Eileen Wilks: Death Magic

She was making things normal for him, or trying to. What had he told her two weeks ago? She’d asked how he could spend time planning a wedding and picking out a necklace for her, and the answer had been so clear to him then.

How else could he live?

Nothing seemed as clear to him now . . . except for Lily. Who had picked out a present for him, and suddenly wanted to talk about wedding plans. He levered himself to his feet with the crutches, bent, and kissed her. “Perhaps Sam would conduct the ceremony for us.”

She stared at him. “Sam? But he isn’t—that is—I don’t think that’s legal.”

“Or we could ask Father Michaels. He did a nice job with Cullen and Cynna’s wedding.” He swung himself over to the full-length mirror and smiled. The patch did look rather good.

“But we aren’t Catholic. And he lives here, and we’re getting married in San Diego.”

“That could be a problem, I suppose. I have another idea. I think Carl was a minister at one point. It was under a different name, but that shouldn’t matter.” He got himself turned around. “Would you like to be married by Carl?”

“Your father’s cook.”

“Yes, and I’ve been wanting to talk about the doves.”

“Doves.” Her eyes widened in horror. “My mother wanted doves.”

“Perhaps she had a point. Wouldn’t it look splendid, releasing a few dozen white doves all at once to carry our message of hope and love up to—”

“You are so full of shit.” But she started laughing. “Doves, sure. Our guests would love some flying hors d’œuvres. Maybe we should have some cute little bunnies for them to chase after the ceremony instead of cake, sending our message of fuzzy, yummy love to flesh eaters everywhere.”

He had to kiss her again—which took some arranging, dammit, with the crutches, since he wanted to do more than peck her on the cheek. But he managed, and after a long, delicious moment, raised his head. “Lily, I love you.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “I know.”