Fated
There are a million things I should be doing right now. I should be double checking our liquor supply, making sure the sound system is working properly, ensuring that the lights are hooked up correctly. But I'm not doing any of those things. I'm standing at the bar of our empty club, reminiscing.
What are the chances that I'd meet my future husband--my soulmate--in this dark little club in Edmonton, a city I only visited once in a while when Kirk was playing for the Oilers? What are the chances of catching his eye, flirting with him, losing my virginity to him, without ever catching his name, but still, somehow, finding him in the end? What are the chances that eleven years after that day, we'd be standing in the same exact club, this time as owners, lovers, husbands? I may not have known his name then--but I share it now.
I've never been terribly faith driven. I never would've thought that fate or destiny or any of those things existed, until I met Andrew. Even before we knew about this history, this connection, I knew I was meant to be with him. When we discovered that all those years ago, in that black, hidden alley, it had been him and me fumbling and bumbling our way through our mutual first time, it strengthened that belief. He is mine, in every imaginable way, and I am his. He's been holding my heart since that night in July 1993, and I don't intend to get it back.
I don't need it, because I have his heart as well.
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