers, and whistles, but all I cared about was the woman in my arms.

My wife.

For real this time.

I broke the kiss just enough to murmur against her lips: “So. Was it worth the wait?”

She laughed, bright and joyful. “Ask me again in another year.”

“I'll ask you every year for the rest of our lives.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

And then I kissed her again, because I could, because she was mine, because we had the rest of our lives to figure out the details.

The wedding of Dallas and Davina Dodger was officially complete.

Everything else was just the beginning.

CHAPTER 43

MY FOREVER

DAVINA

The sun was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the vineyard in shades of amber and rose that no Instagram filter could ever replicate.

I stood at the entrance of the reception barn, champagne flute in hand, watching the golden light spill across rows of grapevines and thinking about how twelve hours ago I'd woken up expecting a quiet anniversary breakfast. Maybe a couples massage or a wine tasting followed by an early dinner.

Instead, I got a surprise wedding and a proposal I remembered.

Best anniversary ever.

“You're doing that thing again,” Brooke appeared at my side. “The staring-into-the-distance-looking-overwhelmed thing.”

“I'm processing.”

“You've been processing for six hours.”

“There's a lot to process.” I gestured vaguely at everything, the elegant barn strung with fairy lights, the remains of a dinner that had featured the best beef tenderloin I’d ever had, the dance floor where my father was currently teaching Dallas's mother some kind of swing move that neither of them seemed qualified to attempt. “My husband planned a secret wedding. He flew in an Elvis impersonator from Vegas to Florida. He had my dream dress made from a sketch I drew a decade ago. I'm allowed to process.”

“Fair.” She clinked her glass against mine. “For what it's worth, I've never seen you this happy. You're literally glowing. It's disgusting.”