Thick & Thin (Thin Love, #3)(88)

We looked like New Orleans—an amalgam of so many cultures, each peeking in through what we wore, how we wore it and the party that followed behind us. Ransom’s umbrella was black, but Keira and Mack had hot glued white ginger lei leaves around the brim to match the lei that he wore during the ceremony. The priest had looked a little skeptical at the leis and the kahu, holy man, chanting me toward the alter Kona insisted be there to add a little Hawaiian flavor to the ceremony. But I was New Orleans to the core, Tremé born and bred. It was the one good thing my Papa had bequeathed me—a rich cultural history and a place I could belong to. I was also Creole, and the French side in me wanted a priest. I’d have a Second Line and the whole day would mark who we were, all of us.

So, yes. We were New Orleans on a Sunday afternoon when spring had brought life to the city. The scent of gardenias and magnolias lined around the Quarter and the crepe myrtles had begun to bloom, showering the streets and sidewalks with small pink and white blossoms. Those small pedals brushed under my skirts as I danced next to my husband, my own white umbrella spilling champagne glitter and plumes from the white boa that surrounded the brim as I moved it up and down, laughing as Ransom tried to keep rhythm with me.

We’d hired Rebirth, a brass band with ties deeper than mine to the city, who played “Do Whacha Wanna” like nobody’s business, dressed for the Second Line and our wedding in fine, black suits and sharp, white hats with a knife edge brim. We followed that band, my husband and I, leading our family and friends behind us to wave white handkerchiefs in the air as we made a small parade from St. Louis Cathedral, all through the Quarter. We went the long way, for affect Rebirth’s lead trumpet play suggested, taking Pere Antoine Ally to Chartres, down St. Louis until we finished at Latrobe’s on Royal Street.

In New Orleans, we Second Line to open businesses, for christenings, weddings and to usher our dead to their eternal rest. It was quintessential New Orleanian to want the fanfare—that loud, sweet music wafting over the streets, the constant dance of family, friends and folks you do not know joining in as the bride and groom form the main line with the band, celebrating the life they begin that day. It was an honor to be on that main line. It was an honor to be a Riley-Hale and that’s what I wanted for the day; dancing with my husband, with our friends and family following behind and to be his. Always.

Kona had flown most of his family in from Hawaii. Leann and her husband, of course, had made the trip from Florida, my staff from the studio had attended, Lettie and a few of the other tenants around the complex where I lived came as well, most of Ransom’s old CPU buddies and a number of Dolphins teammates, and Tristian even managed his groomsman duties and still paid attention to the cute redhead he’d somehow sweet talked into being his date. Wonders never cease.

We stopped at Latrobe’s on Royal Street finding the beautiful yellow building with the white trim and wrought iron railings crowded with cars and the sparsest littering of photographers there to steal celebrity shots of Ransom and Kona and Keira. I didn’t care. Let the world see.

“Fuck ‘em,” Ransom said, following my gaze to the small cluster of folks, paparazzi included, that had cornered behind a barricade that blocked off part of the street. Money well spent, getting the Second Line permit and the police escort to keep the media at bay. My husband gave his umbrella to the wedding planner’s assistant and took mine from me, pulling my attention away from the gawking crowd to escort me through the lavish black wooden doors, the glass panes lined with fine gold draperies. We were brought out of the main stretch of rooms, asked to hold back and wait for the entrance we should make.

“It’ll only take a minute or two to get everyone seated.” I barely noticed the fussy assistant fixing my dress, making sure the train was attached securely to the hook at the waist. I only cared about the smile on Ransom’s face, how he kept his gaze open, focused on me as he leaned against a chair, eyes unmoving over the rim of the glass of bourbon he drank from. “Let me go see if they’re ready,” the assistant said. And just like that, we were all alone.

He looked unreal. Like some sort of Polynesian warrior had been fitted into a tuxedo, clamoring for the freedom of nudity away from the noose of a tie around his neck. It wasn’t a traditional tux—no cummerbund, no bow tie. It was like Ransom—smooth, classy with a bit of an edge—gray vest, gray tie with a diamond fleur-de-lis pin, black pants and jacket and a white Plumeria with pink tips boutonniere wrapped in lei leaves and baby’s breath. As I looked at him, the notion that he was really mine nearly staggered me.

“Those eyes, ko`u aloha, they say a damn lot.” He put the glass down, nearly toppling it over in his eagerness to get to me. “My wife. God help me.” He kissed me carefully, fingers gentle against my face, mouth hesitant. “Fuck, do I want you out of that dress.” He stepped back, looking down my body, head shaking like he didn’t believe I was real. “When I saw you walking down that aisle, all on your own, looking like a f*cking goddess, I swear, nani, I didn’t breathe for a good two minutes.” Ransom held out my arms to get a better look at me. That expression, the wild, hungry heat I noticed in his eyes made me think I was a goddess. And I wanted to be the fearsome thing he saw in me. “It should not be right, this dress. Brides are supposed to look like princesses, not vixens.”

“Is that what you think I am? A vixen?” My laugh was soft and it transformed into a moan when Ransom kissed my neck. “Because…” a little sigh left my mouth as he continued to kiss me, “because that’s what I feel like. A vixen. Your vixen, anmourèz mwen.”