I belted in, helped him to put on his own seat belt, and glanced behind us again. “In case you didn’t notice, there’s something very big stuck to the back of your truck.”

He smiled at me, his eyes as clear and happy as I’d ever seen them. “And that’s my surprise. I told you I’d plan the honeymoon.”

I blinked at the trailer. “Bring your own motel room along?” It loomed over us, taller than the truck—which was plenty tall on its own—taller and wider, too, with sections along the sides that were obviously intended to pop out. “I’m pretty sure it’s bigger than my old trailer.” Adam glanced over his shoulder and huffed a laugh. “I think it might be. This is the first I’ve seen of it. Peter and Honey took the truck and hitched it up.”

“Is it yours?”

“No. I borrowed it.”

“I hope we’re not going anywhere with little windy roads,” I said. “Or small parking lots.”

“I thought we’d spend the night in this really neat truck stop I know of in Boardman, Oregon,” Adam said, guiding it onto Highway 395

southbound. “The smell of diesel and the hum of big engines to accompany our first night together as man and wife.” He laughed at my expression.

“Just trust me.”

We did stop in Boardman to change out of our wedding clothes. Inside, the trailer was even more amazing than outside.

Adam unhooked the billion bitty buttons that ran from my hips to my neck. A billion bitty buttons from my elbows to my wrists still awaited.

They required two hands to unbutton, so all I could do was look around the trailer with awe.

“It’s like a giant bag of holding. Huge on the outside, but even bigger on the inside.”

“Your dress?” he said, sounding intrigued.

I snorted. “Very funny. The trailer. You know about bags of holding, right? The nifty magic items that can hold more things than would ever really fit in bags of their size?”

“Really?”

I sighed. “The make-believe magic item from Dungeons and Dragons.” I craned my neck around, and said, “Don’t tell me you haven’t played D and D. Is there some rule that werewolves can’t indulge?”

He leaned his forehead against my shoulder and laughed. “I may have been born in the Dark Ages”—actually he’d been born in the fifties, though he looked like he was only in his midtwenties; being a werewolf halts and reverses the aging process—“but I have played D and D. I can tell you for certain that Darryl has never indulged, though. Paintball is his game.” I took a minute to picture Darryl playing paintball. “Scary,” I muttered.

“You have no idea.”

Adam rubbed his cheek against mine and went back to his task. “I could just pull this apart, instead of unbuttoning it,” he said ten minutes later. It was a serious offer, spoken in a hopeful-but-doomed voice.