Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(27)

“And what song would you like?” His wife puts a plastic ring binder in front of us.

“Ooh, that’s a big choice,” I say.

Earl shrugs. “He was a genius. What’s your favourite song? We can work from there.”

“‘Pocketful of Rainbows’,” Lachlan and I say together. We stare at each other in shock.

“Really?” he says.

I nod until I have to stop, as it makes the room spin. “I love him. My dad has all of his records. That’s my favourite.”

“Mine too.” He gives me a lazy, approving smile that shouldn’t matter as much as it does. “I think that bodes well, don’t you?”

“If you can agree on Elvis, you can agree on anything,” Earl says solemnly, and his wife nods in agreement.

“Okay, folks, the paperwork is done,” she says as Earl disappears through the door behind the counter. “Would you like any extras?”

“Like what?” Lachlan asks.

“Confetti, three photographs, and we file your marriage certificate for you.”

“We want all of it,” he says expansively, if a little slurred. “I want Joe to have anything he wants. He deserves everything.”

She smiles approvingly at him. Whether it’s because he’s cleaned her out of confetti or because he sounds adoring, I don’t know.

She goes to a set of double doors and opens them. “The chapel,” she announces.

It’s like being inside a wedding cake with lots of white and gold furniture. Two cardboard Elvises stand guard at the entrance like rhinestoned bodyguards, and a scarlet carpet runner leads to the front of the chapel.

A door opens and Earl appears—as Elvis. I blink hard and bite my lip, so I don’t lapse into uncontrollable giggles. He’s Elvis circa the weight gain and is wearing a blue jumpsuit with the neck slashed down to his navel, displaying greying chest hair. His hair has been greased back into a pompadour and his eyes are covered in a pair of aviator sunglasses.

He's accompanied by an old man with thinning grey hair and rheumy eyes. “This here is Hudson. He’ll be your witness.” He pushes Hudson towards the chapel and the man trots off quickly as Earl turns to us. “Well, who do we have here?” he booms in a Southern accent that does sound quite a bit like Elvis. “I think it’s Lachlan and Joe. Two burning hunks of love.”

Lachlan is quivering next to me whether in fright at realising what he’s set in motion or to stop himself laughing. I sneak a glance at him. It’s laughter.

Lorna pats my arm. “If Lachlan would like to go to the front of the chapel, then Elvis will lead Joe down to him.”

Lachlan looks startled. “Don’t we walk together?”

“No, sir. Elvis will deliver your groom to you.”

“Like a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket,” I say dreamily.

Lachlan saunters down the aisle, and I admire his arse, flushing when I see Earl watching me. He lowers his glasses and winks at me. Then he raises his arm in invitation and I link mine with his.

“Let’s go,” he intones. We step onto the red carpet, and Lorna presses a button on a stereo. Music plays, and I jump a foot in the air as Earl raises a microphone to his mouth and starts to sing.

I stare at him, open-mouthed, and he inclines his head graciously and starts to walk me down the aisle, still singing.

His voice soars around us, which would be a good thing if he could sing. Unfortunately, he cannot, and so my wedding march sounds like “A Pocketful of Rainbows” being sung through a bucket. I bite my lip to hold in hysterical laughter, but Lachlan doesn’t help matters. His eyes are full of an unholy glee.

It seems to take forever to walk down the aisle. As he sings, Earl stops occasionally to thrust his pelvis, and a camera flashes, taking his photo. The flared legs of his jumpsuit almost trip me up a few times, but at last we arrive next to Lachlan. His smile is steady, but he continues to sway like he’s in a strong wind.

“Good evening, folks,” Earl says to the non-existent crowd. Hudson looks appropriately interested. “What a fantastic pair of grooms. Lachlan and Joe are here all the way from England.” He listens for applause—which doesn’t come, of course—and performs another pelvic thrust. A camera flashes, and Lachlan shudders with the effort of trying to contain his laughter.

“I’ll remember this forever,” he says solemnly.

“Oh my god,” I say, awed. “This is far more than I ever expected from marriage. My dad would have been so boring at giving me away compared to this.”

Earl stops singing for a second and smiles at us. “Well, here we are. Lachlan, if you can turn and face Joe and look into his pretty blue eyes. Just like Elvis’s suede shoes.

Lachlan turns to face me as Earl keeps singing, and, as our gazes meet, our giggles fade. I’m not entirely sure how we got here, and from the look of Lachlan, neither is he, but suddenly I’m touched by the whole thing—his hand in mine, the weight of his stare. Even the sound of my favourite Elvis song being butchered is sweet.

Earl stops singing. “Now, let’s get you folks married.”

The ceremony flies past, probably because it’s the fastest service known to man. I feel like I’m waking from a dream when Lachlan slides a ring on my finger.

I look down and blink. It’s platinum-coloured and encrusted with bright imitation diamonds. It’s the gaudiest thing I have ever seen. I turn my hand and the lights catch the diamonds, making them all sparkle.