“Are you ready?” The Wall of Winnipeg asked like we were heading for battle.

No.

I wasn’t, but as I looked at Aiden’s hard face and thought about how badly he wanted to live in the U.S. without worrying about his visa, how could I have told him no? Okay, I could have, but that huge part of me that was 100 percent pushover understood. I knew what it was like to not want to live somewhere.

Good-bye to the next five years of my life.

“Yes,” I finally answered. “We need pictures. The Immigration official is going to ask for them at your interview.”

The corners of his mouth moved in a way that was as much of a smile as I’d ever witnessed on him, and might ever see. My nerves were like live wires and my stomach hurt, but it seemed like I was doing the right thing.

“What? I looked it up. I want to be prepared.” To not go to jail and get what had been promised to me. And wasn’t that what Aiden should have realized? I was going off his word, relying on him to go through with what he’d promised me at the end of this upcoming journey. Hell, when we divorced, I could ask him for half of everything he owned. Obviously, he had to trust me enough to know I would never do something like that.

“Everything will be all right,” he seemed to promise me after a moment, that partial smile still tipping the fullest part of his cheeks.

“Okay.” My hands were sweaty. “Let’s do it.”

He nodded and in we went.

The two people working at the main desk had obviously done this a thousand times in the past. They didn’t blink a single eyelash at us in our street clothes; they didn’t gush or ask any questions that would have made me feel strange. I thought about the ring I was carrying around in my pocket and... I chickened out. I left it there, promising myself I’d take it out later.

We filled out the paperwork they gave us, chose a wedding package for $190.00 that included a ceremony in the chapel, a silk rose bouquet, a boutonniere that had Aiden eyeing it with disdain, a photographer, and CD with five high-resolution pictures to document our “big day.”

The minister was another $60.00.

So for $250.00, Aiden and I stood at the front of the aging wedding chapel with a man who might have been inebriated, and we listened to him say words that seemed to go in one ear and out the other. At least for me.

Was I freaking out? A little bit. But I kept my eye on the boutonniere that Aiden had shoved into the front pocket of his jeans, and I squeezed the ribbon-wrapped stems of my bouquet with damp fingers until the words, “Are you exchanging rings?” came out of his mouth.

Aiden shook his head at the same time my trembling fingers pulled the white gold band out of my pocket and handed it over. I didn’t want to put it on for him; it just seemed too intimate of a gesture.

Those dark irises shot to mine as he tried to slide it over his knuckles. It didn’t fit. Why was that so surprising? Of course he would have gotten bigger in the eight years since he’d won the national championship in college. He moved the ring over to his pinky finger and it slid on easily. That penetrating gaze went back to mine and stayed there, heavy and insurmountable, making me feel so vulnerable that I had to look down at the bouquet that wasn’t going to make it much longer under how much I was wringing my hands. I kept my expression down until the words “you may now kiss the bride” came out of the minister’s mouth.

When I peered up, I found Aiden’s eyes on me and I widened mine, slanting a look to the side, not knowing what the hell we were supposed to do. I’d been too busy stressing about the ceremony to worry about this part.

Then I thought about the photographer and knew what needed to be done even though I didn’t want to do it.

But more than that, I really didn’t want to go to jail or pay out of my butt for fines. Screw it. I didn’t have to make out with him… even if it wouldn’t have really been a hardship if I had to.

I took a step forward. Aiden’s gaze shifted to the side in uncertainty, something I didn’t want to focus on too much right then because I had my own nerves to worry about. Then I took another step forward, put my hands on those muscle-packed upper arms, and went up to my tippy-toes, still coming up short.

He was frowning even as he lowered his head, our gazes locked on each other, and I pressed my mouth against his. It was nothing grand, just a peck, the center of my lips against the fullest part of his. They were softer, more pliable than I ever would have imagined. The whole contact lasted maybe two seconds before I fell back to my heels and stepped away. My chest and neck were hot.

And this handsome, stern man I was signing paperwork with, was frowning even more after I put three feet between us.

“Congratulations!” the minister cheered as the other chapel employee literally threw glitter at us. I was glad I was wearing glasses when Aiden rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“One picture of you two together,” the photographer said, already gesturing me back to Aiden’s side.

I swallowed and nodded. Believable. A quick shuffle later, I was at his side. When he didn’t put his arm around me or do anything remotely couple-like, I slipped my arm through his, pressed my hip against him, and held on just as the flash blinded us.

The photographer smiled as she took a step back and lowered her camera. “Give me ten minutes, Mr. and Mrs. Graves, and I’ll have the CD ready.”

Mr. and Mrs. Graves.

Diana’s favorite saying described the situation perfectly: Shit just got real.