Love So Tender: Taking Care of Business / Play It Again, Elvis / Good Luck Charm

He didn’t respond and by that time, thank heavens, they were at the end of the aisle.

Lincoln shot her a triumphant smile before cutting the music. “Then I’ll begin the ceremony, talk about the sanctity of marriage, blah, bah, blah. Then I’ll ask who gives this bride, and Steve, you’ll say in your best Elvis voice, “It’s now or never. I give this woman in marriage.” Lincoln spoke in his own impersonator voice, which was bad.

Next to her, Steve shifted from foot to foot and looked up at the ceiling.

“Well, let’s hear it,” Lincoln prompted.

Gracie glanced sideways, holding her breath.

Steve cleared his throat and thrust his head forward like a rooster, and cleared his throat again. “It’s now—” He stopped, then sighed and started again, ducking his head in an attempt to inject more bass into his voice. “It’s now…or never.”

Gracie winced inwardly. He was worse than Lincoln.

“You need to add a warble,” Lincoln said flatly, then demonstrated. “It’s n-o-o-w or n-e-e-ver. Try again.”

She could feel the resistance rolling off Steve in waves—this exercise went against his every instinct, which she thought was odd for a creative person like a photographer. Maybe Lincoln was right—maybe Steve Mulcahy was on the skids and desperate for a job.

“Just try to have fun,” she whispered.

“It’s n-now or n-never,” he murmured.

“That’s not warbling,” Lincoln said. “That’s stuttering.”

“It’s fine,” Gracie said quickly. “Just don’t forget to add ‘I give this bride in marriage.’At that point you can return to the camera.”

“Then I’ll finish the ceremony,” Lincoln continued. “Yada, yada, yada, then I pronounce the couple man and wife, and you sing them out.”

Gracie led him to the back of the chapel and pointed to a small television screen. “The words will scroll across. Lincoln, will you cue up the song?”

Steve wanted to fall through the floor. For the first time in his law enforcement career, he was tempted to blow his own cover—there were some things that a man simply should not have to endure. As “I’m All Shook Up” began to play, perspiration broke on his brow beneath the ridiculous wig. It was bad enough that he looked like a fool, but that he looked like a fool in front of Gracie Sergeant….

It shouldn’t matter, he told himself. This was just a job, and singing karaoke was no different than assuming an accent to hide his identity, as he had many times. He would never see these people again—why should he care what they thought?

But inexplicably, he did. At least he cared what Gracie thought of him. Within a few hours of meeting her, she had gotten under his thick skin.

It was that darned kiss, he thought. And the transparent dress. And the tattoo. And the mole. The woman was a tight little package of sex appeal.

And he was dressed like Elvis.

He took the microphone she handed to him and held it to his dry mouth—he was all shook up, all right. He was shaking.

“Just follow the words on the screen,” Gracie urged.

He did. Somehow. With his face flaming, he talked and hummed his way through the song, thinking the one saving grace was that his partner Karen wasn’t there to watch the humiliating spectacle. Halfway through, howling reverberated through the room. H.D. sat in the doorway, his nose in the air, his eyes closed as he wailed at the offense to his ears.

Steve was in a sweat of degradation. “Forget it,” he snapped, and extended the microphone back to Gracie. A man had his limits.

“Try again, Mr. Mulcahy.”

He looked up and saw Cordelia Conroy crouching in the doorway with her hand clamped around H.D.’s muzzle. Her smile was part mocking, part challenging. “I suspect even Elvis didn’t get it right in the first take.” She walked away and the insolent hound, thank goodness, waddled after her.

Steve felt helpless—the woman had been clear that she expected him to hold up his end of the agreement.

To do whatever Gracie Sergeant told him to do.

He swung his gaze to the platinum-blond pixie and he nearly groaned in frustration—she must think he was a complete loser.

“Shall we try again?” she murmured.

He sighed and nodded, and Lincoln recued the song. Steve wiped the sweat from his forehead and, realizing that he had no pride left to salvage, sang the song again.

When it was over, there was dead silence in the chapel. Lincoln looked as if he’d just witnessed a human sacrifice. Gracie’s eyes were rounded and she looked as if she were trying to think of something to say.

Finally, her mouth curved into a wide, forced smile. “All righty then.” She turned to the front. “Lincoln, cue up the full track—we’ll say he has laryngitis and let him lip-synch. Would you show Steve the break room in case he wants a drink of water before we get started?”

She flashed him another smile, but Steve could see the alarm in her eyes as she turned to leave. She was thinking that right now, a dwarf Korean Elvis was looking pretty darn good.

Lincoln walked up, his mouth pulled back in a wry frown. “Man, you’re really bad.”

Steve glared. “I don’t sing. I’ve been trying to tell everyone.”

Lincoln clapped him on the back. “Well, now we believe you.”

Steve followed him into the hall. “Lincoln Nebraska can’t be your real name.”

Lincoln gave a dramatic sigh. “It is. My parents have a cruel streak.”

Gracie’s light floral scent lingered on the air. Involuntarily, Steve glanced toward the front of the building and caught sight of her silhouetted by the afternoon sun just before she disappeared around the corner.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Lincoln asked.

Steve jerked his head back so quickly, he dislodged his wig. “Who?”

Lincoln laughed. “Yeah. Listen, man, you have six weddings to get through tonight. You can’t afford to be distracted.”

Steve frowned. Then someone should tell Gracie Sergeant to wear civilized underwear. He turned away, marveling over how he’d gotten himself into this bizarre situation. He, of all people, who was allergic to weddings. This had been the longest day of his life, and it wasn’t even close to being over.

Lincoln led him into a room with a table, chairs and a small kitchen connected to the office he’d seen earlier. “Thirsty?”

Steve shrugged, past caring. “Sure.”

Lincoln opened a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses.

Steve straightened. “Should we be doing this?”

“Absolutely,” Lincoln said, pouring the shots, then handing one to Steve. “This should loosen you up a little. Unless you want to perform six weddings stone cold sober.”

Steve hesitated a split second, then downed the fiery liquid. Surely the King would forgive him.