Page 174 of Dial F for Finance

His hands tightened around mine.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m never going to let you pretend you didn’t mean that.”

“Ends of the earth,” I whispered.

“Ends of the earth.”

Then I kissed him before the officiant could finish telling us we were married . . .

I blink the mist out of my eyes, the memory of our Tokyo vows dissolving back into the crisp, golden October light of the Whitman estate. A rogue drop of moisture threatens to breach my carefully applied mascara, and I discreetly swipe it from my cheekbone with the pad of my index finger. I lock my posture back into place just as the officiant’s voice booms across the lawn.

“It is my great honor to pronounce you husband and wife. Logan, Audrey—you may kiss.”

Logan doesn’t hesitate, completely abandoning his usual awkwardness. He pulls Audrey in, and the kiss is so genuine and entirely uncalculated that a ripple of collective sighs moves through the gathered guests. The string quartet immediately strikes up a triumphant, upbeat sci-fi march—the grand finale of Audrey’s meticulously curated playlist.

The newlyweds turn, radiating a joy so bright it practically disrupts the atmospheric pressure, and begin their brisk walk back up the aisle.

It’s my cue. I step forward from the bridesmaid line just as Dominic steps out from the groomsmen. We meet in the center of the aisle. He offers his arm, the charcoal fabric of his tailored suit brushing against the deep burgundy silk of my dress.

“You were crying, Pemberton-Cruz,” he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that goes straight to my core as I loop my arm through his.

“It was a localized allergic reaction to excessive sentimentality,” I reply smoothly, keeping my gaze fixed straight ahead as we follow Logan and Audrey. “And the wind off the lake.”

“Right. The wind.” His thumb strokes the bare skin of my inner wrist, a deliberate, entirely unfair tactic designed to short-circuit my nervous system. “It definitely had nothing to do with how big your love for me is.”

“Your ego is a logistical nightmare, Dominic.”

He chuckles. “You love my ego. Almost as much as I love this dress. Though, for the record, I’m calculating exactly how efficiently I can remove it once we’re off duty.”

“You are currently on duty as best man,” I remind him, unable to suppress my smile. “And I promised Audrey I’d help keep today moving. We’re thirty seconds behind schedule.”

“I’ll handle the caterers,” he says, pulling me just a fraction closer as we clear the seating area and step onto the stone patio. His dark eyes drop to my mouth, the teasing edge melting into that devastating, territorial intensity. “Give me a task, partner. Let me optimize your timeline, so I get you to myself sooner.”

I pause, looking up at my husband. The man who has finally learned to ask what I need—and stand beside me while we make it happen. I raise a single eyebrow. “Secure the champagne. Intercept Layla before she starts weeping on the appetizers. And Dominic?”

He pauses, halfway turning toward the bar. “Yeah?”

“I was remembering our vows.”

He grins. “That’s what had you teary-eyed?”

I nod, and his grin gets even wider.

“Put it in the official record, Pemberton-Cruz,” he murmurs, closing the remaining inch between us until I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. The scent of him—clean cedar and something uniquely, devastatingly Dominic—scrambles my already chaotic thoughts.

“The record already reflects my temporary lapse in emotional regulation,” I say, my voice dropping an octave. “Now, go secure the champagne like I asked, husband.”

He doesn’t immediately obey. Instead, he slides his hand around the nape of my neck, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin just below my hairline. “I love you,” he says, stripping away the banter. “And for the record, I was thinking about our vows, too.”

Before I can formulate a suitably witty response, he dips his head and kisses me. It’s not a polite, wedding-party-appropriate peck. It’s thorough, hungry, and highly distracting. My hands instinctively flatten against his chest, feeling the heavy, steady thud of his beautiful heart.

When he pulls back, my breathing is noticeably compromised.

“As soon as the cake is cut, you and I are getting out of here,” he whispers, his eyes dark with a promise that makes my pulse spike. Then he releases me, turning on his heel with that effortless, arrogant grace to go execute my orders.

I take exactly two seconds to recalibrate before following the wedding party toward the boathouse.

Dinner is served in the boathouse beneath strings of warm lights, and by the time the clinking of silverware gives way to the toasts, we’re back on schedule.