Wedding Vows: Just Married: The Ex Factor / What Happens in Vegas... / Another Wild Wedding Night

As they walked away making the short stroll to his hotel in overcoats and gloves, he said, “Thanks, that was more fun than I expected.”

She squeezed his hand through their two gloves. “Thank you. Louise has a niece getting married next year. I schmoozed.”

He laughed down at her. Her face was alive, her cheeks pink with cold, her eyes sparkling. He couldn’t help himself, he leaned over and kissed her full lips.

Her hand slipped up to his shoulder. “What was that for?”

“Schmoozing, smooching, I get confused.”

“Come on, walk faster.”

“You cold?”

“No. I want to get naked with you, and fast.”

“That’s my girl,” he said, pulling her along the pavement at top speed. If he hadn’t been staying on the seventeenth floor he’d have run for the stairs. As it was, the time spent waiting for the elevator was agony. Once the car came and they were inside and alone, he pulled her to him, kissing her hungrily, pulling off his gloves and slipping his hands inside her coat to feel her up.

She giggled, but slipped off her gloves to do some exploring of her own.

By the time they reached his room they were both panting. His hands were unsteady as they pulled off her coat, her dress.

When he saw her underwear he nearly expired. Under that classy dress she had the sexiest, barely-there black wisps of nothing that he’d ever seen.

He had them off in no time. She pulled back the covers and slid into bed, watching with frank enjoyment as he ripped his own clothes off and then rolled into bed. And paradise.

“GOOD THING we slept over at the hotel,” Dex said next morning as they got ready to go down to the restaurant just off the lobby for a late breakfast.

“Why?” Karen asked.

“I don’t have to worry about a certain CPA showing up this morning and forcing a showdown.”

“Very amusing. To be honest with you, I think he dumped me for my cake decorator.”

“Wow. She must be hot.”

She swatted him and then gave him a shove that sent him sprawling. Luckily he’d had the forethought to grab her on the way down so they bounced onto the mattress together, still damp from the shower, still hungry for each other.

At some point, he knew they’d have to face up to what they were doing, but right now he was so happy to have her back in his life that he didn’t want to go there. Having that sweet, willing body back in his bed was enough.

For now.

“Dex,” she said, in a sexy, breathless tone, as she unbelted her robe.

He suspected breakfast would be late. And it would be room service.

18 (#ucb064ee0-dac0-5837-aba9-6a9e4082d1b3)

WHEN RON ARRIVED for their coffee date, bundled in an overcoat, gloves and warm boots, his nose red from the cold, Laurel was already waiting on a bench. She got up and hugged him. He seemed a little taken aback but hugged her in return. She thought they fit nicely together, being of a similar height. When you were both average, average could be perfect.

She was wearing a man’s winter coat that she’d picked up at a thrift store, a woolen hand-crocheted hat with a pink crocheted flower on the side that an aunt had sent her for Christmas, and purple mittens.

“This is a very nice spot,” he said, seeming to see the LOVE sculpture for the first time in his life though he must have viewed it hundreds of times.

She was so happy he approved. He sat down on the bench and she reached into her bag and pulled out the thermos of coffee she’d made earlier. She only drank fair trade coffee, of course, and the brew was excellent.

She poured the coffee into china mugs she’d brought from home. They were pottery, made by hand at a women’s collective in Guatemala and she loved their heft and the connection she felt with these women who were using their own artistic talents to make a better life.

She handed him his coffee, then realized she hadn’t brought milk or sugar. “Um, I hope you like it black.”

“I do.”

Finally, feeling both bold and foolish, she unearthed a reusable cake box and handed it to him.

“What’s this?”

“A little something to go with your coffee.”

He opened it slowly and the grin that split his face made him look anything but unremarkable. He put down the coffee on the bench and removed his gloves so he could ease the cupcake out of the box.

She’d spent more time on that one cupcake than she’d spent on some four-tier wedding cakes. And his response was everything she could have hoped for.

The cake was spherical, with a flat spot on the bottom so it would stand. On it, she’d iced a simple variation of the continents, using blue gel with touches of green as the sea. On top of the world was a man made of fondant, a man with glasses and average-colored hair, in a gray suit—including a tiny blue-and-red striped tie—holding a briefcase in one hand and a gun in the other. She’d considered writing Top Secret on the briefcase but decided that was too obvious.

At first he simply looked at it, turning it every way so he could see the cake from all angles, not saying a word, but she could tell from his expression that he was pleased.

“This,” he finally said, “is the nicest cake I’ve ever had. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She felt absurdly pleased. It was so rare for her to be present when her creations were consumed. Sometimes she never even met the final customers, she’d get commissions from Karen or Chelsea. To have the opportunity to watch someone she liked enjoy the fruit of her artistic vision and stove labor made her bubbly with excitement.

She anticipated his first bite. Would he be delighted at the cake she’d chosen for him? A plain white with lacings of hidden lemon flavor? She wanted to see him with icing smeared around his clean and proper mouth, to watch him gobble the tiny figure of himself she’d crafted so painstakingly.

After admiring the cake again, chuckling over the details and peering closer until his nose almost touched Africa, he said, “I can’t believe how accurately you’ve delineated the continents in such a small space. It’s quite remarkable.”

Then, as carefully as he’d eased it out of the box, he began to replace the cake.

She couldn’t stop herself from crying out in protest.

“What is it?” he asked, the thriller cupcake half in and half out of the box.

“You’re not diabetic, are you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then why don’t you eat it?”

He appeared as shocked at the idea of eating the cupcake as she was at the notion of him not eating it. “I can’t do that, it’s a work of art. I want to enjoy it. Make it last.”

“You can’t,” she said, understanding the joy of her profession in that moment as she never had before. “Any more than you can make a perfect sunset last, or an amazing live concert, or a belly laugh. If you put that cake in the fridge until it rots, you’ll have missed the joy of eating it. Please.” She leaned over and touched his leg with her purple-mittened hand. “I made it for you.”