Page 181 of Sinclair Duet

“What if I don’t want to give you away,” Dad asked, sporting a tuxedo.

“It’s tradition. You’re not really getting rid of me.”

“Tradition,” Niles said, looking dapper in his tuxedo. “Let’s make sure we didn’t forget anything. Old?” He began the roll call.

“My wedding band.”

“New?”

I looked down at the long white gown. “My dress.”

“Borrowed?”

Reaching up, I touched the pearl necklace my mother offered for me to wear. “Necklace.”

“Blue?”

I tugged the hem of the dress, revealing my garter. “Covered.”

Niles reached out his hand with something within his grasp. “And here, my friend, is a penny for your shoe. Jeremy wanted me to give it to you.”

“You’re the best.”

I removed my foot and slipped the penny into the sole of my shoe.

Dad offered me his arm. “Come on, let’s make this legal.”

Legal.

I grinned. Yes, this time, our marriage would be legal.

We applied for the license together, and our officiant was here, ready to sign. What Florida hospital chaplain wouldn’t accept an autumn trip to Indiana? I wanted Pastor Abrams to perform the ceremony, and Damien made it happen.

Niles was the first to walk down the aisle, followed by Kenzie in her white dress. As the music grew louder and the guests began to stand, Dad squeezed my hand. “I don’t know what Niles was saying about you being visible, but according to this old man, Ella, you’re the star. Damien’s damn lucky to have you.”

Lucky.

It all started with a lucky day.

No, on that day, it began to rekindle.

At the end of the aisle, my gaze met the navy-blue stare of my soon-to-be husband.

“We both are, Dad.”

Gabriella

Spring of the following year

“I’m nervous,” I admitted, overlooking an arrangement of appetizers. “Julia made this look so effortless.”

Damien wrapped his arm around me and squeezed before snagging a cucumber from the vegetable tray. “Everything is perfect.”

Perfect for the quarterly meeting of the pharma coalition. With caterers busy in the kitchen, I looked down at my long gown that my husband had chosen for this occasion. Soon, our home would be filled with all the people I’d met a year ago.

The Shermans, Robert Ayers and his new wife—his fifth, the Holstons, Cynthia Broche and her husband, Ian Morrison, the Cades, and of course, the Sinclairs. With Robert’s new wife, we were at the same number as last year. However, we were without Dwain Welsh.

“So much has happened in the last year,” I said.