Chapter 22
My phone is ringing somewhere—maybe over there—not loud enough to be under my pillow—how did I end up with my head at the foot of the bed?—not here either—
“I’m coming, sheesh,” I grunt as the ringtone briefly pauses before starting all over again.
It’s on the floor, nearly under my bed, ringing persistently with Angela’s name flashing on the front of the screen.
Oh fuck. It’s Saturday.
My eyes dart over to the alarm clock on my nightstand which is perpetually stuck in daylight savings mode—eventually it catches up to itself again—but right now that 1 p.m. is telling me it’s really noon, and I should have been at the shop to help her get ready for this wedding an hour ago.
I’m still hanging off the edge of the bed when I pick up the call, slinking out of the cocoon of blankets I somehow wound myself in. “Hello—I’m sorry, I’m on my way in.”
Angela’s sigh is devastating, because I’m sure she doesn’t actually believe me. Why should she? It’s like I’ve done this before or something.
“All right, we just have to get going in about thirty minutes or I’m going to have a bridezilla and an angry wedding planner on my hands. Need me to pick you up in the van?”
“Yeah, that’d help. I’ll see you soon.”
I sink down against the carpet and bang a fist against it before blowing out a breath and pick myself up off the floor. I’m thankful Angela is forgiving, that Valerie calls off more than I’m late, and that I took a shower last night so I don’t have to hop in there now.
Twenty-five minutes later, I’m zipping up the back of my ankle boots and tripping down the stairs to make it outside before I don’t have a job anymore.
I’m sure that Angela has been sitting in the shop’s delivery van outside my apartment since just after we got off the call, but she greets me with a smile anyway when I climb into the passenger seat.
“Hope what I’m wearing is all right.”
She looks over the rim of her glasses, glancing over the navy blouse I’ve tucked into my trousers before turning her attention away again and pulling away from the curb. “You look lovely, always do. Forgot your jacket though, dear.”
“I’ll be fine, the reception is indoors, yeah? You’ll just have to crank the heat on the way home.”
“Just as long as we don’t get mistaken for the caterers again—Lord knows I don’t know anything about food.”
“Especially not hors d’oeuvres.” I laugh, because the memory of her mispronouncing that at the last wedding we set up for lives rent free in my head.
“You’re going to catch a cold one day, going around like that. Don’t let me catch you without a coat when it’s snowing out, or you’ll get hell from me.” Angela looks at me skeptically, turning back to the road and traffic as we shuttle toward the venue. In another life, she was definitely a mother.
I slide my phone into the glovebox for safekeeping, not wanting to be motion sick if I start doom scrolling. I’ve been so good about cutting down on my social media consumption, but car rides really tempt me. My knee bounces in place and even with my palm pressing down on it, it doesn’t stop.
We arrive at The View at Battery Park just shy of 1 p.m., and I’m in awe of the building, the gardens, the view of the harbor—I never get tired of witnessing these places all decked out for weddings and events. I’m still holding out hope we’ll get booked for a wedding at The Rainbow Room or The Plaza Hotel one day—talk about lavish. Just stepping foot in there to do my job is more than enough for me.
Angela makes a phone call to the wedding planner we’re working with today to let her know we’re here. Several people come out to help us load the flowers inside the building.
Everything is decorated immaculately, with silver and baby blue threaded through the space effortlessly. I get giddy, clutching a box of blue ranunculus even tighter as we head through to the reception space.
My brain switches to work mode, and I can finally focus on the flowers and how they’re supposed to look. What works well between me and Angela is that we don’t even have to speak when we get into the thick of it, we’ve done this so many times. We bounce off each other well, moving in sync as we prepare the centerpieces the way the bride approved several weeks ago—I can only hope she hasn’t changed her mind, because that happens more than I’d like to acknowledge.
“Emme, are you able to drop the boutonnieres and bouquets off to the dressing rooms? Nikki just texted me and said she’s tied up, but wants to make sure that the flowers are ready for the pictures the wedding party is planning to take shortly.” Angela glances up from her phone as she’s punching in a reply, one letter at a time with her index finger.
It’s always a fifty/fifty on whether the bride is nice or a total bitch. I get the nerves, but some people are straight up nasty even when I’m just doing my job with something they approved.
“Yeah, of course.”
Leaving Angela to finish the sweetheart table, its flower spread grander than the rest, I grab the box with the wedding party’s flowers in it and head toward the side of the ballroom to the short hallway.
Thankfully, I handed the flowers off to the bridal party without incident. Unless you call the bride tearing up when she holds the flowers and nearly having to get her makeup redone an incident. She looks gorgeous though, with silvery blue eyeshadow and matching highlight on her cheek bones that makes her look like a faerie.
Very apt. She was definitely cooking with the ethereal overgrown theme in regard to the flowers and decorations.
But everything in my brain comes to a screeching halt when I knock on the groomsmen’s changing room door. In fact, I nearly drop the box of boutonnieres when Benjamin fucking Reed opens the door.
My stomach plummets so hard that I’m surprised the floor doesn’t greet me like an old friend.
“Emmeline?”
He calls my name, a look of confusion passing over his features, which are tailored flawlessly. Not to mention the three-piece suit that has my mouth running dry. Between now and the gala—God, it’s a wonder I’m not pregnant. My IUD is really putting in the work.
I ache to run my fingers down the cut of his jaw and yank on his tie until the pressed fabric rumples beneath my touch. The thought of unraveling him almost makes me forget why I’m so shocked in the first place.
“Are you getting married?” I blurt out, unable to reign in my thoughts even as I see the other groomsmen in the background.
Ben gives me a slow grin, one that makes my stomach flutter even when I’m worried he might have an entire secret life and I’m ready to stitch a scarlet letter A on all my clothes.
“No, I’m not getting married, Emmeline.”
The tension banding my shoulders lessens, and I chew my lip as I glance around him to the other men in the room.
“Whose wedding are you in?”
“My cousin—Alec and his bride, Jenessa.”
I blink. Because I’m still wondering if he’s here with anyone else. This is clearly a family event, and I wasn’t invited to accompany him. It’s not like I’m actually his girlfriend. I’m just his sugar baby.
“Oh, um. The flowers. Boutonnieres. Here.”
He takes the box from me as I hold it out, gaze never leaving my face as I begin to shift one step back.
“Well, I’ve gotta be getting back to—”
“Emmeline.”
My eyes fall shut for a quick second, not enough to compose myself, certainly not long enough before facing the intensity of his gaze as he sets the box of flowers inside the room and closes the door behind him to stand in the hallway with me.
“Don’t run away from me,” Ben says gently.
“I’m not.” I totally am. Trying to, at least. “I’m just, you know, doing my job. My boss is waiting for me to finish putting out the flowers.”
He reaches out, fingers hovering at my cheek, but not quite making contact even as he steps closer. “I had no idea they booked The Blooming Box—that’s certainly not something me and Alec would speak about. My invitation was mostly a ‘You showing up for my wedding? By the way, it’s in two weeks,’ so it’s not like I knew you were working this wedding.”
“Clearly.”
“Don’t pout.” He brushes his fingers along my jaw when I tilt my head toward his touch.
“Why not?”
His thumb grazes the jut of my lower lip. “Because it makes me want to kiss you.”
“And you can’t. Not here.”
Ben almost rakes a hand through his hair before he remembers where he is, what he’s all dressed up for, and then reaches it out to tuck my hair behind my ear instead.
“Emmeline…”
“I understand. It’s all good. You didn’t sign up to take me to family events with you, that’s not a part of our…agreement.”
His lips purse, brows pinching together. “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have at least told you what I was doing today, then maybe this meeting wouldn’t have felt out of left field.”
He’s right, but I can’t say for sure I wouldn’t have actually just told Angela that I was on my deathbed, because there was no way I was showing up to a wedding Ben’s family would be at. Even now, I keep looking down the hallway over his shoulder, waiting for the moment his mother pops up, because I’m not exactly looking forward to that interaction.
If only because it’ll shatter my heart into a million pieces if he utters the word friend.
“Maybe, but you don’t owe me anything.”
There’s some movement behind the door and I can hear the chatter of the ladies ramping up as well, making the hairs on my neck stand on end.
Ben turns my attention back to him, tipping my chin up with his finger, one last sweep of his gaze over my face checking for the cracks I know are wide open.
“Stay until the reception. Tell the wedding planner, Nikki, that I said it was all right. I didn’t bring anyone else here as a plus one, if that’s what you’re worried about. I only want you.”
I scoff, but the nerves in my stomach settle just a little.
“Did you and your boss ride here together?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll take you home if you stay. She’s more than welcome to stay as well.”
“What makes you think I want to stay?” It’s not like I want him to beg me—though wouldn’t that be a treat?—it’s that I want a reason to stay. One that doesn’t involve me hiding in the back of the room watching him as I avoid the eggshells for the both of us.
His lips twitch. “I know on good authority that the cake is a copycat of the royal lemon elderflower cake.”
Oooooh, you motherfucker.
His fingers slip down to circle my wrist and bring my hand up for him to kiss the back. The reverence with which he turns my palm over and also kisses the raised scars is what has me caving.
“All right, bucko, you’ve convinced me. Just don’t call me your friend out there if anyone asks, and I won’t have to hold your dick hostage the next time you decide you want to bang my brains out again.”
I take the biggest slice of that wedding cake I can find among the plates, like a little vulture ready for my prey. The cake layers are lightly floral, sweet and citrusy, complimenting the tart tang of the lemon curd packed between the layers. And the buttercream? Just bury me with it.
The cake alone is worth the slog of the ceremony sitting awkwardly in the back with Angela. She didn’t stay for the reception, though had some choice words for me about being safe. Especially when I pointed Ben out to her in the wedding party.
I think she even licked her lips.
Even now, with lemon on my tongue, all I want is cinnamon as I watch him glide across the dance floor as he shares a dance with his new cousin-in-law. It makes my heart seize up, my stomach twisting with jealousy because I can’t do anything other than picture myself in her place, and I have to cross my arms, fingers curling around my biceps to avoid bad habits I’ve long since kicked.
I want to be the one he dances with, even in a room full of his family.
The thought feels like ice shattering along my skin.
My gaze drops to the floor because I can’t take it.
I can’t take the thought of asking for what I really want and him saying no. I can’t take the sting of rejection. It’s part of why I’m always the first to exit a relationship or a situationship. Always the last to come, first to leave.
And suddenly, I’m halfway across the room, breezing past the entrance display with the guestbook table and portrait displays of the couple’s engagement photos with my hand outstretched for the door handle.
“Emmeline.”
I freeze, my hand curled around the cool metal handle as my stomach plummets further.
“Did you change your mind?” Ben asks, his fingers slipping over my wrist but not removing my grip.
Yes, I want to say. But what comes out is, “I don’t like dancing.”
“You don’t have to—” he starts, but then cuts himself off and clears his throat. “Come with me then.”
My gaze drifts up over my shoulder to where he’s standing next to me. There’s no judgment in the way his gaze sweeps over me, only the barest hint of concern that shows through the crease in his brow. And I almost crumple into his chest for it.
“Where?”
I let go of the door handle, and he tugs gently on my wrist as I follow the turn of his body. It isn’t far, and it certainly isn’t outside. Instead of fresh air, he pulls me into the space behind the curtain of a photo booth that’s been set up for guests.
Ben drags me onto his lap as I adjust to the bright light overhead, my tongue struggling to catch up with my brain.
“This wasn’t what I was expecting.”
He raises a brow at me, rearranging me on his lap as his arm curves around my waist to hold me against his chest. “And what was it that you were expecting?”
“I dunno.” I shrug. My body begins to settle into something less prickly without the heavy sound of the reception ringing in my ears. “Maybe a quiet moonlit walk in the park across the way.”
“It’s, like, 6 p.m.” He laughs.
“Yeah well, wishful thinking and all that.”
He reaches out to touch the screen in front of us. “Well, how about the next best thing—take a picture with me.”
I squint up at him, arms crossing. “Next best thing, huh?”
“Play along, little bird.”
“Fine.” I sigh, wiggling into his chest and turning my chin up at the camera lens. “I’d love something to remember this day by.” My tone is only a little bitter. “But only if we do at least one silly face.”
“Whatever you want,” he says absently, scrolling through the screen selections. “All right, get ready.”
The screen begins to count down from five, and my heart skitters into a faster beat.
“Silly first,” I say quickly, sticking out my tongue and making my eyes go cross-eyed. The picture snaps, the countdown quicker this time for the next photo as I throw my arms around Ben’s neck to kiss his cheek. When I feel his cheek perk up as he laughs, I don’t feel so fucking crazy anymore. It feels normal when I’m with him. I feel normal.
The camera clicks, then a regular smile as I turn back to the lens. A laugh has me nearly doubling over when his hands dig into my sides and fucking tickles me. I’m still laughing, pushing his face away when the camera clicks again.
Then he’s grabbing my chin and kissing me.
I’m giddy, smiling into his mouth as everything inside of me that was protesting and alarming just melts away at the press of his lips against mine.
Ben pulls back, thumb brushing over my bottom lip. “There she is,” he says, barely a murmur that has my stomach flipping. “I don’t like it when I lose you like that.”
I like it even less.
My brain is still a jumble of thoughts, a mess of a place to navigate even on the best of days. Somehow, he always finds the center, manages to tighten the reins in my hands, the path looking clearer in his wake. I can’t begin to understand it, but even when I want to resist, I can’t seem to.
“Ben.” I watch his gaze as it pulls up from my mouth while my fingers trace the line of his beard back to his hair, sinking into the strands and holding tight. “I wanna go to the beach.”