The Bossy Prince (Rugged and Royal #3) - Lili Valente Page 0,79

trembling now, too, her arms shaking as they wrap around my chest, and she whispers, “Nick. I need you. Please…”

And because no woman should have to beg on her wedding night, and I can’t wait another moment to be even closer to this precious woman, I sink inside her, and I’m lost.

And found.

And home.

And afterward, I find I’m even more impossibly in love with her.

My wife.

“My wife,” I whisper aloud. “I love the sound of that.”

“Me, too. And I don’t ever want to not be your wife.” She curls onto her side, facing me as the snow falls softly past the window behind her. “Promise me we’ll make it work, no matter what. That no matter how hard it might get, we won’t give up on each other.”

“I promise.” I brush her hair from her forehead. “That’s what those vows were about tonight, woman.”

“I know, but…I’ve been married before, remember?”

“Not to me, you haven’t. I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.” I hate that her ex betrayed her, hate that she has even a shred of doubt that I didn’t mean every word I said in front of the priest tonight. “You’re stuck with me, Alexandra. I’m going to love and cherish you until you can’t stand it, and then I’ll love and cherish you some more.”

Her lips curve in that sweet, vulnerable smile she only smiles for me. “Me, too. And I want you to know… Back when I was married before, I wasn’t sure I wanted children. But with you…” She reaches out, resting her hand on my chest just above my heart, her eyes shining. “I can’t wait to make a baby with you, Dimples. I want everything with you. Today and tomorrow and the highs and the lows and every second I can get for the rest of my life. You are my…favorite adventure.”

Throat tight, I lean in, kissing her forehead. “Same. My very favorite. Always.”

I draw her against me, and she rests her cheek on my chest. I kiss the top of her head and wrap her up in my arms, and we watch the snow drift until we fall asleep.

And when we wake up the next morning, we’re still in each other’s arms, and we stay that way.

For a long, long time.

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I wake up with no feeling in my right arm, my face smashed into an unfamiliar pillow, a case of cottonmouth any stuffed animal would be proud of, and the disturbing realization that I can’t remember where I am or how I got here.

I can’t remember, but I instantly know Colin is involved.

I am not a rock star.

I do not do rock-star things like stay up all night burning old love letters or go skinny-dipping in the ocean at midnight or drink so much whiskey after a show that building a pack of vampire snowmen in the town square at three a.m. sounds like a good idea. But under the influence of too much Colin Donovan, I have done all of these things and more.

And apparently, our latest case of shared insanity has landed me on a plane. There’s no mistaking the lingering smell of jet fuel or the dull roar of the engines churning away on either side of this soaring death pellet.

I crack open my lids, and yes—there’s the overhead bin, dull gray and sad in the dim light of the darkened cabin. But instead of the usual packed sardine tin of people on either side of me, there’s only a fully-reclined seat arranged head-to-toe with mine, a quaint swiveling bedside table, and gray plastic walls that grant this little cubby-for-two almost complete privacy.

There is, however, no sign of Colin.

But I wouldn’t put it past him to talk me into buying a first-class ticket to somewhere and then drop me off at the airport before skipping off to do more exciting things. He knows I hate planes. I hate them so much that I usually have to be drunk, drugged, or both to force myself down the Jetway and into my assigned seat. But I’ve never booked a trip while under the influence. I make travel plans, arrange my life accordingly, and then I pop a Xanax like a civilized person twenty minutes before boarding.

This impulsive gallivanting is unacceptable. I don’t usually