Page 118 of Checking It Twice
The terrifying part? I actually do belong here now.
“Clare!” Sophie’s voice carries through the door, filled with barely contained excitement. “It’s time! Uncle Mitch is being weird, and Dad says we need to start before he throws up!”
My stomach flips. Time. Time to walk down that aisle in front of three hundred people and promise to love Mitchell Drake for the rest of my life.
The easy part? I’ve already been doing it for months.
The procession is a production. Sophie leads, scattering rose petals with the focused intensity of someone who takes her flower girl duties very seriously. Then Maddie, radiant in blush silk despite her complaints about postpartum everything. Bryn follows, stunning in navy blue and probably already planning the maid of honor speech that will either make everyone cry or make me want to hide under the altar.
Tom appears at my elbow, looking distinguished in his custom tux. “You ready for this, kiddo?”
Am I? Ready to bind my life to someone else’s? Ready to be Mrs. Mitchell Drake, with all the media attention and public scrutiny that comes with it? Ready to trust that he won’t get tired of me when the novelty wears off?
I think about the past eighteen months. About fake dating that became the realest thing in my life. About fights that ended with desperate makeup sex and whispered confessions. About the way he looks at me like I’m something he can’t quite believe he gets to keep.
About how he held my hand through every decision about this wedding, letting me change my mind a dozen times without complaint. How he never once made me feel like I was out of my depth in his world.
“Yeah,” I say, and mean it. “I’m ready.”
The music starts—something classical and beautiful. It’s perfect. I step into view, and the entire crowd rises, but none of it matters because Mitchell, my Mitchy, is standing at the altar looking at me like I just walked out of his dreams.
His face when he sees me—that’s going to be burned into my memory forever. The way his mouth falls open slightly. The way his hand comes up to his chest like his heart might actually stop. The way his eyes go bright with something that looks dangerously close to tears.
By the time I reach him, he’s grinning that devastating smile that made me fall for him in the first place, the one that makes grown women throw themselves at him and makes me want to drag him somewhere private.
“Hi,” he says softly, taking my hands.
“Hi yourself.”
“Clare, you’re...” He shakes his head, like words aren’t sufficient. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
“Language,” I murmur, but I’m smiling. “Your grandmother’s watching.”
“Don’t care. You look like...” He pauses, searching. “Like everything I ever wanted. Can’t believe I get to keep you.”
“Forever,” I say, unable to take my eyes off his.
The ceremony passes in a blur of vows we wrote ourselves and somehow managed to keep from being either too sappy or too inappropriate for his teammates. Mitch promises to always include me in major life decisions and never assume I’ll just follow his schedule. I promise to stop stealing his hoodies and never doubt that I’m exactly where I belong.
When the officiant says we can kiss, Mitch cups my face in his hands and kisses me soft and desperate and perfect while three hundred people cheer behind us.
“Mrs. Drake,” he murmurs against my lips.
“I love the sound of that.”
The reception is perfect. After champagne and dinner, there’s dancing under stars and string lights that transform the hotel grounds into something magical.
Bryn’s maid of honor speech is perfect—funny without being embarrassing, touching without being sappy, and includes just enough dirt about my dating disasters to make everyone laugh without making me want to disappear.
“To Clare,” she concludes, raising her champagne flute, “who finally found someone worth giving up her emotional walls for. And to Mitch, who somehow convinced her that love doesn’t have to be terrifying.”
The toast is perfect, but what gets me is watching Mitch’s face during it. The way he looks at me like he’s still amazed I chose him. Like he’s the lucky one in this equation.
Later, much later, after the last guest has gone home and we’ve changed out of our wedding clothes, we’re sitting on the balcony of our suite sharing a bottle of champagne.
“Good wedding?” he asks, pulling me against his side.
“The best.” I settle against him, breathing in his familiar scent. “Though I think your mother is already planning our first anniversary party.”
