Chapter 15
MARSHALL
Distraction was a luxury he’d disciplined out of himself years ago. Which made it deeply inconvenient that Norah Winslow in a silk dress qualified as one.
That was his first thought as the crowd shifted toward the reception, a huge barn converted into event space.
Warm light spilled from the open doors and the scent of pulled pork and eucalyptus drifted on the evening air.
The outside air was chilly, but the venue was warm and inviting.
His eyes automatically mapped entrances, corners, blind spots.
The place wasn’t extravagant, but the string lights and weathered wood gave it the kind of understated charm small towns pulled off without trying.
He’d spent enough years away from here that it felt both familiar and foreign, like stepping into a postcard of a life he no longer lived.
But none of it mattered. Not when she was three steps ahead of him, catching every glint of light like she was built for it.
None of the surroundings compared to Norah.
He’d seen her earlier, sure. They’d had a whole thirty-second conversation that had winded him like a blow to the ribs.
Then he’d foolishly sat behind her during the ceremony.
Still, nothing prepared him for watching her move across that barn with the rest of the guests—her midnight-blue dress catching the lights, her hair falling in soft waves that brushed her shoulders, her posture straight and controlled but her eyes full of something aching and unguarded when she didn’t know he was looking.
He stood near the entrance longer than necessary, letting the crowd flow around him, anchoring himself before he did something stupid. Like reach for her. Or say something he couldn’t take back.
James—blissfully newly married, flushed from the ceremony and riding an emotional high—clapped a hand on Marshall’s shoulder hard enough to jolt him.
“There you are,” James said, grinning like the world was perfect tonight. “Thought you might’ve disappeared on us. I’m really glad you came, man. So is Julie.”
Marshall gave him a dry look, brushing off the words that bordered on sentimental.
“Shouldn’t you be . . . I don’t know, with your wife?
” He genuinely liked James. He’d been skeptical when the recently divorced guy he’d played football with for three years had started hanging around his little sister.
But Julie was clearly head over heels, and James did seem to have grown up.
James snorted. “She’s with your mom fixing her bustle. Whatever that means. I’ve got about two minutes and I’m using it to drag your brooding self inside.”
Marshall grunted. “I’m fine.”
“That’s why you’re standing here like a bouncer at a honky-tonk.” James squinted at him, eyes sharpening in that way only someone who’d known him since they’d eaten glue in kindergarten could manage. “You saw her.”
Marshall didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
James let out a low whistle. “Yeah. You saw her.”
Marshall’s glare could’ve dented sheet metal.
James lifted both hands in surrender. “Message received. I’ll back off.” A beat. Then, softer, “But . . . Norah does look good, man.”
Marshall’s jaw flexed hard enough to crack. “Not your business.”
“Wasn’t trying to make it mine,” James said, gentle now. “Just didn’t want you standing out here until the cake melts. Your mom saved you a seat at the family table.”
Great.
He followed James inside, scanning automatically—old habit, muscle memory. Even here, even at a wedding in the safest town he’d ever known, he couldn’t turn it off. His gaze swept the exits, the crowd, the catering staff, the side door leading out to the open field behind the barn.
Like they couldn’t help it, his eyes found her again. The way a compass finds north. A metal to a magnet. He was caught in her orbit, and he hated how effortless it was.
At a table near the head of the room, laughing at something her cousin said, head tipped back, hand at her throat.
And for one disorienting moment, every memory he’d shoved into cold storage lit up—bonfires after football games, the night they’d danced barefoot on her parents’ lawn, her whispered prayers before he shipped out, her choked back tears when she told him to leave for the last time.
His chest tightened.
He tore his eyes away and headed for the drink station. Coffee. Water. Anything that wasn’t alcohol, because if he drank right now, he’d either confess every stupid feeling he’d buried or punch a wall. Neither would help.
He was halfway to the table when she saw him.
Norah’s smile faltered. Not gone—just softened into something cautious. Intimate. Her eyes held his a second too long, like she wasn’t sure if she should wave or run.
He swallowed hard and lifted a hand in acknowledgment. It cost him more effort than he wanted to admit.
His mother materialized at his elbow. “Marshall, honey, you sit with us.” She didn’t ask. She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the family table, ignoring his subtle attempts to resist.
He shot Norah an apologetic look. When their eyes met again, he caught the faintest spark of humor. A shared history. A shared suffering at the hands of well-meaning mothers.
He took his seat next to Jackson, and endured teasing from his own parents. He kept his eyes off Norah as the newlyweds made their grand entrance. But he felt her. Like gravity.
“Thought you were still in Geneva,” Marshall murmured.
Jackson huffed a tired laugh. “I am. Or I was. Time zones are a social construct at this point. I’m headed back tomorrow.”
Marshall studied him—subtle shadows under his eyes, a stiffness in his shoulders he couldn’t hide. He’s running on fumes. And yet here he was, because family came first.
“You look like garbage warmed over,” Marshall said quietly.
“Thanks,” Jackson muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Exactly the confidence boost I needed before the family photo gauntlet.”
Despite himself, Marshall smiled. Same old Jackson—just frayed at the edges. “You didn’t have to come.”
“Yeah, I did.” Jackson’s voice softened. “It’s her wedding. I can sleep on the flight back.”
A beat. Then, with a sideways glance, “Besides, Mom would’ve hunted me across continents.”
Marshall snorted. “Accurate.”
Jackson’s gaze flicked across the room. “You keeping an eye on Norah?”
Marshall’s pulse kicked. “What makes you say that?”
Jackson shrugged, a ghost of his usual confidence showing through the exhaustion. “You haven’t looked at her once. Which is basically the same as staring.”
Marshall didn’t answer. Norah laughed at something across the room, and his chest tightened.
But beneath it all, another truth weighed on him. Jackson was still on the suspect list. And Marshall didn’t know how to prove he wasn’t the mole.
His brother nudged him lightly. “Relax,” Jackson murmured. “We can both pretend our life is normal. Just for a few hours.”
Marshall wished he could.
Every time he glanced up, Norah was somewhere in his periphery—hugging relatives, adjusting her dress, slipping outside to take a breath, returning with pink cheeks and a look that said she wasn’t sure she belonged here anymore.
This was his family, after all. But for nearly twenty years, their families had been friends.
He’d worried that their breakup would threaten that closeness, but it hadn’t.
Everyone else had carried on as though nothing had changed.
Perhaps he and Norah were the only ones who had.
When the DJ announced the first slow dance, the barn dimmed to a golden glow. His sister and James swayed, the rest of the room watching with soft smiles. The air was warm, sweet with the scent of summer fields and wedding cake.
Marshall wasn’t watching the bride or groom.
He was watching Norah.
She stood near the back, arms loosely folded, face shadowed in the dim light. Not unhappy—just distant. Like she was pressing her forehead to the glass of some old dream and remembering why she’d walked away.
His breath locked in his chest. Then the song changed.
Something familiar drifted from the speakers, an old 90s country ballad he hadn’t heard since high school. He froze. Norah’s head snapped toward the DJ booth. Their eyes collided across the room.
That was their song.
Not officially. Not with declarations or promises.
Just . . . the song they’d danced to in her parents’ backyard the summer they fell in love.
The song he played in his truck every night he drove home from seeing her.
The song she’d used to make fun of his “predictable country boy taste,” even though she knew every word.
The moment stretched thin.
He didn’t remember crossing the room. One second, he was by the table, the next he was standing in front of her, the soft glow of the string lights painting her skin gold.
“Dance with me,” he said quietly.
Her lips parted. “Marshall—”
“It’s just a dance.” His voice was rough. Low. “I won’t read into it if you don’t.”
Lie.
He offered his hand.
She stared at it like it was dangerous. Trembling, she put her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers. He felt it everywhere. Her hand, her warmth, the faint tremor he felt through her fingertips—he’d carried those memories for years, thinking they’d faded. They hadn’t. They’d just been waiting.
He had no business feeling like she belonged to him.
But he felt it anyway.
They stepped onto the dance floor. The room faded. The music wrapped around them like something alive. Norah’s body fit against his exactly as it had when they were seventeen—only now she was all soft curves and silk he wanted to drown in.
Heaven help him.
Norah’s body eased into his like muscle memory—perfect, devastating alignment. Her silk dress brushed his legs. Her perfume hit him in the sternum. She rested her free hand on his shoulder, and every part of him went on high alert.