If I hadn’t loved him before, I probably did now, but I pushed that from my mind with a hard shove.

There’d been onlookers then, as we moved from one scenic photo op to the next, and there were onlookers now, as we walked into a quaint, cozy Italian restaurant Holden had found on his phone. It was easier to ignore all the stares and whispered comments with my hand in Holden’s.

Once we were seated at a little table in the corner, Holden said, “All that’s left is to eat, drink, and be married.”

Grinning, feeling a little more at ease with the shift back to our go-to of dorky puns, I shot back, “That and elope for the best.”

Holden laughed appreciatively, and we crept another degree closer to our normal.

Our server showed up then with a bottle of champagne and two flutes. “On the house for the newlyweds,” he said as he poured the bubbly into our glasses. “Congratulations.”

We thanked him and he went quickly on his way as if to give us privacy for our first toast as a married couple.

“That was unexpected,” I said. “This whole thing is unexpected.” I gestured around us. “Cute place and it smells amazing. Thanks for finding it.”

Our eyes met, and I couldn’t help but be rattled by the impact of those familiar, compassionate green orbs as we sat there so close together, at a table for two, in wedding attire.

Holden held his glass up in a toast and said, so that no one else could hear, “To both of us getting what we dream of. Cheers, darlin’.”

I’d been so caught up in the moment, in that look between us, that his mention of business, the very reason for all of this, jolted me back to reality.

Reality was that this was a business deal. Reality was that Holden wanted his brewery, not me, and it would do me good to remember my first interest was my career as well.

How could I forget what we were really doing even for a couple of minutes?

I recovered quickly and said, “To beer making and Marks International.”

We clinked our glasses and sipped our champagne.

The server appeared to take our drink orders, then hurried off again.

Holden and I spent a few minutes looking over the menu, discussing options, and when our drinks showed up along with a basket of steaming, oven-fresh bread that smelled divine, we placed our orders, Holden going with a swordfish cioppino and me sticking with a chicken fettuccine Alfredo in deference to my white dress.

“So, we did it. Tying the knot was smooth and painless,” he said once we were alone again.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Were you expecting torture?”

He held the bread basket out to me. I took a slice, and he did the same, then mixed oil, grated Parmesan, and black pepper on a small dipping plate.