Chapter Twenty-One
WILL
I trail the other groomsmen on our short trek up the boardwalk to brunch. I’m already pulling at my collar, my tie choking me. At least it’s a beautiful day. And the last day of this wedding fiasco. No matter what happens, all will be done tonight.
We arrive five minutes late, much to Fran’s annoyance.
She provides a clipped rundown of what we will do over the next few hours. Our first task is to escort the ladies to their assigned seats around the table. And judging by the number of place cards, many more females—family and close friends—have arrived.
Emma and Mema push through the flower-lined gate first.
But before I can offer my arm, Fran swoops in to ensure everyone knows she’s in charge. “Will, be a dear and escort your grandmother to her seat.” She snaps her fingers. “Matt, you take Emma.”
When Fran leaves us, I catch Emma’s eye, and we both make a face.
“Don’t speak ill of others,” Mema chides, trying to hide a smile.
Emma looks over her shoulder at us. “We didn’t say anything.”
“I know you two. You had a whole conversation with your eyes.”
Emma giggles as she takes Matt’s arm.
Once I’ve safely delivered Mema to her seat, I return to the entrance where Fran is greeting Ava’s great-grandma Thompson.
“Will, this is my husband’s grandmother, Glenda Thompson.”
I offer my arm to the tiny white-haired woman, and she squeezes it lightly.
“You look lovely today, Mrs. Thompson,” I say as we shuffle at turtle speed to the table.
Her cheeks lift, and her soft hand pats my wrist. “Thank you, dear. Such a nice young man.”
Smiling, I pull out her chair. Then Morgan’s at the entrance. Her hair shines golden in the morning sunlight. Soft curls flow over her shoulders and blue sleeveless sundress.
Is she watching me get Mrs. Thompson settled? As I make my way back, there’s something unreadable in her eyes.
“Morgan!” Fran descends. “How lovely to see you. I’m so glad you fixed your hair today.”
Morgan’s expression hardens, but Fran only snaps her fingers at me. “Will, dear, please take Morgan to her seat.”
“Morning.” I offer her my arm. I might have tried to avoid her, but there’s nothing for it now.
“Sleep okay?” There, I’ll pretend everything is normal.
But things aren’t normal, and when she takes my arm, I’m too aware of the light pressure of her fingers through my suit jacket.
Her touch zings clear to my core. Stupid.
A wry smile twists her lips. “Not really.”
Was she up late talking to Lenny? Not that I care. “Long phone conversation?”
Her grip tightens, perhaps on reflex. “Longer than I would have liked. But, no. I had a lot on my mind.”
I shouldn’t zero in on the words longer than I would have liked. Still, I’d love to know what was on her mind.
I. Don’t. Care.
I don’t want to care. It’s none of my business.
Luckily, before I can blurt more questions, my sister, Sophia, rushes over and grabs my free hand, shoving my suit sleeve up my arm. “You’re still wearing it.”
I shake her off. “Of course. I told you I would.”
She runs off yelling, “Brooklyn, I told you he was wearing the bracelet I made.”
Morgan says nothing, but her gaze is soft. Her lips twitch like she wants to smile. I want her to smile.
No. I pull my sleeve over the bracelet.
I. Don’t. Care.
As I deliver her to the table, Fran trots over and shoves something in Morgan’s hand. “I think you need this, dear.” She points at Morgan’s face. “Concealer for the bags under your eyes.”
Morgan’s mouth falls open, and the little bottle shakes in her hand. But before she can say anything, Fran flits away across the stone patio, balancing like a pro on her spiked heels.
Horrible woman. Morgan’s cheeks have pinked, and I swipe the bottle from her. “Give me that. You’re the most beautiful girl here. And for the record, I liked your hair yesterday.”
Yikes. The words have left my mouth and are out there between us.
Morgan’s eyebrows shoot high on her forehead.
My mouth hangs open as if I could breathe the words back in. I shrug and pocket the bottle. “She’s the worst.”
The corners of Morgan’s mouth lift. “She really is…and, um, thank you.”
I bolt away the second she sits. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?
I blame Fran for being so blunt. I was protecting Morgan. That’s all. We’re friends. Sort of.
I hiss out a breath, grab a pitcher of fresh orange juice, and make the rounds, filling glasses upon request as the other groomsmen usher the rest of the ladies.
Matt seats Ava next to Morgan, and when I top off their juice glasses, Ava says, “Wow, Will. Looking sharp.”
“Thanks.” My chest puffs. Morgan’s watching me again, smiling again. I continue around the table. But the phone call plagues me, and Morgan’s words—longer than I would have liked—play, stuck on repeat.
Then Fran calls us groomsmen back into The Meeting House, where we take trays from the bewildered kitchen staff who can’t be used to guests bringing their own suit-clad servers.
Balancing plates of quiche and fruit, I ferry them to the long table.
As I pass behind Morgan’s chair, Ava tilts her way. “He said he wants to see you? What did you say?”
I slow. But they lower their voices, and I must continue to the other end of the table.
Maybe they’re not even talking about him. But, then again, perhaps this is the answer to my question. That phone call went well, and she wouldn’t be talking about seeing him if she wasn’t thinking about it.
A squeal arises from Fran, who’s standing at the head of the table. All heads turn her way. “Look who made it!”
She rushes to the gate to let in another woman about her age. They hug, and Fran leads her to the table. “Everyone, this is one of my dear friends, Karen Pax. I wasn’t sure she could make it, but here she is.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t miss it, honey,” the woman drawls in her thick country accent.
“We? Did you bring a date?”
“No, no. Leo insisted on joining me. The dear. He didn’t want me to have to come alone.”
Did she say Leo?
Morgan’s eyes are wide, but she’s not looking at Mrs. Pax. She’s looking toward the parking lot.
A tall, good-looking blond about our age stands in the gravel near her car. He waves and leans against the door like he owns it. Behind him, the faded remnants of blue ICEE are barely visible. With a dimpled grin, he points at it and mouths, “What is that?”
She shrugs and waves back.
If I wasn’t sure before, I’m sure now. Here’s my answer.
I grind my teeth, annoyed with Hudson for pushing me toward her. I chuck the concealer in the garbage and head for the gate.
It’s time for me to clock out.
My time with the brunch crowd is over.