Page 99 of Trade It All

The woman glances between us and smiles knowingly. “Wonderful. Do you have your witnesses?”

I blink. My smile falls. “Our… what?”

“Two witnesses.”

I stare at her. Dean stares at me.

I slowly turn toward him. “I did not think of that.”

He closes his eyes briefly like he expected this level of chaos. Before either of us can answer, the side chapel door opens and another couple steps out.

The bride is stunning in a long white fitted dress, bouquet still in hand, mascara a little smudged from happy tears. Her new husband has one arm around her while they laugh about something.

Dean takes one look at the bride. Then looks down at me. Then at the oversized Mustang t-shirt hanging almost to my knees.

His hand tightens around mine and suddenly he’s tugging me toward the exit. “Nope.”

I stumble after him. “What? Dean!”

He keeps moving. “No, Baby. We are doing this right. You are not getting married in my shirt.”

I yank my hand free, planting my feet. He turns back.

I cross my arms. “You need me in a white dress?”

His expression softens so fast it nearly melts me. He steps back to me, cups my face in both hands, and looks at me like there is no one else in the building.

“Of course not,” he says quietly. “I would marry you in a potato sack and you would still be the most beautiful girl in the room.”

My heart actually squeezes. Hard. I smile before I can stop it.

Behind us, the bride lets out a little laugh. We both turn.

She lifts her bouquet slightly. “We forgot witnesses too,” she says. “Had to drag two strangers in from the sidewalk.”

Her husband grins. “We can stay.”

I look at Dean. Dean looks at me. His shoulders fall in that resigned, deeply in love way I am becoming obsessed with. This is happening. He reaches for my hand again. And this time—neither of ustries to stop it.

The little chapel is somehow both exactly what I expected and nothing like I expected. Small. Warm. Soft lights glowing against cream-colored walls. Fake flowers lining the front. A tiny arch that probably hosts a hundred impulsive love stories a year.

It should feel silly. It should feel rushed. Instead it feels sacred.

Dean’s hand has not left mine once. Not while we signed the final paper. Not while the sweet older woman officiating introduced herself. Not while the newly married couple took their places off to the side smiling like they’ve been waiting their whole lives to witness strangers make reckless romantic decisions.

Dean stands across from me now. My hands tucked into his. His thumbs rubbing slow circles over my knuckles. His eyes haven’t left my face. Neither have mine.

The officiant smiles gently. “Would you like to exchange personal vows?”

Dean and I both answer at the same time. “Yes.”

We blink at each other. I laugh softly. Of course we do.

The officiant nods toward Dean first. He exhales. Long. Like he is trying to gather every feeling he has ever had into something that makes sense out loud.

Then his fingers tighten around mine. And he begins.

“Maddie.” Just my name. But the way he says it has my eyes burning already.