The Wrong Bridesmaid, page 16
Winston whispers, “Protesters at my wedding better not be a bad omen.”
“Could be worse. It could be a pitchfork-carrying mob, out for your head.” I place a heavy hand on his shoulder, reassuring him, a moment before Cara snaps her fingers.
“Perfect! Tell me you got that.” Turning to the photographer, I see that he’s been snapping away at our brotherly conversation and is nodding at Cara. “Good. Let’s set up for the first look.”
The assistant squeaks and runs for the side door, presumably to get Avery.
“You two. Best man and groomswoman . . . wait in the foyer for further instruction.”
I wait until Cara spins before throwing her a haphazard salute. Winston snorts at my antics, but covers it with a cough. I offer him two thumbs-up of good luck—not with his bride, but with his wedding planner—and then go inside with Wren as ordered.
A few moments later, Dad joins us. “Everything okay out there?” I venture hopefully.
Dad clenches his jaw and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I’m trying to . . .” He drifts off, shaking his head. “Hey, Maria?” he calls.
“Sí?” she answers, appearing instantly.
“Can you take a few snacks and coffee out front? Quietly and discreetly.”
Dad’s feeding the protesters? What the hell?
I don’t get to question it because the door opens and Winston comes inside with Cara’s assistant. “You’re looking a little red-eyed there, man,” I tease gently. “Avery call the whole thing off?”
Winston swipes at his eyes, laughing lightly as I’d hoped. “Shut up, fucker. She looks . . . I don’t know . . . just . . . wow,” he breathes.
“I think that’s exactly the reaction Avery was hoping for,” Wren says with delight.
Dad hands Winston a handkerchief, and along with it, a warm look passes between them.
“It’s time,” Cara’s assistant says, directing us to follow her once again.
The garden looks a lot like it did yesterday, but with the volume turned up to eleven. The normally emerald rich bluegrass is now playing second fiddle to rows of white wooden folding chairs, the central aisle bedecked in white roses and silk that stretch all the way to the front row.
The wooden arch, which was empty before, is now covered in gobs of flowers, so many they must’ve emptied entire fields of roses just for the archway alone, adding that final touch of over-the-top fanciness to the whole damn thing.
Walking up the aisle ahead of Winston, I see that the crowd’s ready. But to be honest, I barely pay attention until the bridesmaids start their procession.
“Down, big brother,” Wren murmurs when it’s Hazel’s turn, and I can see exactly what she means. I thought she looked pretty yesterday? Today she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her dress caresses and highlights her voluptuous body, her hair is pinned up to show her graceful neck, and delicate drop earrings make me long to kiss her ears. I have to subtly pinch my thigh to keep myself from crossing the aisle to claim her right here in front of the entire crowd.
Hazel sees my reaction, and gives me a self-satisfied smirk before turning to take her place at the altar. Rachel follows, blocking part of my view as she takes the maid of honor position . . . and then I’m even more frustrated when Avery hogs up the entire view in her big white dress. Okay, okay, you’re the bride and I’m sure Winston’s pitching a tent for you . . . but you’re not the woman I want to see.
“We ah gaathaaaad,” the minister says, and I do a double take.
“What the hell?” I whisper to Wren, who’s standing next to me. “This isn’t the guy from yesterday.”
“Slipped at home last night,” she whispers back. “Broke his leg. Cara almost blew a gasket this morning.”
“So she hired . . . this guy?”
“Actually, I found him,” Wren corrects with a wicked smile, but she shushes me before I can ask what she was thinking.
Actually, once I get used to his accent, it’s a sweet, emotional ceremony. Although hearing Pentatonix’s “Rose Gold,” the song that was playing on their first date, is even more ridiculous when a middle-aged man with a thick Boston accent starts talking about true legends never dying and standing the test of time.
Everything’s pretty, but there’s some stuff that’s definitely Cara, I’m guessing. Like the rosemary and lavender woven into the wooden arch. It’s a pretty detail, smells nice, and the herbs are old-school good-luck wedding symbols.
All good, but then there’s the woo-woo stuff too. Like passing the rings around to the entire audience to have them “warm them with positive vibes and thoughts,” which seems like a security risk given the rock Winston bought Avery, but Avery looks near tears as she watches each person close their eyes and whisper over the rings.
“I give yah Mistah and Missus Winstahn and Avery Faaahd!” the minister declares at the end, and even Wren has to bite her tongue hard at that one. Winston and Avery don’t care, though. They’re joyous as they kiss deeply. And when they start their recession, they’re almost dancing down the aisle.
Now it’s time for me to offer my elbow and walk down the aisle with the maid of honor. It’s what I’m expected to do. Rachel’s looking at me with a big smile on her face, but I can’t. I don’t want to.
“Follow my lead,” I whisper quickly to Wren.
Of course she’s confused. “What?”
I don’t explain. I don’t repeat myself.
Instead, I take the few steps across to the middle of the archway, feeling Rachel’s eyes light up as she steps forward. But I move past her, my eyes locked on Hazel, and offer her my elbow.
Chapter 13
HAZEL
“What are you doing?” I hiss while trying to smile and play off whatever the hell this is. “I’m the wrong bridesmaid.”
Wyatt doesn’t smile in the slightest. He looks at me with burning intensity, his face completely serious. “You’re the right one for me.”
I grit my teeth, glaring at him. “Trust me, I am not the one to be fucking with, especially not today.”
At her position, Rachel looks confused, surprised . . . and maybe hurt, too, as she repeats my question, whispering, “What are you doing?”
Is she talking to me or Wyatt? I don’t know, but it’s not helping with the shitshow we’re putting on. I look past Wyatt, seeing that the entirety of the guest list is looking at Wyatt and me with curiosity and beginning to murmur.
All except for Cara, who is bright red and seething, her eyes virtually screaming at us . . . Follow. The. Plan.
I’m trying to, lady! But it only gets more awkward the longer I stand there. So I do the only thing I can . . . I take Wyatt’s elbow and walk down the aisle with my head held high and my shoulders back, daring anyone to say a word.
I even keep a big, fake smile on my face all the way back inside, waiting until I’m in the shadows before I turn and shove him in the chest. “What the hell? Are you trying to make me look like an idiot in front of the whole town?”
Wyatt looks back at me with absolutely no apologies. Just that same heat, that same confidence that has me pissed off . . . and burning inside. “Not even half those people are from Cold Springs, and even if they were, you don’t care about what they think anyway and you know it.”
I hate when he’s right. “Fine, I’ll concede that. But why are you fucking up your brother’s wedding? It’d seem like that would be important to you.”
He nods. “It is.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.” I point over Wyatt’s shoulder and he turns, seeing people start to file out of the white chairs and wander toward the tent for cocktail hour, but they’re all getting close enough to get themselves an eyeful of us and our discussion.
Wyatt grabs my elbow and tries to steer me away so we can have some privacy, but I jerk my arm out of his grasp. “No,” I growl. “Today is about Avery and Winston, and maybe my mom’s desserts because this wedding is a big fucking deal for her. It is not about whatever this is.”
I move my hand from my chest to his, because I can’t deny that there’s something between us now. Still, I’m pissed, and I stomp off to the reception.
I think Wyatt got my message loud and clear until I get to the tent and see him rearranging the place cards at the bridal party table . . . putting us side by side.
“You can’t do that,” I growl, grabbing his elbow this time.
Wyatt holds his hands out wide, gesturing at the tablescape I know Avery spent hours selecting. “Already did.”
I want to argue, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Cara heading this way. I’ll let her handle the evisceration. “You’re gonna get it. Wedding Planner Drill Sergeant is on the warpath.”
Wyatt looks around and sees Cara too. “I can handle her.”
I gawk at him, trying to decide whether he’s truly that brave or actually that stupid. Deciding that I can figure that out later, I grab his hand. “C’mon. If you don’t have any self-preservation instincts, I guess it’ll fall to me to keep the bloodshed to a minimum. For Avery’s sake.”
I pull him into the crowd, disappearing among the throngs of people. For the next ten minutes, I feel like Wyatt and I are playing hide-and-go-seek with Cara, popping into groups and ducking behind decorations to avoid her wrath.
The whole time, Wyatt’s grin grows. “Whoopsie!” he whispers as he pirouettes gracefully around a waiter, snagging two flutes of champagne as he does. He hands me one, his smile wide as he pretends to check the pulse in his neck. “Here. To keep our hydration levels up.”
I gape at him in awe, considering checking his pulse myself . . . and choking the hell outa him in the process. “Is this a joke to you?” I snap. “She’s going to skin you alive!”
“She just . . . Here!” he whispers, grabbing my arm and pulling me behind a real tree that’s been brought into the tent in a big pot. He ducks down, guiding me to do the same so we’re not seen.
“Hmmph. Guess it’s a good thing this tree was here,” I say begrudgingly.
“Shrub. It’s an arborvitae.”
“Whatever. I’m just glad it’s big enough to hide us both. How’d they get this thing in here anyway? A forklift?”
Do I care about the tree—er, shrub—or how it got here? No, not at all. But I’m staring at the pot and greenery so I don’t have to look at Wyatt or risk Cara feeling my eyes on her. I get the feeling she has a sixth sense about those things.
“It’s fake. A good one, but fake, so lighter than a real one because it doesn’t need dirt,” Wyatt explains.
“Will you please shut up?” I growl. “This is all your fucking fault. All you had to do was play nice for one minute and walk Rachel down the aisle, but did you do that? Noooo, of course not. Because that would be too easy for a fucking Ford.”
“I—” he starts, but I’m in full-on rant mode.
“I’m a Ford,” I interrupt, dropping my voice into a deep tone that is the best imitation of Wyatt’s sexy rumble I can do. “I do whatever the hell I want and don’t care what anyone else feels about it. Hur hur hur.”
If I had my head on straight, I’d be embarrassed at my piss-poor impression of him, but I’m too mad to care right now.
I expect him to get mad at my mockery, but instead Wyatt touches my face, and the whirling tangent in my head stops instantly. “Hey, hey . . . it’s okay. The only people I care about are Winston and Avery . . . and you. And look . . .”
He turns my head, directing my eyes across the tent to where Avery and Winston are whispering to each other, their foreheads pressed together and big smiles on their faces. They look like they’re on a greeting card, they’re so adorable.
They’re happy, and Wyatt knows it.
“They don’t care,” he whispers to me. “So the only question is . . . do you?”
He doesn’t wait for my answer. Instead he steps out from behind the tree slowly, his eyes locked on mine. Whoever sees him . . . sees him.
And like clockwork, from somewhere in the crowd, I hear a voice say firmly, “Mr. Ford. Wyatt Ford, a word, please.”
Cara has found us.
But Wyatt shields me, turning to face Cara himself. “Yes, Ms. DeMornay.” Behind his back, he points to his right, telling me to get out of here, protecting me from Cara.
I should step up to help him, but like a coward, I follow his order and scoot out of the line of Cara’s fire. But as karma would have it, I get out of the fire and into the frying pan, nearly running smack into Rachel. And she’s pissed. And hurt.
“If you were already involved with Wyatt, why didn’t you just say so?”
“I’m not involved with him,” I argue.
Rachel laughs bitterly. “Does he know that? Because it sure looked like you two are involved in something. He was eye fucking you all ceremony.”
It’s hard to debate that. But I can’t explain it either. Not because I don’t want to, but because I have no idea what would lead Wyatt Ford to pull a very public stunt like that.
Sure, a stolen kiss here or there, totally believable. But a display in front of all the wedding guests, including his family?
He might as well stick a target on my head as a person of interest to the Ford family. “Rachel, I’m sorry,” I tell her quietly, trying to keep things calm. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. You said you were interested, and I didn’t want to get in the way. I was trying . . .”
Rachel sighs, looking off to where Cara is still talking to Wyatt. If nothing had gone wonky today, it might look like a friendly conversation, but the smile on Cara’s face is basically a baring of her teeth and her eyes look a bit wild. I’m betting Wyatt’s getting a wedding-planner ass chewing.
“It’s fine. Any man willing to go to those lengths just to have you hold his elbow for a few seconds deserves a chance, Hazel,” she says. “Lucky you.”
That hurts. “Rachel—”
She cuts me off, holding up a hand. “It’s fine, really,” she says, although there’s a trace of bitterness in her voice. “But if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll mingle a bit before we sit down to dinner.”
With that, she walks off, joining a conversation with a group of young professionals who seem particularly comfortable at the swanky affair, as though it’s just a normal Saturday for them.
After checking in with Avery for any maid of honor–slash-bridesmaid duties and being assured that she wants me to enjoy the party and leave her alone to celebrate with her “adorable, sweet, sexy, new husband,” I do my best to mingle, too, although I feel totally out of place in the crowd of rich folks, especially considering conversations tend to stop when I come up and begin again with one topic and one topic only—the return of Wyatt Ford to Cold Springs and what I know about it. And despite the ceremony chairs being laid out half and half for the bride and the groom, it’s pretty clear that it was more like one-quarter for Winston, one-quarter for Avery . . . and about half for Bill and Jed Ford.
It doesn’t get any easier when dinner starts. I’m a little surprised when Wyatt’s still sitting next to me, but there are clear thunderclouds in his eyes when he takes his seat.
“Is everything okay?” I whisper. “You know, with—”
“It’s fine,” he says, cutting me off. Total bullshit, but I won’t push the point. For now.
“Just remember, it’s Winston and Avery’s day,” I whisper back, cutting my eyes to them as they come in for their formal entrance. Wyatt looks at the happy couple and nods, his face clearing most of the way as he plasters on what’s clearly a manufactured nonchalant smile.
Damn. Must take a lot of years of dealing with Ford-type bullshit to get that good.
I do my best as well, and when the newlyweds sit down, they’re so happy that they don’t notice, and nobody else is willing to call us out on it.
“Whoo, this reception dress is a lot more comfortable,” Avery says, looking dynamite again in her second dress of the evening.
During dinner, most of the conversation focuses on praising Winston and Avery for their ceremony, and the toasts are full of well-wishes for the couple.
Thankfully, up next is the cake cutting, and while the cake smooshing is a little cliché, Winston is grinning as Mom’s Italian buttercream frosting drips off his nose and chin, flashing a thumbs-up for the photographer as Avery gives him a full puckered-lip kiss on the cheek.
Through it all, Wyatt doesn’t say a word to me. Or to anyone, for that matter, other than to congratulate his brother and new sister-in-law.
The fancy cellos from earlier give way to a DJ, who elegantly plays Avery and Winston through their first dance on the monogrammed, lit wooden dance floor. And then the party starts. I’ll hand it to the DJ: he keeps the music bumping and the laser light show flashing, keeping people on the floor with every song.
We work our way through the first slow dance, then the classic boogie of Earth, Wind & Fire’s “September,” and even an “Electric Slide” before we start stage four of dancing, with everyone doing the “Wobble” and wiggling their butts, even in their fancy attire.
A few of those young professionals have their ties looped around their heads, and Grandpa Joe is sitting in a chair, shimmying his shoulders and singing along, though I doubt he knows the words.
Me? I’m going with it, grooving to the next song, “Do the Lasso,” working my ass up and down as instructed by the lyrics, but when I move back, I accidentally step on the toes of the person behind me. I cry out in surprise, but strong hands land on my hips to steady me before I can fall.
“I got you,” a deep voice says in my ear, and I shiver. Of course . . . it’s Wyatt. And I swear it just got hotter in this tent.
Suddenly, we’re not following the repetitive moves of the dance like everyone around us. We’re moving together, swaying with him at my back, his breath hot on my neck and hands firm on my hips, feeling my movements.
I want to turn around, slap him stupid, and walk off. He’s been ignoring me, probably the smartest move for us both, but now he’s drawing attention to us again. But Rachel’s words echo in my mind—does he deserve a chance? Maybe more importantly, do I?
