Fuck! Francesca was beautiful! JC could barely wrap his brain around how beautiful his bride was as she walked towards him on her father’s arm. The soft satin sheen of her pale pink gown made her creamy skin glow. She wore her hair much in the way it had been the night they met. She was a goddess... an angel... soon -to-be his wife...
Life was good. He was marrying the love of his life, a woman who understood and supported him. The first single from his second CD was actually getting airplay and doing well. After his honeymoon he had a tour to prepare for — but that was happening here in Chicago. He was no longer content to let things happen to him — he made them happen for him. Francesca had given him the confidence to stand firm. And amazingly enough he had gained respect for it. No more Mister Nice Guy who rolled over all too easily to go with the flow.
He unconsciously pushed a stray curl behind his ear. Yeah, Francesca finally had ‘something to hold on to’ as she had wanted. He now sported short curls. He had better things to do than get constant haircuts anyway.
“Who gives this woman to be wed?” the priest asked.
“Her mother and I do,” Richard Carlisle stated as he placed Francesca’s hand in JC’s.
Not being able to help himself, JC ran the back of his fingers along Francesca’s downy soft cheek. “Good morning, Gypsy,” he whispered.
In answer she brushed her lips against his knuckles.
The priest then began. “Dearly beloved, we have gathered together to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony...”