THURSDAY MORNING, OBSCENELY EARLY

Panting and thirsty as heck, I make my way to the bar. I could go up to the VIP section, where my crew has a table, but I want a club soda.

I’m also sick to death of having to fake a smile as though I’m having the time of my life. I’m not having a bad night, but honestly? It’s the first time I’ve been out with my friends since learning of my parents’ divorce plans and since my fight with Andrew, and I’m trying to get back to my happy place, I really am. But every smile feels plastic, every laugh hollow.

The bartender gives me attention immediately, probably courtesy of one of my more scandalous dresses, a V-neck black number that’s skintight and doesn’t provide much coverage up top or down below.

Marley told me to wear it. Called it a revenge dress.

And when I glance up and find a good-looking guy with brown hair and dark blue eyes making his way toward me, I realize what she means.

“Hey.”

I stifle a sigh. Such a great opening. “Hi there.”

“Jason. Dance?”

Seriously? I glance at the wall of the club, half expecting to find cave drawings etched into it. I would not at all be surprised if this guy’s next meal plan involved clubbing an animal and asking his female companion to pick berries.

But since I have no intention of being that female companion and, being perfectly sober, can stay true to that . . .

“Yeah, sure,” I say with a shrug. “I’ll dance.”

I let Jason lead me onto the dance floor, trying to ignore that his hands are both too big and too soft. Something I become even more aware of when he pulls me against him and . . . just sort of grinds.

I don’t even bother to sigh. What was I thinking, really?

Unfortunately, the song isn’t one I recognize, so I can’t gauge how much longer I have to endure the torture of his hands all over me.

I grit my teeth and run through my gamut of excuses, trying to find the one that seems the least rude.

Turns out I don’t need one.

Jason steps back so suddenly I nearly fall, but strong hands steady me.

Not Jason’s hands.

I freeze, because I know those hands. I know their strong confidence, know their tentative tenderness.

I take a breath and turn.

Because of those hands, I know who’s behind me, but it’s still a shock to see Andrew Mulroney here. In a club.

The strobe lights prevent me from seeing his face clearly, but he’s definitely not smiling.

“A moment, Georgiana?”

Jason steps forward. “Hey, man. I saw her first.”

Andrew cuts the bigger man with a glare. “No, man. You fucking didn’t.”

“Hey, guys—” I say uneasily.

“Shut up, Georgiana,” Andrew growls.

Then his fingers wrap around my wrist and he’s dragging me through the crowd with a masculine authority that, frankly, isn’t all that different from Jason’s caveman routine, but I like it a hell of a lot more.

The bouncer tries to stop us as we approach the side door. “If you go out, you don’t come back in.”

“Thank God,” Andrew mutters.

A moment later I’m blasted by cold air. It’s chillier than usual, even for early November, and my dress is, well, pretty much nothing.

Andrew releases my wrist and, glancing down at my dress, curses. “It looks even smaller out here,” he mutters. He shrugs out of his jacket and without preamble drapes it around me and pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me and holding me captive.

“How’d you find me?” I ask, squirming to get away. He doesn’t relax his grip.

“I tried Hailey, but she didn’t answer. So I’ve been going from club to godforsaken club for fucking hours trying to find you.”

“Andrew, that’s nuts, you could have just—”

“Shut up, Georgiana Frances Watkins. Just shut up for one damn minute, because I have a couple of things to tell you.”

“Let me guess,” I say, pulling away more forcefully. “You’re here to tell me that I’m ridiculous. That I’ve been childish for not picking up your phone calls so that you can lecture me. That I’m overly emotional, that if I’d just calm down and listen to reason—”

“That if you’d just calm down and listen to reason, you’d see that I’m trying to win you back!” he interrupts with a shout.

I blink in surprise at the outburst, and the conversations around us dwindle to a murmur as people start to catch a whiff of the scene playing out in front of them.

I cross my arms and look at him. “And you’re pissed about it, huh?” I say, refusing to make this easy for him. “You’re angry because I’ve forced you to mess up your schedule, that I’m not doing as I’m supposed to, that this isn’t tidy.”

“Yes, a bit,” he growls.

I scoff to hide the hurt and take a step back.

“No. Damn it. Damn it, just wait a minute while I—”

“While you think?” I ask gently. Because as mad as I am, as convinced as I am that we don’t have a future, I do understand this man. I understand that in his way he does care; he just doesn’t know how to process anything that can’t be, well . . . processed.

“Go home, Andrew,” I whisper, stepping toward him and brushing my lips to his cheek.

“Wait, Georgie—” His fingers find my shoulders. “Give me a sec, I have a speech.”

I smile up at him, even as my heart breaks for both of us. “You don’t get it, Andrew. I don’t want the guy with the pretty, planned-out speech. I want the guy who’s not afraid to be spontaneous when he needs to be, who’s not afraid to get messy, because love is messy.”

His eyes flare, and he captures my chin with his fingers. “Is that what this is? Do you love me?”

The question sends a spark of pain shooting through me, and I take a step back without answering.

“Georgiana—”

I turn away, my vision obscured with tears as I scan the crowd, hoping to see Marley or a familiar face. Wanting to find someone who can whisk me away from the pain of this moment. Someone who will stop me from giving in to the temptation to settle for a guy who doesn’t believe in fairy tales.

The crowd is still quieter than usual, so the familiar lyrics hit my ears loud and clear, if not exactly on key.

Someone is singing “That’s How You Know,” from Enchanted. I go perfectly still, eyes closed, as I wait to wake up from the dream.

When I open them again, the words are still coming, closer this time, the voice low and rough and masculine, and nothing like Amy Adams’s soprano, but infinitely more dear.

I slowly turn, unapologetically crying as I face a still-singing Andrew. It’s really only fair that with such a beautiful face, he has a semi-terrible singing voice.

“Really?” I say on a sob. “Really? Everyone’s staring.”

He only sings louder, lifting his hands and spinning in a circle to the whoops of the crowd before continuing toward me.

Only when his hands move to cup my face does he stop the song.

“That’s how you know, Georgiana,” he says, bending down so his lips are to my ear, his next words just for me, not the crowd. “That’s how you know I love you.”

I mean to tell him I love him too, but the only thing that comes out is a sob as I throw my arms around his neck and pull him close.

He still doesn’t relax, the press of his fingers urgent, demanding. “Love me back,” he whispers. “Please love me back.”

I press my face to his neck. “You’re ridiculous,” I whisper. “Of course I love you back.”

Andrew’s eyes close, his head going back in relief, before he looks down at me with a smile. “If you really love me, we’ll never speak of the singing episode again.”

I grin back. “If you really love me, you’ll do an encore whenever I demand it.”

His gaze goes just a touch more serious as his fingers brush my lips. “I truly do love you, Georgiana. I owe you so many apologies for the way I spoke to you that night.”

“I’d like to hear those,” I say, going to my toes and kissing him. “Maybe later? In bed? Naked?”

“But—”

“Please don’t make me beg you to take me home right now,” I say with a little laugh.

He kisses me slowly and thoroughly, but pulls back far too soon and checks his watch. “Not yet. It’s just past three.”

I lift eyebrows. “You say that mighty casually for a man who usually gets up in two hours.”

“Actually, I get up in one hour. I usually wake up at four; I just dawdled a little so I could see you every morning.”

“Four? I don’t know if that’s sweet or obscene.”

“Both. Now, what time does your donut shop open?” he asks, putting an arm around my shoulder and pulling me close as he lifts a hand to hail a cab.

“Not till five, but they let me in at a quarter to.”

“Of course they do,” he mutters. “So what do you usually do until then?”

I shrug. “Talk with friends. Go to a diner. There’s an all-night coffee shop that does Disney karaoke from midnight to four—”

“The diner it is,” he says, ushering me into the cab.

“Should I be offended you’re not dragging me home and into bed as soon as possible?” I ask.

He smiles but doesn’t answer as he gives the taxi driver the intersection of a diner near our apartment building.

A couple of hours later, happy on coffee, hash browns, and the love of my life, I realize why Andrew was stalling. It was so that he could slide a perfect solitaire on the fourth finger of my left hand in our apartment building’s lobby with Ramon and Charles and the rest of the staff waiting with mimosas.

And in case you’re wondering . . .

At five A.M. on the dot, I said yes to being Mrs. Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.