Chapter 17
17
For the second time in his life, he dances at a wedding.
For the first time in his life, it feels right.
Half of Haven Ridge mulls around Serenity Ranch again—when the most popular girl from high school gets married, people tend to show up.
Oh, how I wish I wasn’t one of those people.
I never liked Marcy Hollow. She was the stereotypical epitome of a queen bee, one of those girls who was mean for the sake of being mean. More than once, she openly flirted with Jackson right in front of me, just like she openly flirted with every guy on every sports team, regardless of their relationship status, or hers. It’s kind of ironic that she’s marrying the boyfriend she had whilst she was doing all that flirting, but in her defense, he wasn’t a saint either.
Alas, the downside of being the only florist in town; my presence was inevitable, whether I scored an invite or not. But if I have to squeeze myself into a fancy dress and wear heels that are already causing blisters, at least I’m getting compensated. And, awful human for a client or otherwise, I still love my job, and I’m still a sucker for weddings, so I still put my whole heart into this one. The wide, open space the ranch uses for big events is a sea of beautiful, expensive flowers, the best the market had to offer. Nova and I spent days putting all the bouquets and centerpieces together, and we both got up at the crack of dawn this morning to set it all up.
It’s some of my best work. My hardest effort. And it’s all going towards someone I bitterly, pathetically resent because something about the mean girl getting her happy ending rubs me the wrong way. Maybe it’s because I—and everyone else—can see what was supposed to be my happy ending waltzing on the dance floor with his happy ending.
If I spot one more pitying glance thrown my way, I’m going to lose it.
I'm fixing a centerpiece arrangement to distract myself from the numerous people pretending not to stare at me when someone taps my shoulder. The smile I automatically fix into place falters when I spin and get tugged into a tight hug by none other than the newlywed herself.
“Caroline,” Marcy croons, her tone so saccharine, so fake . “I can't thank you enough for your beautiful work.” Pulling back, she gives me a squeeze, her expression so condescending it makes my skin crawl. “Who knew you could pull off something like this?”
It's times like these that I wish I had Lux's quick wit. Or Luna's dry, snippy sense of humor. Or Hunter's apathy. Or even Lottie's tear-inducing ability to be mean as hell without a care in the world. Instead, all I'm capable of doing is grinning, bearing it, and thanking Marcy for her subtly veiled insult. Oh, and complimenting her too. “You look amazing.”
“I know,” the blushing bride so humbly replies, smoothing her perfectly manicured hands down the front of her dress. A little gaudy for my taste, with a whole lot of taffeta, a ballgown skirt, and a glitzy bodice, but I suppose it suits her—I suppose my dream dress would hardly be her cup of tea either.
Honestly, Lux and I had a bet going that she'd show up in her cheerleading uniform and make her groom wear his football jersey.
“I can't believe I'm married,” Marcy muses unprompted, holding her hand in front of her and gazing at her ring. Sorry—her rock of a diamond that’s so big I imagine lifting her hand is a workout. Again, not quite my taste—I can only imagine how much my dad would pawn it for—but hey, good for her. “You know, out of all the couples in our class, I really didn't think Mitch and I would be married first.”
That makes two of us—or fifty, if you take the rest of our class into account.
“I always thought it would be you and Jackson.”
I saw it coming a mile away, but hell if I don’t still flinch.
Like a shark scenting blood in the water, Marcy’s eyes light up. Bottom lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout, her head tilts to the side. “Does it kill you?”
Here we go.
“Watching them together,” she clarifies, low and pitying, rubbing my bicep in some weird, fake attempt at comfort. “Mitch and I broke up for, like, two seconds a couple of years ago and the thought of him kissing another woman made me sick to my stomach. I can't imagine how you must feel, especially considering…” She trails off, gesturing towards where Jackson and Luna are locked in a loving embrace. “Well, you know what I mean.”
Yeah. I think I do.
My smile gets even tighter.
Marcy stares at me expectantly, waiting for who even knows what kind of reply. I'm struggling to come up with anything, torn between fleeing the scene in tears or mustering all of my courage and cussing the little witch out—or maybe, maybe , I could do something really unexpected and slap her.
My hand lifts—maybe to do just that, maybe to knock her hand off my bicep so I can escape, who knows. Either way, its upwards trajectory is halted by a firm grasp. Calloused fingers lock around mine tightly as a body slots against my back and a hand lands on my waist.
“There you are,” a husky, accented voice murmurs against my temple.
Like I’m moving in slow motion, I turn my head to find a broad chest covered by a black button-up shirt. I crane my neck, gaze skimming a thick neck, a neatly trimmed beard, two dimpled cheeks before meeting glimmering hazel irises.
“I was looking for you.”
He was?
My mouth opens, definitely so something super intelligent and eloquent can come out, but an abnormally high-pitched voice beats me to it. “And who's this?”
Internally, I recoil at the predatory look on Marcy’s face as her hungry gaze devours the man behind me. God, I’m surprised she doesn’t slip off her wedding ring and hide it behind her back.
Something possesses me momentarily. Something silly and preposterous and another thing I won’t, can’t , name makes me set a hand atop the one on my waist, has me leaning back. Something that blooms and grows when I’m gripped a little tighter. “This is Hunter.”
He works here , I could add. He’s my friend , I could clarify.
But I don’t.
Marcy is all but drooling as she reaches out a hand for Hunter to shake. I want to laugh when he hesitates for a long second before taking it. I watch as she flicks her hair and giggles her way through an introduction, but I don’t pay a whole lot of attention.
No, my focus is solely on the warmth emanating from the palm resting low on my stomach. The thumb stroking in slow circles, tracing my hip bone. On how Hunter shifts so he's even closer, an undeniably solid presence against my back—mirroring what happened in the barn with the dogs except now I'm protecting him from a vicious newlywed.
“Line, can I steal you away for a sec?”
I jump as warm breath tickles my cheek, reeling back slightly when I turn and almost knock noses with Hunter. I didn't realize how close he is, head dipped so we’re almost eye-level, so we’re practically sharing breath.
Being able to see the green flecks in his eyes rattles me. I tear my gaze away, looking back to Marcy, and I purse my lips to stop from cackling maniacally, pettily , perhaps a touch righteously, at the look on her face. Hunter must've interrupted her because her mouth is a little agape, her eyes narrowed indignantly.
I try not to nod too eagerly, but I must fail because a quiet chuckle brushes my cheek. Half a second later, Hunter is whisking me away, barely allowing a rushed goodbye to leave my lips before we’re practically sprinting from the bride.
When we stop a safe distance away at the bar, our hands are still entwined. I stare at our laced fingers, marveling over his much bigger ones engulfing mine, memorizing the sight. I squeeze once before reluctantly letting go. “Thank you for saving me.”
“I think I saved her more.” Hunter casts a quick glance behind him, his eyes twinkling when they return to me. “What were you gonna do to her?”
I scoff. “Nothing!”
His mouth twitches. “It looked like you wanted to slap her.”
“I was just thinking about it.”
His husky chuckle goes straight to my chest, lodging behind my ribcage and pulsing in time with my heartbeat. Shaking his head, he flags down the bartender and orders us drinks—two sodas, although I swear I saw him drinking beer earlier.
Taking a sip, I let my gaze wander to the dance floor overflowing with people. It looks like Marcy has found her husband again, the two of them swaying and spinning and dipping, looking blissfully happy despite the fact she was ready to flee the scene with a hot cowboy mere moments ago.
“So?”
My attention returns to the man beside me. “What?”
Hunter nods towards Luna and Jackson, the movement a little stilted. “Does it kill you ?” Teasing as his tone may be, there’s an underlying edge of sincerity, and I find myself eager to erase it. But when I shake my head, he doesn’t look like he believes me. “No?”
I chew on my bottom lip as I search for the right way to explain myself. “I’m not gonna lie, when he started dating her, I freaked out. She’s kinda every ex-girlfriend's nightmare, y’know?”
Raised, inquisitive brows imply he doesn’t know.
“She's perfect,” I clarify. “There's literally nothing wrong with her. You want the first girlfriend after you to be worse than you, right? Not Malibu Barbie.” I sigh as I pick at the hem of my dress, avoiding the gaze burning a hole in the side of my face. “I don't know, I think I'm more jealous of the relationship than of who's in it, if that makes sense. I miss it. The companionship and all that. But short answer, no. It doesn't kill me. It hurt me, yeah, but it never killed me.”
Silence settles between us, bringing incessant anxiety with it. I fear, no, I know , I might have said too much, and I'm about to apologize for making things uncomfortable, when Hunter's hand brushes mine. “Line?”
Staring straight ahead, I brace myself for... I don't know. Something bad, probably. “Hmm?”
“Wanna dance?”
I'm dancing.
With Hunter.
I'm waltzing across a dance floor at a wedding with Hunter freaking Whitlock.
I don't think I actually responded to his question verbally. Or at all. I just remember being led into the hustle and bustle.
No, wait. I definitely did respond—I glanced over my shoulder with wide eyes, then pointed to myself and gasped, “ Me? ” And Hunter laughed and he nodded and he dragged me out here, and now we're dancing. Holding me by the hips, my arms wrapped around his neck, my head tucked against his chest kind of dancing.
The latter I only did because I couldn't stand the intimacy of such close eye contact. But I misjudged. This is infinitely more intimate, hearing his heart thumping steadily in his chest, soaking in the warmth of his skin through the thin cotton, feeling the vibration of his voice when he rests his cheek against my head and murmurs, “You look really beautiful, Caroline.”
I stiffen with the effort of resisting the urge to gape up at him—and maybe ask him to repeat himself. He must mistake that as discomfort because his grip loosens, and he moves like he's about to step away.
My grip tightening prevents that.
“Thank you.” I pause, holding onto the words brewing on my tongue for a moment before saying a silent ‘to hell with it.’ “You look handsome.”
The chest beneath my cheek rumbles. “You think?”
I know . Handsome is the understatement to end all understatements. He looks… unfathomable. Hunter in jeans and a t-shirt is enough to break a girl’s brain; Hunter in an indecently unbuttoned shirt and perfectly tailored slacks is downright cruel. “I think Marcy was wishing she’d left her new husband at the altar.”
Fingers glide up my back, tangling themselves in a fistful of my hair and tugging my head back gently. “You’re good for a man’s ego.”
“I’m just telling the truth.”
Hunter smiles, but there’s something else there. Something I don’t know the name of. Something severe yet soft—solemn despite the upward curve of his mouth. His throat contracts with a heavy swallow, and mine does the same, my pulse quickening too, when he tucks a strand of hair behind my ears. Faster again when his gaze drops and settles on my lips. Starts thundering towards some kind of fatal palpitation when he dips his head, when I convince myself he’s about to kiss me.
But he doesn’t.
Abruptly, he pulls away. Something unreadable contorts his face as he backs up a step. Without explanation, without so much as a goodbye, he weaves his way off the crowded dance floor and disappears from sight, leaving me confused and flushed and on the verge of mortification.
For a long moment, I simply stand there, staring at the spot he vacated until my brain kicks into gear and I force my legs to move. With my head down, I retreat back to the bar, hoping no one saw that. As always, my wishes go unfulfilled—the second I look up, I meet Lux’s mischievous grin.
She leans against the bar, a glass of wine poised halfway to her lips, that grin only growing the closer I get. To her credit, she waits for me to quench my parched throat with another soda— and contemplate something stronger—before pouncing. “What was that, lovebird?”
I aim for nonchalance as I shrug, but I fear my fingers dancing erratically against the side of my glass give me away. “What was what?”
“You. Hunter.” Lux shimmies her shoulders, brows wiggling. “ Dancing. He's smooth, for such a big guy.”
Two seconds ago, I was thinking the exact same thing, equally amused and amazed. Now, I wish I could burn the moment from my memory, if only so it would erase the following too. “We're friends. Friends dance.”
Lux’s snort calls bull, as does the look she pins me with. “Is something going on?”
I swallow. “Nope.”
“It looks like something's going on.”
“Nothing is going on.”
“ Caroline .”
“ Alexandra .”
An elbow jabs me in the ribs, hard enough to chastise, light enough not to hurt. “You can tell me, you know.”
“I know.” I would like to tell her. To gossip. To have something normal to fret over, something as mundane as a boy. But it feels so… inconsequential. Too small to warrant feelings so big. And I guess I’m scared if I voice it aloud, I’ll hear just how silly I sound, thinking anything of it at all. “It was just a dance.”
It was just a dance , I repeat internally, hoping my thundering heart gets the memo.
Lux hums softly. Slinking an arm around my shoulders, she pulls me into her side. “For what’s it worth,” she murmurs. “I thought he was gonna kiss you too.”
I force myself to laugh. “Yeah, well. You’re drunk.”
Flushed cheeks plumping as she grins, Lux doesn’t deny it, and not for the first time, I’m envious. Not for the first time, I wish I was different— normal . I wish the idea of letting loose and having enough drinks to wipe away my bad mood and replace it with giddy, floaty, drunken emptiness, didn't paralyze me with fear. I wish I could do that without the risk of it becoming something more, without playing Russian Roulette with my genetics.
I wish I wasn’t destined to a life of sidelines, watching everyone be drunk and merry when I’m anything but.
Which, after assuring Lux I’m fine and she should go have fun, is exactly what I do.
At some point, I find my way to the barn.
Far from the festivities. Hiding in the loft that’s little more than rotting wood and loose nails. Counting the cobwebs decorating the rafters and listening to the soft snorts of the equine inhabitants rather than the drunken merriment I quickly got tired of.
I don’t know how long passes before the rickety ladder creaks and a body brushes my legs where they hang over the edge of the loft, but I know it’s not nearly long enough. Sighing a silent goodbye to the peace and quiet, I prop myself up on my elbows, ready for Lux to drag me from her favorite hiding spot.
I’m not even a little bit prepared for who actually pulls themselves over the ledge.
Wincing, I breathe through the sudden assault of a particularly embarrassing memory. When, two years ago at the annual summer blow-out, I was the one to follow Jackson up here. When I was lonely and sad and desperate, and I projected that onto him, asked him out even though I knew what the answer would be, and acted like a kicked puppy when he understandably rejected me.
“Thought I’d find you here,” my ex-boyfriend muses as he settles besides me.
“Lux sent you, didn’t she?”
“Luna,” Jackson corrects— admits , honest to a fault, as always. “She heard some people… talking.”
Gossiping , he means. “Ah.”
“You okay?”
I hum in lieu of really answering—I’m not sure ‘I’m used to it’ is an excuse he’ll like. Or understand.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and I start to brush him off, to assure him it’s not his fault, when he adds, “About the thing with Eliza. I shouldn’t have been so harsh with you.”
Lowering myself onto my back again, I sigh at the ceiling. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” Jackson blows out a breath, and out of the corner of my eye, I watch him rub the ends of his hair between his fingers, a nervous habit that’s so familiar. “This is weird for me. You being around again.”
“You think it’s not for me?” I hesitate, swallowing hard before quietly adding, “You think it wasn’t weird to not be here?”
I don't care what anyone thinks or says or assumes, Jackson and I were friends. Before we ever dated, we were friends . I was a silly, shy pre-teen with a crush on the new kid who seemed just as shy, who only offered his attention to his little sisters—until he offered his attention to me.
Or, technically, he offered me half of his turkey-mustard sandwich when he noticed me skulking around the outskirts of the cafeteria, stomach growling because this was post-Mom, and Dad barely remembered I existed , let alone had the foresight to pack me a lunch.
Jackson was the first person to show me kindness, to make me feel special, to give me safety , in so, so long. How could I not fall in love?
How could I not be crushed when it was all taken from me?
“I’m not pining for you,” I whisper into the darkness, and I mean it. My love for Jackson died a long time ago, even if I only managed to admit it to myself once a certain blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty waltzed into his life. “I’m not hanging around so much because I’m hoping you’ll fall in love with me again. I don’t want that. I’m happy for you, I really am. I only ever wanted you to be happy. I’m just trying to be happy too, and being here makes me happy, but if it makes you uncomfortable…”
What? I’ll stop coming here? I don’t think I could. I think that would hurt .
I remember what Hunter said the other day. About my people pleasin’ problem. What he implied, more accurately, about encouraging the happiness of others at the expense of my own. I don’t like that I do that—I don’t want to do it, especially if it’s the ranch I’m costing myself.
“I really, really love this place,” I say, still whispering. “Please don’t make me stay away.”
As a heavy silence settles around us, I try not to panic. I try not to hear words that haven’t been spoken yet, to assume the worst. I try not to prematurely wonder how I’m going to spend my days if I can’t spend them here, who I’m going to talk to if I can’t talk to Lux, how I’m going to freaking survive if I can’t—
“I wouldn’t do that.”
My whole body goes slack as I suck in a breath.
“Line,” Jackson says, and I can’t remember when he last called me that. “I would never do that.
I can barely speak. “Really?”
In my peripheral, I see him shaking his head. “I came up here to apologize. Not to banish you. You’re always welcome here.”
I close my eyes. I really can’t speak now.
Always welcome.
God, what a feeling.