Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 31414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 157(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 157(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Sharkbait hops onto my finger without missing a beat, crowing, “Ooo baby, heaven is a place on earth!”
Connor laughs. “Agreed, Sharkbait.” He sighs, shaking his head as he asks, “If I offer the driver an extra fifty, do you think he would be up for making a pit stop? I can look up the location of the closest animal shelter. We can’t leave this poor little guy out here in the heat all alone.”
Another wave of affection curling through my chest, I nod. “You’re right. And I think the driver would be okay with that. He looked like a nice guy.” I push up on tiptoe, pressing a kiss to his cheek before I murmur, “But not as nice as you. Is it wrong that your sweetness makes me want to get naked with you even more?”
He flashes me a warm smile. “No, it’s pretty awesome actually. And right back at ya, beautiful.”
“Pretty boy, pretty boy,” Sharkbait croaks, making us both laugh again.
“Yes, you’re a pretty boy, too,” Connor says, pulling out his phone. “And I’m sure once you’ve had a chance to rest up at the shelter, people will be fighting over the chance to adopt you.” To me, he asks, “Want to sweet talk the driver while I search for a shelter?”
“Will do,” I say.
Ten minutes later, we’re on our way to the only shelter within the city limits, with no idea our afternoon is about to take a turn for the chaotic.
But that’s okay, Connor and I handle the chaos the way we’ve handled everything so far—as a calm, cool, collected team. I’m not usually a teamwork girl. I prefer to work alone, insulated from the incompetence of others, but Connor is the furthest thing from incompetent.
When the shelter refuses to take Sharkbait on the grounds that they don’t have facilities in place for birds, he offers to make a donation to help them cover the costs of a new cage and bird food. When they still insist they aren’t a bird-friendly shelter, I call every other shelter in the area, while he looks for bird rescue organizations.
When both of those efforts prove fruitless and we’re quickly burning time we’ll need to drop off our bags and get to the wedding venue, he turns to me and asks, “Any other ideas?”
I love that he asks me, that he already values my input and my voice.
I love it even more when he says, “Yes,” when I suggest we become the proud foster parents of a scraggly parrot—at least until we can get him home to the shelter where my sister-in-law, Starling, works, which accepts all varieties of homeless critters.
Three taxi rides later—one to Petco, one to a specialty store for parrot food, and a final stop for me to grab the pantyhose I forgot to pack—we’re finally on our way to our hotel, with just barely enough time to spare. But I don’t care that I won’t have time to take another shower before the wedding. My hair actually looks amazing in the dry desert heat, and I’m too excited to marry this man to care too much about the ceremony itself.
What matters most is that by eight-thirty tonight, Connor Sinclair will be my husband—and teammate—for as long as we both shall live.
Chapter 8
Connor
Thanks to bumper-to-bumper traffic and a group of sign-waving protestors blocking the easiest path to our destination, we make it to the chapel with only ten minutes to spare. But my brilliant soon-to-be wife called ahead, and our rental clothes are already waiting for us in our dressing rooms and the attendant said they could push the ceremony to eight-fifteen, since the next couple isn’t booked until nine.
“See you in twenty minutes?” Wendy Ann asks breathlessly as we part ways in a long hallway leading to the groom’s suite on one side and the bride’s on the other.
“Absolutely, I’ll be the one in—” I break off with a frown. “In what? Which decade did you choose?”
She grins, her blue eyes dancing with mischief. “You’ll see.”
“Not the 80’s,” I say, my brow furrowing. “I love a laugh as much as the next guy, but I don’t think I can pull off a Miami Vice suit. And I need at least one decent picture to share with the family. It’ll make my parents at least fifty percent less likely to disown me.”
She shrugs, backing away beside the equally mischievous-looking attendant. “Trust me, Sinclair. I won’t let you down. I promise.”
“I know you won’t,” I say, deciding then and there that I’m wearing whatever she picked out, even if she’s arranged for us to be married in matching blow-up T-Rex costumes.
Because I do trust her, and I want her to know that there’s nothing in the world more important to me than making her happy.
Besides, my parents won’t disown me. They’re old-fashioned, but they love me, and once they see how great Wendy Ann and I are together, they’ll just be happy that we found each other.