His best man and witness wouldn’t appreciate spending his entire day waiting at the courthouse while he and Rebekah goofed off in Malachi’s Costume Emporium.
“I should call my mom and let her know too,” she said, turning the dress to stare at the equally ugly reverse side. Five bows exploded from the rump in shameless celebration of the dress’s gaudiness.
“I’ll call her,” Eric said.
Rebekah tore her gaze from her strange obsession and blinked at him with her mouth hanging open. “You’re volunteering to call my mother.” She pointed at him and then at her chest.
He’d had a moment of bonding with Rebekah’s mother at the hospital that morning, and he wanted to use it to his advantage before he screwed something up and she went back to hating him again. He figured he had a couple days in Mrs. Blake’s good favor. Tops.
“Yeah, I’ll call her. No problem.”
Rebekah shrugged and went back to worshiping the ugly wedding gown.
Eric bit his lip as he watched her, wondering how to make her happy. He had a pathological need to bring her as much joy as she brought him. He figured it was time to call in a few favors. He stepped outside to make several calls because he didn’t want Rebekah to overhear his sudden change of plans. He hoped his friends would be willing to drop everything for him today and wondered how long he’d be able to stall his bride at the costume shop while they made his plan happen. His stomach was doing all sorts of acrobatics as he dialed his soon-to-be in-laws’ house and waited for someone to answer. He prayed his hesitant bride liked his impromptu surprise. He’d be crushed if he couldn’t make her burst with joy by the end of the day.
Chapter Two
Rebekah Blake—soon to be Rebekah Sticks—peeked over the rack of costumes she was contemplating and gazed at her very tall, very handsome, very tattooed, very fidgety fiancé. She was supposed to be deciding what to wear to their spur-of-the-moment courthouse wedding, but she couldn’t stop looking at the man. Couldn’t stop thinking about how sweet he was. How gorgeous. How generous. How wonderful. How thoughtful and understanding. How absolutely perfect.
Just how did she get to be so lucky? And why was she so fucking nervous? Her belly wouldn’t stop writhing no matter how much she told herself that this was what she wanted. And it was. Her heart and her mind were ecstatic about marrying Eric. It was only her stomach that seemed against the idea.
Having just rejoined her after making some twenty-minute-long phone call outside the store, Eric pulled a costume from the rack and held it up to his neck, glancing down at the green tights, brown tunic, and felt hat dangling limply from the hanger.
“Ah, perfect,” he said. “I’ll rob from the rich and give to the poor.”
“You are not wearing that to our wedding,” Rebekah said with a shake of her head.
“Green looks great on me,” he said, glancing up at her and sporting a dreamy grin the instant his blue eyes touched on hers. “And Robin Hood is the type of hero who makes the ladies swoon.”
Eric was the type of hero who made Rebekah swoon.
“But you’re too tall for tights,” she said.
“Too skinny, you mean?”
“No, you’re not skinny, you’re too tall. You’ll end up with your crotch at your knees.”
“I think you have me mistaken for Tripod.”
Rebekah laughed. Eric’s best friend, Jace, apparently had some monster cock, the sheer size of which scared the eggs out of chickens. Or maybe it scared them out of the ovaries of all species.
“What did you pick out?” Eric asked, lifting his cleft chin and then cocking his head in interest.
“Cleopatra?” It was far more a question than an assertion. If they were going to dress up for their courthouse wedding, she figured they should play at being one of the great couples in history. Robin Hood and Maid Marion would have worked, but Cleopatra and Mark Antony had been naughtier. Much more comparable to herself and her rock star lover. Well, except for the double-suicide thing. That was a no-go for her. She loved life too much to give it up willingly.
“So I get to choose between tights and a skirt?” he said, eyeing the pair of costumes Rebekah had taken off the rack and turning his nose up at the Marc Antony toga she’d selected. “Maybe we should go for Romeo and Juliet. But wait—doesn’t Romeo wear tights too?” He shook his head and paused, tapping his chin. “How about Bonnie and Clyde? I could dress like Clyde without looking like a tool. Gangsta!” He rattled an imaginary Tommy gun, making all the appropriate sounds. Loud sounds.
The shop’s proprietor remained undisturbed in his chair behind the counter.
Cleopatra and Mark Antony. Romeo and Juliet. Bonnie and Clyde. Those couples had died horribly for each other.
Rebekah’s scrunched her eyebrows together. “Ever notice how the most memorable couples all died way before their time?”
“I guess suicide is more romantic than paying the mortgage and folding laundry.”
She chuckled. “Depends on who you ask. I’d much rather fold your laundry for the next seventy years than prove I love you by falling into an early grave.”
“Ah, baby,” he said with a crooked grin, “where’s your sense of suicide pacts?”
Rebekah lifted the Cleopatra costume and gave it a shake for emphasis. “As much as I love you, I won’t be kissing a spitting cobra to prove it. So don’t go shoving any swords through your chest on my behalf.”
“I have a snake you can kiss,” Eric said and slid his hand down over his crotch. “It’s not poisonous, but if you kiss it just right, it does spit.”