Chapter 64
Ethan
The Dolly Parton impersonator shook our hands, gave our phones to her assistant so he could use them to take photos, then handed Tilda a bouquet of fake roses.
They’re pretty enough. But you can tell they aren’t real.
I glare at the roses. The reddish-orange color isn’t bad, but it’s not right.
Tilda should have pretty purple flowers for her wedding.
Jack clearly laid this whole trap out for us to spring, and we sprang it, so it seems the least he could do is get the fucking flowers right.
But then I take the whole of Tilda in. The frilly yellow dress. The wavy hair I want wrapped around my fist. The boots and the way her cheeks are blushing pink.
I guess the roses work.
“Do you want a matching boutonniere?”
I drag my eyes up to meet Tilda’s and shake my head at her question.
“You sure?” She gives me a soft smile. “The color would match your shirt.”
I look down at my red flannel. And realize my buttons are still half undone.
“Shit.” I quickly do up the buttons.
Tilda snickers. “You could’ve left it open.”
“No, I could not.” I smooth down the material. “I might be wearing an old flannel shirt to our spur-of-the-moment wedding, but I will not have my chest out.”
Tilda snorts. “Chest out?”
“What else would you call it?” I roll my shoulders back, feeling claustrophobic in this narrow, low-ceilinged room.
The walls are covered in more fake flowers. Making the space even narrower. The carpet is a light blue that I bet matches the front door. And the pews, that can fit maybe two people each, are neon pink.
It’s chaos.
“I’d call it hot.”
My gaze snaps back to Tilda.
She’s always so free with her compliments, but it still takes me by surprise every time.
I should tell her how pretty she looks.
Should’ve already done that.
But if I say it now, it won’t feel sincere.
I shift closer to her. “I’ll unbutton it again as soon as we’re done.”
Tilda lifts the bouquet to cover her smile. Then her brows go up as I watch her sniff the fake flowers. “These smell like roses.”
She holds them up for me, and I lean down, inhaling. Then I shrug. “I like the way you smell better.”
Satisfaction flows through me at her stunned expression, glad I was able to get my own compliment in.
I reach up and tap her chin. “Close your mouth, Firecracker. It’s not the honeymoon yet.”
Tilda’s mother gasps from somewhere nearby, but I ignore her and wink at my soon-to-be wife.