around, wondering if I’m being pranked. This is all too good to be true.
“We can’t just get married!”
“Sure we can,” he says.
“We don’t have an appointment.”
“Don’t need one.”
“Michael,” I say, determined to talk some sense into him. “We don’t have our marriage license with us.”
Without a word, he reaches into his breast pocket and produces…A white envelope that looks suspiciously like our marriage license.
Oh, my God.
“We don’t have our rings,” I say, now feeling equal swoops of excitement and hope.
Could we really get married? Today? Right now?
One of those dark brows shoots up as he reaches into the pocket of his slacks and produces…The black velvet box that contains our wedding bands.
“What about flowers? A photographer?” My voice pitches higher. “I refuse to get married without pictures.”
He flashes a smug smile as he raises a hand and gestures at someone. I follow his line of sight and watch as a photographer and a woman with a bouquet of flowers detach from the crowd and head in our direction. The bouquet, I note with astonishment, is full of flowers in delicate yellow and cream colors.
The perfect complement to my dress.
“I’m beginning to think I’ve been lied to,” I say, rounding on him. My voice is now tinged with creeping hysteria, which is what emotional ecstasy will do for you. I can’t believe that I’m finally going to become his wife. Just like that. Well…Five years and then, suddenly, just like that. “I’m beginning to think this outing isn’t about a special lunch at a Thai restaurant at all. You were probably going to wear a blue tie today. I’m beginning to think you engineered this whole thing.”
My consternation seems to amuse him.
“And if I did?”
“What about our big wedding? What about all our planning?”
“I have one plan. To marry you,” he says quietly. “I’m happy to do it twice. As long as we do it today.”
The tenderness in his tone undoes me. Completely. I have no words and an abundance of happy tears as I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in for several dozen fervent kisses.
He cups my head in his hands, his urgency matching mine until we’re both breathless and maybe a little misty. Then he pulls back, resting his forehead against mine
“I love you so much,” I say.
“I love you.”
I try to let it go at that, but I can’t stop a helpless confession.
“I get so scared sometimes,” I whisper.
“Of what, Angel? Why be scared on our wedding day?”
“Of you not loving me as much as I love you.”
“Not possible,” he says with a shaky laugh.
“Sometimes I think about all the things that had to line up for us to be together like this. All the things that had to change. What if it hadn’t worked out for us?”
“Also not possible. You know why?”
“No,” I say, mesmerized by the huskiness in his tone and the way the early afternoon sun hits his eyes just right, making them sparkle like a handful of flawless aquamarines.
“Because you’re the other half of my heart. I knew that on some level the day I met you. I pretended I didn’t know that but I’m a surgeon. And you’re a surgeon. Surgeons know that no one can live with half their heart missing. Can they?”
I hastily wipe away a tear and lean in for another kiss.
“No,” I say. “They cannot.”
“I came back to be with you. As soon as I could.”
“Took you too damn long,” I grumble.
Once corner of his mouth twitches with a repressed smile.
“Sorry about that.”
“Luckily for you, I’m in a forgiving mood today.”
“Good.” He pulls back, his dimples deepening as he takes my hand again. “Can we get married? Now that we’re on the same page?”
“Absolutely,” I say happily, falling into step beside him as we head to the crosswalk. “But I still want my special lunch. I was promised Thai food.”
“Anything for you,” he says, laughing as he wraps his arm around me and leads me into the clerk’s office—and my life as his wife.
Keep reading for an excerpt from Liam & Mia’s story (where Michael makes his first appearance, BTW),
His Lost Love!
Excerpt From His Lost Love
Chapter 1—Liam
“Liam.” Michael Jamison, one of my closest buddies since we met at freshman orientation at NYU fourteen years ago, blocks the door, preventing me from entering his new apartment in downtown Manhattan. His scowl suggests that I’ve come strapped with explosives and begun waving the detonation button in his face. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I shrug and