I glance at the clock as he walks over to my suitcase, pulls out the lone purple negligee I packed and tosses it to me.
“What restaurant is open at midnight and serves its patrons wearing lingerie?”
I slide it on as he tugs on a pair of boxers before giving me the come-hither finger. I trail him to the door before he opens it. On the other side sits a waiting cart, several chilled champagne bottles submerged in a large ice bucket. Two large covered platters rest in the center. Assorted chocolates and sweets are arranged around a tiny vase full of baby pink roses. Six unlit tapered candles sit in crystal holders next to it.
“This is incredible. I’ve been with you every second. How did you do this?” I can’t help my giddiness. Easton grins and retrieves the rolling cart, parking it next to the twelve-seater dining table in our villa. We quickly unload the haul, and I light the candles and lower the lights as he takes a seat at the head of the table, holding out his hand to me. I take it, and he pulls me into his lap before lifting both cloche covers to unveil several steaming crab legs and melted butter.
“You’re so damn predictable, Easton,” I utter, as my genuine appreciation rings clear in my voice.
Grinning, he moves my wet hair from the nape of my neck and presses a kiss to it. “No more talk of tomorrow. This is a time of celebration, so no more adulting tonight, deal?”
“Deal,” I concede easily as candlelight flickers over his profile while he untwists the wire cap on a champagne bottle before popping it. The overspray oozes down the side of the bottle, and he flicks it off like a pro before generously pouring two glasses. “Good, because tonight, we’re dining like Crownes.”
Natalie
I wake up in a stupor as Easton eases out of my grip. Moaning due to the arrival of a rapidly progressive champagne hangover, I blindly reach for the bottle next to the bed.
Gulping down the lukewarm water, I pray it does the trick as memorable pieces of our private party last night come back to me. As promised, we dined like kings on succulent crab and chocolates before having a private jam session. After washing myself clean of crab debris, I joined Easton in front of the adobe-styled fireplace just as he lit the match. Cushions and pillows surrounding him for support, he pulled me to sit between his spread legs while situating my newly purchased drum in my lap. Using his skilled hands, he guided mine, which held the sticks in an effort to help me grasp the basics.
Easton kept the champagne flowing, which in turn prematurely ended my lesson when I lost all semblance of rhythm. By the time we polished off the second bottle, an overly animated version of Easton made his first appearance—a version I quickly decided was a favorite. By the time we uncorked the third, we were exchanging sloppy words and kisses, consuming the last drop on the roof of our villa. Feeling no pain, tangled together in a large chaise lounge, we stargazed while conjuring up more immediate plans for our future.
Easton’s demand for a longer honeymoon in a more exotic place had us chattering in excitement, the sky above us feeling like our only limit as we discussed the possibilities of where and when.
Sometime after, I passed out only to wake up dangling in my husband’s arms as he carried me to bed. During the night, we’d stirred at the same time and reached for each other in the dark. It was as if our bodies were aware of our need for the other before our senses kicked in. When they did, we collided into motion, hands exploring, tongues dueling as we made love until dawn crept into our room. A mental snapshot of Easton hovering above me, bathed in the blue morning light flits in just as he calls for me to wake up from somewhere in the villa. I groan in reply and move to sit, head screaming.
It’s the muffled sound of Joel’s voice that has me coming to, just before a door slams. Easton’s curses precede him before he stalks back into our bedroom.
“What’s going on?” I groan as the thumping reminder of the amount of champagne we ingested continues to batter me.
“Baby, get dressed,” Easton orders, the alarm in his tone putting me on guard.
“What is it? What did Joel say?” Tightening the knot on my resort-provided terry cloth robe, I walk over to my suitcase and fish out my last clean pair of panties. I slide them on and turn to see Easton pulling on a pair of jeans as the reality of today’s dreaded task sets in.
We’re set to jet out of Sedona later this afternoon on separate planes with the intent to explain ourselves to our parents. The night we got married—with both of us knowing full well marriage licenses become a matter of public record as soon as they’re filed—we begged the officiant to wait until the very last minute in an attempt to buy us some time.