24. Jules
CHAPTER 24
Jules
Stars glimmer above, like shards of glass scattered across the velvet sky I’ve known since childhood. The crisp scent of pine mingles with the smoky warmth of a distant bonfire, and the cool Adirondack breeze plays with the hem of my gown.
I step out of the vehicle, my feet finding familiar ground on the sprawling east side of Bishop Mountain. A strange sense of nostalgia washes over me.
I’m home.
Or, at least, the place that feels most like it when I think back to growing up—skinning my knee on dozens of trails, swimming laps in the lake, and that first, hopeful wish on a falling star. The one I’ve tried to forget.
That one day, Brian Bishop would fall in love with me.
In my defense, he and his pain-in-the-ass self were always around, impossible to avoid. And sure, no one’s exactly tossing around the L-word. But there’s something about being here that tugs on my heartstrings.
It’s as if the mountain itself holds on to every wish I’ve ever made, whispered back and forth between the earth and the stars.
“Ready?” Taylor asks.
Not even close. “Ready.”
Mrs. D. greets Taylor and me and wraps me in one of her signature warm hugs, the kind that smells like fresh-baked cookies and feels like a sweater in fall. “Look at you,” she beams, her eyes crinkling with genuine joy. “I always knew you and Brian were meant to be.”
Her words sink in slowly, like a stone dropping to the bottom of a pond, rippling out through me until all I feel is the weight of the lie.
The more she gushes, going on about how perfect we are for each other, the more I feel my stomach twist. It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion, and I’m the one driving.
First, I’m lying to my parents, and now to Mrs. D., a woman who’s practically family. The guilt gnaws at me, each word solidifying how I’m all paid up on that timeshare in hell.
Taylor, standing beside me, gives my hand a quick squeeze, her silent support a lifeline in this inky-black sea of deception.
“Brian Bishop won’t know what hit him when he sees you in that dress,” Mrs. D. says, brushing a stray hair from my face. “Your family is inside, and Brian will be waiting for you in the garden with the pastor. He’s the one with the tux and that goofy grin of his.” She winks.
I think I’m going to be sick.
We all make our way inside, and my eyes land on Dad and his tall, steady presence in a tux. It’s slightly rumpled, and just a hair snug. But it’s the most dressed up I’ve seen him in, oh, ever.
The moment his eyes meet mine, his expression softens, and that familiar, reassuring smile plays at the corners of his mouth. He crosses the room with purpose, his strong hands resting gently on my shoulders, grounding me in the whirlwind of emotions.
“It’s not too late, kiddo,” he says, his voice steady but filled with a tenderness that only he can offer. “I’ve got the engine running outside. We can still ditch this whole thing and head to your favorite ice cream shop.” He pauses, his smile widening as he adds, “My treat.” Then, he asks, “You love him?”
And here’s the thing. I can’t lie to my dad. I end up stammering to the point of near hyperventilation and break out in hives like no tomorrow.
“Mr. Spenser!” Taylor wraps him in a big hug. “It’s so great to see you. Where’s Mrs. Spenser and Halmeoni?” she ask, her voice steady.
He chuckles softly. “Outside. My wife’s bawling her eyes out on Brian’s shoulder like it’s the stampede scene of The Lion King, and Halmeoni’s busy picking flowers from the garden—something about bringing two gardens together for luck.”
“I’d better go find them.”
I move to walk off when a big, familiar hand hooks my arm. “You didn’t answer my question, young lady.” Dad narrows his eyes, a living, breathing parental lie detector. “Do you love him?”
I take a breath. “Dad, only nut jobs and pathetically hopeless romantics marry when they’re not in love.”
Then Taylor adds, “He handed me his credit card and insisted I use it to make Jules happy. If that’s not a testament of love, I don’t know what is. ”
My dad wrinkles his brow, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Could be love. Could be lunacy.”
I can’t help but giggle as he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “By the way, the ice cream shop just got in your favorite—Peach Cobbler Crunch.”
“Rain check, I promise.” Before I know it, he’s pulling me into one of his big, comforting hugs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
Just then, Mom and Halmeoni appear, wrapping their arms around us, turning the hug into a full family embrace.
Dad hands Mom a handkerchief to avoid drenching my gown, and Halmeoni, beaming with pride, presents me with an enormous bouquet of flowers that smell like home.
It’s a masterpiece—a few soft peonies in blush pink and cream nestled alongside delicate sprigs of Queen Anne’s lace and lavender. Each flower carefully plucked from the gardens back home. The greens of eucalyptus and ivy, gathered from the base of Bishop’s Mountain, weave in and out, binding the bouquet together like a thread of memories with roots that run deep.
I choke up. I know she spent hours making it and it’s the most beautiful gift I’ve ever seen.
“ Uri gajok-ui sarangi yeogi itda,” Halmeoni says. Translation: Our family’s love is here .
We step outside, greeted by the gentle strains of a harp mingling with the soft hum of a small string quartet. Fairy lights twinkle around the old oak trees, casting a soft, golden glow over the gathering.
When we step into the garden, there he is—Brian. He’s in the middle of a lively conversation with Colby, probably catching up on their time serving together. Brian’s animated, gesturing as he talks, his face lighting up with that easygoing charm that’s always been second nature to him.
The sight of him in that classic tux, all sharp lines and effortless allure, makes him look like he’s just stepped out of The Great Gatsby .
He’s always had that timeless, magnetic charm, the kind that feels like it’s woven into his very DNA, effortlessly drawing anyone in. But I have to remind myself—just like in Fitzgerald’s tragedy—this isn’t some grand romance.
Letting myself get caught up in the moment, in him, will only end in more pain, more heartache. Haven’t I been hurt enough by him?
It’s a business arrangement, Jules.
Nothing more.
But damn, why does he have to look so good?
The tux fits him like a second skin, molding to his broad shoulders and tapering effortlessly down to his trim waist. Every inch of him radiates that cool, measured restraint, like he’s never ruffled, always in control.
His wavy hair, tousled to just-fucked perfection pairs seamlessly with a steady, unyielding stance that radiates military dominance. He commands attention without even trying. A control freak to the end.
And no matter how many times I’ve looked at him—tried to ignore him, forget him, or outright hate Brian Bishop—the truth is always staring me in the face.
He’s under my skin so deep that not even an exorcism could get him out.
Then he turns, and our eyes meet .
There’s something in his expression that makes me stop cold. It’s not the cocky, self-assured grin I’m used to, the one that says he’s always got the upper hand.
No, this look is different.
There’s a flicker of something else—something raw and unguarded.
For the first time, there’s uncertainty in his eyes, a flicker of doubt that makes my pulse race. Is he reconsidering this whole thing?
Am I?
But before the thought can take root, the music shifts, and the opening notes of “Here Comes the Bride” fill the air, snapping me back to the whole reason we’re here. With my family.
Dad appears at my side, his presence solid and reassuring, and my hand slides naturally into the crook of his arm. “Showtime, kiddo,” he murmurs, a soft smile playing on his lips.
Showtime. Right.
I let out a long breath as we take those slow, deliberate steps down the aisle. Part of me is still half-expecting this to turn into some god-awful prank, but I kick that thought under the rug and focus on the rhythm of our steps, the steady grip of my father’s arm, and not tripping in these insane heels Taylor picked out that were not meant for grass.
The pastor waits until the strings fade away to begin. “Who gives this woman to be married?” And for a split second, time seems to freeze.
“No one does,” Dad says, his voice firm, almost defiant. My heart skips a beat, mortification clawing at my throat as I brace for impact, and just before my mother has an outright heart attack, Dad adds, “Instead, we take Brian Bishop into our fold. ”
That’s my dad—always giving tradition the middle finger.
Brian steps forward, extending his hand. “I’m honored, sir.” My dad takes it without hesitation, their handshake firm, a silent agreement passing between them.
As Dad turns to me, tears glisten in his eyes. He kisses both my cheeks with a tenderness that catches me off guard, a lump forming in my throat.
He places my hand in Brian’s, his grip lingering just a moment longer, as if he’s trying to say everything he can’t put into words. Then, with a final nod, he steps back and returns to his seat.
“Hey,” Brian says, his voice low and steady, almost reverent.
“Hey,” I manage to reply, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it together.
Before I can gather my thoughts, Brian says, “Before we begin, I have a small surprise.”
If it’s Peach Pops, he is so dead.
Brian gestures subtly, and suddenly, the fairy lights are extinguished. Every candle is blown out except for the few surrounding us. The garden plunges into darkness, leaving nothing but the mountains, the starlit sky, and a single candle burning beside us.
Then, as if on cue, fireflies begin to dance around us, their tiny lights flickering in the night, casting a magical glow that feels almost otherworldly.
I feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. Because we both know this is just an act, right?
I lean in closer, my voice a soft whisper meant only for him. “Why are you doing all this?”
His answer is quiet, but it takes my breath away. “Because I’ll never marry anyone else, Jules. I want it to be memorable. For both of us.”
And under that endless night sky, surrounded by the gentle flicker of fireflies, we say our vows.
I become his wife.
To have and to hold.
In sickness and in health.
“To love and to cherish, for as long as we both shall live.” He speaks the words with such reverence, such sincerity, that for a moment, I want to believe it.
But deep down, I know it’s a lie.
It’s all a lie.
Isn’t it?
Colby hands over the rings. Brian’s is a stately white gold band, understated and timeless, sliding onto his finger like it was made for him. It probably was.
But mine—mine steals the air from my lungs. A stunning solitaire, haloed in a delicate ring of diamonds, that catches the light and glimmers with every movement. It’s not just perfect; it’s so me it actually scares me.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
He must catch the flicker of doubt in my eyes because he cups my face in his hands, his grip firm yet achingly gentle. “Kiss me, Jules,” he murmurs, his voice low and electric, more command than request. I don’t hesitate—I can’t.
The moment his lips touch mine, soft and tender at first, a shiver races down my spine, igniting an inferno of emotion and heat. His arms wrap around me, pulling me in so tight that something inside me finally snaps.
I let myself go, kissing him back, exploring. A slow burn of tongues colliding, the rough scrape of his stubble against my skin, and the rhythm of his heartbeat pounding against mine.
The sound of applause cuts through the haze, and with one last taste, we pull apart.
His forehead rests against mine, his lips brushing mine with a possessive growl. “Torture,” he breathes.
Holy fuck, am I in trouble.