Naomi looked like a painting hanging in old Creole homes—wide-brimmed hat, sundress printed with magnolias, oversized sunsses, and a smile that was so beautiful, it hurt my heart.

    You’re a lucky man that she’s smiling at you, giving you a chance after the way you hurt her. Don’t squander it, jackass.

    She sat sideways in the passenger seat of my truck, one leg tucked under her.

    “You sure I’m ready for this?” she asked as we turned off I-10 and into the winding twone roads of Lafayette Parish, Spanish moss hanging from every other tree like nature’s version of a wedding veil.

    “I already told ‘em I’m bringing the woman I’m in love with,” I said simply.

    Her mouth parted. Her sunsses didn’t hide how wide her eyes got.

    “Gage—”

    “You don’t have to say anything. I’m just saying it out loud. That’s who you are to me.”

    She didn’t say the words back, but she reached over andced her fingers through mine.

    I didn’t let go.

    The wedding was held in St. étienne’s Chapel just outside Breaux Bridge, about twenty minutes from Lafayette proper—a tiny wooden church painted white, nestled between two sugarcane fields, with a crooked sign out front that read Established 1862 in chipped gold lettering. The bell tower had a lean to it, like it was tired of standing straight after all these years, and Spanish moss hung from the oaks like messyce.

    Inside, the pews were filled with family in their Sunday best—seersucker suits, floral dresses, babies in smocked rompers—and the ceremony had been more of a formality than a spectacle. Just enough to bless the couple, kiss the bride, and make it to the real event: the party.

    This wasn’t a wedding that made it into glossy magazines—it was better.

    Sweaty and loud, filled with hugs thatsted too long and family that let their curiosity run rampant with no regard for political correctness or privacy. It was South Louisiana joy in its purest form.

    Behind the chapel, a sprawling white tent stretched wide, strung with bulbs that made it festive.

    From a wooden pavilion inside the tent, the wail of disjointed music drifted through as the zydeco band warmed up—ordion, washboard, and fiddleing to life like old friends fixing to raise hell.

    Soon, people would be dancing everywhere—on the grass, near the food tables, barefoot in the mud.

    Kids darted around with cups of sweet tea, and old men in bolo ties sat in mismatchedwn chairs talking politics and football like either could be won with a hot boudin and a strong opinion.

    “Is that…a pig on a spit?” Naomi asked, her hand nestled in mine.

    Damn but it felt good to have her with me.

    “It is,” I replied proudly. “Uncle Boudreaux’s doing. My guess, it’s been turning since six in the morning.”

    Inside the tent, long tables lined with butcher paper groaned under every Louisiana dish imaginable. Crawfish étouffée in giant cast-iron pots, catfish and hushpuppies in brown paper-lined baskets, and as my cousin, the bride, Lisette announced, “We have mini meat pies, ‘cause no one does small talk hungry.”

    Of course, the pièce de résistance was the wedding cake—white almond with lemon curd and a sheet cake version dusted with powdered sugar.

    The air was thick with the scent of fried seafood and sweet tea—a Southern perfume that wrapped around you and stayed.

    “Gage!” I turned when I heard my name, just in time to be swallowed by three aunts, a cousin, and a stray toddler who may or may not have been rted to me.

    Naomi was introduced, kissed, hugged, and pinched lightly on the cheek by my Aunt Octavia, and handed a te of food she hadn’t asked for.

    I lost her in the melee and then found her a half hourter, two-stepping with my great-uncle Guidry,ughing like she’d known him her whole life.

    I watched her—barefoot, dress swirling, flushed and luminous under the twinkling lights.

    She belonged here like she’d always been part of it. I had never loved her more.

    She saw me and pulled me in so I could dance with her—and we did until our legs burned.

    We ate until we couldn’t breathe.

    When the bride’s grandmother got up and sang a Cajun waltz in a voice like cracked porcin, Naomi leaned into me and whispered, “This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.”

    “Baby, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” I teased.

    “Please let this not be a dick joke,” she groaned.

    Iughed, kissing her softly on her cheek. “I booked us into a boutique hotel that I renovated many moons ago. You’ll like it.”

    “I will?”

    I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively. “All the rooms have wfoot bathtubs.”