“Oh no! Branson, get back in the limo.” From a few feet away, her voice altered as if she’d been facing away and then swiveled toward him. Her crutches clomped back, and she grabbed his arm, clamping down so hard his adrenaline kicked into overdrive.
“What’s wrong? Did someone try to hurt you?” He attempted to shuffle in front of her, wishing he knew where the threat originated.
“No, but this place… it won’t work.”
“Why not? Is it a bad neighborhood? Are there drug dealers? Hookers? What is it?”
“It’s a wedding chapel.”
CHAPTER 15
Stephanie stared at the lettering on the glass door—Hunka Hunka Burning Love Wedding Chapel.
“Go on,” Branson urged. “What can it hurt?”
“We won’t actually be getting married, right?”
“We can’t. We don’t have a marriage license. The only person I can marry tonight is Finn.”
“Yes, but we won’t have to do the whole, I-do thing, will we?” If we have to go all the way through a fake ceremony, I might start crying. He’ll find out I’m in love with him. It’ll ruin everything.
“Would it be so hard to pretend we were in love?”
No. The hard part is pretending I’m pretending.
“I’m not much of an actress. It’d be better if we could skip the ceremony.”
“But Ellie would probably get a kick out of seeing her mom get married by Elvis on the video.”
“And how would I explain to her that you and I aren’t really married? Did you think of that?”
“You can tell her we made a movie together, like all those Elvis movies she watched.”
Yeah, but how will I explain it to my heart?
With a huge breath to bolster her courage, she pushed the door open and hobbled inside.
“Mr. Knight! We’re glad you made it.” A gray-haired man in a fifties-style suit—definitely not an Elvis look-alike—greeted them as they entered. “And this must be your lovely bride.”
She started to correct him. “We’re just here to—”
“That’s right,” Branson interjected. “This is Stephanie and I’m Branson.”
“I’m George. I’m the wedding director here.” He jotted down their names. “Mr. Sampson told me to take special care of you two. I understand you want the super bonus wedding package, right?”
“Whatever it takes to get signed pictures and a video with Elvis.”
She grabbed his hand and squeezed, her fingernails biting into his skin. “What’re you doing?” she muttered from the side of her mouth.
“Don’t worry. I’ll handle it,” he muttered back.
“Let’s take care of the financial details first,” George said, with a bright smile. “And if you’ll give me your marriage license now, I’ll be sure it gets signed. If we wait ‘til the end, couples sometimes forget. It’s not legal unless Priscilla signs it.”
“Priscilla? As in Elvis’ wife?” Branson asked.
“That’s right,” he said, as he swiped Branson’s credit card and handed it back. “Our wedding official is really named Priscilla. Only her last name is Parsons. She’s considered getting it legally changed to Presley. Wouldn’t that be cool? To have your marriage certificate signed by Priscilla Presley?”
“We aren’t getting Elvis?” Stephanie asked.
“You get Elvis, for sure. In the super deluxe bonus package, Elvis will sing you three love songs. Plus, you get digital images, an autographed print, and a video recording of the ceremony.” He frowned. “I don’t have your marriage license.”
“We don’t have one,” Steph replied. “And Branson’s in a pretty big hurry to get back to the hotel.”
George smiled, revealing a jagged broken front tooth. “I understand, man. Raring to get back for the honeymoon, right?” He doubled over, cackling with laughter until he started choking. Meanwhile, Stephanie searched the room for a hole to crawl into and hide until her face stopped burning. Her only solace was Branson appeared equally uncomfortable.
“Sorry,” he whispered, giving her hand a squeeze.
When did we put our hands together? Did I do that?
When George caught his breath, he coughed a few times, low and hoarse, like an old smoker. “Well then… no license? We’ll skip that part. We do it all the time.” George walked to a set of ornate doors and waved for them to follow. “Lots of people get married in Vegas without a license and have a legal ceremony later.”
“Can we skip the ceremony and just get the pictures and the video?” Steph asked, tottering behind him with Branson.
An incredulous voice behind them inquired, “You don’t want to get married?” The owner of the voice was woman, approximately the size and shape of a linebacker, sporting a low-cut blue-velvet dress and a mass of Orphan-Annie curls on her head. She stared for a long time, her round eyes, accented with thick black liner, taking in every detail of their appearance, and then burst out with a peal of laughter. “You’re teasing, aren’t you?” She stuck out a proportionately-sized hand. “I’m Priscilla. I’ll be doing the ceremony.”
For the first time, Stephanie realized how they looked—Branson in a sleek black tuxedo and her in a flowing, floor-length, designer gown that happened to be white, with tiny strands of embroidered coral flowers—exactly like a couple getting married. Would Priscilla believe Branson was wearing a tux for a charity tournament, while Steph had chosen her dress because it had a matching bolero jacket to keep her warm and a long skirt to hide the boot on her foot?
