Page 41 of Bossy Bride: Emma and Jesse

Jesse takes my hand and kisses my knuckles. “You really are, Mrs. Boston.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN - JESSE

The Big Mike’s people start bringing out flower arrangements and books of bouquet pictures and suddenly I’m having a conversation about baby’s breath and whether or not Emma should choose the peonies over the roses, or the roses over the peonies.

“How about both?” I say, and Emma beams at me. “It’s your day, babe. Get whatever you want. All the peonies and all the roses.”

“What color do you like Jesse?” Emma holds the book of color combinations open between us so I can get a good look.

Jesus. I don’t care. But I don’t say that. My bride deserves the dream wedding. Sure, we’re eloping and our wedding coordinator is a guy called Fingers, but that doesn’t mean we have to skimp. So I offer up an opinion of, “Yellow. And peach.”

“Oh, I love that combination too.”

“Then it’s settled.” I look up at the flower coordinator. “Give her everything she wants.”

Emma giggles and leans into my shoulder and everything kinda hits me all at once.

It’s real.

This is real. We really ran from Key West. We really are in Vegas. We really are getting married… today.

To. Day.

Tonight, Emma will be my wife. The honeymoon starts tonight!

I wonder if our wedding package includes lingerie?

A small, pale, professionally-dressed woman appears, whisking away the flower people hovering around us. She points to the table and then orders it to be cleared of cake tasting plates in a cool, but maybe a little frightening, Russian accent.

People jump to do as she says, and then the little lady claps her hands three times and…

Roller-skating waitresses have now been transformed into wedding-dress models. They skate in, the long trains of their gowns trailing out behind them, and then turn, hold hands, and skate in roughly the shape of a circle with hands in the middle. They shout, “One, two, three, BRIDE!” like this is a ‘go team’ chant on a football field, and then they spin backwards and flip up on their toe stops with hands in the air in a grand ‘tada’ gesture, like they just dismounted off the uneven bars at the Olympics.

Emma applauds. “Oh, my God, that was amazing!” She looks at me, still clapping like crazy. “This is the best wedding plan ever.”

The little dress lady says, “You pick dress now. I make it,” in her scary Russian accent.

“OK!” Emma says, still very excited.

“But… should I be here for this?” I ask. “It’s supposed to be a surprise?”

“It will be surprise,” the dress lady says, nodding her head. She calls out, “Machine!” and Emma and I jump a little at how loud such a little person can be. But then we laugh. Because the hostess skates out with a sewing machine on a wheeled table.

“I make custom,” the dressmaker says. “She pick favorite style, I sew up. You see later, bossy man.”

“Right here?” Emma says, looking at me with a huge grin. Like this whole thing is so crazy. “In the restaurant?”

“This not restaurant. This Big Mike’s.”

“OK!” Emma’s clearly on board with that illogical explanation.

“Wow,” I say, looking at my watch. It’s already almost eight o’clock. “But we have to be back on the plane by eleven. Is the dress gonna be ready in time?”

“Time, no problem. Take twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes?” Emma exclaims, looking at me all flushed pink with delight. “You’re pretty fast!”

“You pick style now. I make fancy dress for you.” And then she snaps her fingers and the roller-skating models start another routine.