“Three days,” she corrected him. “You mean you forgot? It’s our eleven month, one week, and, uh . . . three days anniversary.”
He smiled. “Eleven months, two weeks, and five days.”
“Don’t be difficult.” She sat on the bed beside him. “The point is, this is not an early birthday present. You know I don’t believe in those. It’s just a thing.” She handed him the box.
There was a big silver bow on top, dwarfing the little box, which was very lightweight. He pulled off the bow and ripped the paper.
She’d given him an eye patch. A black silk eye patch.
“So you can look piratical instead of like a patient,” Lily said. “It sucks being a patient, but a pirate—well. That’s dashing.”
“I’m not vain.” But he handed her the patch so he could yank off the gauze pad, suddenly eager to be rid of it.
“Yes, you are.” The eye patch was attached to a strip of silk, elasticized in the back. She tugged it on. “Good. It fits.”
It did. His fingers told him that the patch covered his eye from brow to cheekbone. “Am I dashing now?”
“Absolutely.” She leaned in and kissed him lightly. “A man in a cast and bandages looks injured. A man in a cast and an eye patch looks dangerous. So I’ve been thinking.”
“It’s a habit of yours, I’ve noticed.” He slipped on his shoes. “Pass me the crutches, will you? I want to see how this looks.”
She handed them to him. “About the wedding.”
He stopped. “Yes?”
“We still haven’t settled who’s going to perform the ceremony. Maybe we should talk about that.”
The last time Rule brought that up, she’d all but run in the other direction. Lily had an issue with religion in general. What was she . . . oh. He smiled.
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.”