Chapter 28 The Veil
THE VEIL
ASHLEY
Iwobble out of the chair, mumble something about needing my planner, and stumble past Beckett on my way inside.
By the time I return, he’s already rolled the room service cart back inside the cabin. I slide into my seat, flip open the dog-eared pages, and start scanning my checklists.
“Okay…” I mutter, dragging my finger down the columns.
“Luna says she and Noah have an appointment to get blood tests in Mazatlán, results to be faxed to the licensing office in Ensenada. I’ve confirmed the caterers, but probably should do that again tomorrow.
And I need to touch base with the photographer tomorrow.
What else? Oh yeah, the flowers are supposed to be delivered to the winery, but I don’t have an exact time.
I’m afraid if they get there too early, they’ll start to wilt. ”
Beckett pulls his chair closer, leaning over to peek at the mess of highlighter yellow and scribbles. “Can we ask the people at the winery to refrigerate them?”
“Sensible question,” I murmur, scribbling a note. Ask Benito about cooler. Okay. What other bright ideas do you have?”
He grins. “Did you get a list of shots from Luna, to give to the photographer? Something you could email him?”
“Her,” I correct him. But…
It’s a good point.
While the ocean turns a fathomless black below us, Beckett is more than helpful—offering quiet, thoughtful comments that prove he remembers our wedding.
Like when I mention that Luna doesn’t want a first look, and he reminds me how we didn’t plan one either…
But still we somehow ran into each other anyway.
“Hey, it was your dad who told me to wait in that kitchen,” he says. “Not my fault that you skipped breakfast.”
“I was starving.” I’d gone looking for a snack and found Beckett instead.
Which, as far as snacks go, I’d had no complaints.
And when I tell him what’s on the menu for Luna’s reception, he gives me a little nudge, joking that he would have loved Mexican food, instead of the chicken my mom insisted on.
“Oh, gosh! I forgot about that.” That chicken was dry and tasteless.
While going over the plans, despite the stress from today’s epic failure, Beckett makes me laugh, and the knot between my shoulders slowly relaxes.
It feels good.
“Anything pressing for tomorrow?” he asks.
“I’m supposed to meet Luna for—oh no.” I jerk upright.
“What?”
“Luna has her final hair appointment at eight tomorrow—morning. But the stylist needs to work with the veil this time.”
He frowns. “That’s a problem because?”
“The veil! Luna is going to be wearing my veil. From our wedding.” His eyebrows rise, and I rush on, “Oh Ship! The veil, it’s miles long—not the right style. So I promised her I’d shorten it. But I didn’t have time before we left.”
Before he can say anything, I’m off to dig through the closet, locate the packing cube I need, and haul it back to the room. One tug on the zipper, and an explosion of embroidered tulle spills across the bed.
Beckett stands in the balcony doorway, arms folded. “Okay. Now what?”
A month ago, a week ago, I never could have imagined having this conversation with him—because he wouldn’t have cared.
But I don’t have time to mull over that right now. How had I forgotten about the veil?
“I need to trim it to something manageable,” I say, untangling the fabric. “I was going to do this with Luna, but after seeing how green she looked earlier? Yeah, no. She’s in no shape to play dress-up. I just need a stand-in.”
“Well, I can cut it. Why don’t you put it on?”
Yeah, hell no. “I’m not letting you anywhere near this with a pair of scissors.” But then I give him a little smirk, because there’s only one other option that makes sense.
“So, what do you have in mind, then?” He glances around the cabin.
I find the little headpiece—the crownlike comb—and gesture for him to come closer. “Over here.”
“You’re serious?”
“Totally.”
He sighs but steps forward anyway. “For the record, I’m way taller than your sister.”
“I can compensate for that,” I say, waving a hand. “Besides, I just need to see how long I want it to hang past her shoulders.”
I hop onto the bed—barefoot, wobbling just a little on the rumpled duvet—but I somehow stick the landing. Even I’m impressed.
So is Beckett.
He reaches out instinctively, fingers brushing my calf. “Careful,” he murmurs.
“I’m fine,” I insist, though okay, maybe three glasses of wine are still humming through my bloodstream, making everything feel a little warmer. A little floaty. A little… giddy.
He stands perfectly still beneath me, doing his best to hold a straight face—but the second I lower the veil onto his head, a grin tugs at his mouth.
“If anyone walks in right now,” he murmurs, “I’ll never live this down.”
“Hold still, My Lady,” I say, trying not to laugh.
He lifts a brow but doesn’t move—not even when I smooth the veil down, the fabric whispering over his impressive biceps. I hop down, adjust, hop back up. At one point I sway, and he steadies me with a hand on my butt, but for just a second.
“I said I’m fine,” I mutter through a smile, a pin tucked between my lips.
“Sure you are,” he says softly, blue eyes dancing. Admiring.
Dangerous.
The laughter dies in my throat before it even forms.
The scissors feel heavy in my hand—a sharp contrast to the gauzy veil I’m cutting away at.
He looks ridiculous. My grown husband wearing tulle.
And yet…
His eyes are dark. Focused. Tracking every move I make.
This was supposed to be funny. Easy.
Instead, my pulse is thudding in my ears. I’m more than a little breathless.
His clean, heady scent fills the air. When I lean closer, my fingers graze his hair, and for one dizzy heartbeat his face is right at the level of my chest.
He glances up, eyes focused in a way that turns everything electric.
The moment shifts—because I feel it.
The memory.
More times than I can count, he’s said my breasts were the perfect size. The perfect shape. That they must have been made for his hands, his mouth.
And now, with his breath ghosting across my skin, my nipples pebble through the thin fabric of my P.J.’s.
With hands that aren’t as steady as I’d like them to be, I start cutting.
A little here. A little more there.
This is good.
I become steadier as I go, watching the excess fabric fall away in soft, shimmery folds. It’s only a veil, and it won’t even be mine anymore after this, but for some reason it feels good. Letting go of what no longer works. Preserving, protecting the stuff that does.
Beckett’s gaze catches mine again.
“You look good in lace,” I mumble around the pins. “For a dude.”
He shifts, hands on my hips again, when I nearly lose my balance. And his touch, familiar but weirdly not, feels really, really good.
I stick the last pin in and step back. “I think that’s the right length,” I say, voice unsteady. “I just need to sew it.”
But he doesn’t let me get away.
“Ash.”
I look down at him—my husband, standing there in my wedding veil, and somehow still the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
“You and me,” he says quietly, his eyes never leaving mine. “We’re not over.”
My breath stutters.
My thoughts start to scramble. Not with rules or warnings—but with questions.
What does this mean? Does it have to mean anything?
Can it just be this—right here, right now—without turning into a promise I’m not ready to make?
But then again… what if it is something?
What if it’s everything?
Before I can decide, before I can breathe, he gives a gentle tug—and suddenly, I’m in his arms.
The veil slips from his head, floating to the floor behind him.
His mouth finds mine—not rushed, not desperate.
Slow.
So slow it almost hurts.
His lips brush mine in a careful sweep, impossibly gentle—like he’s waiting to see if I’ll stop him.
Like he’s giving me one last chance to remember all the reasons I shouldn’t.
But I don’t.
His hand comes up to cradle my jaw, thumb grazing my cheekbone, and then the kiss deepens—hunger threading through the softness. He tastes like my wine, but also like mint. Like him. Beckett.
My favorite flavor.
He’d kissed me yesterday, but that was for show, because we didn’t have a choice.
But this kiss. It’s a choice.
No one to convince. Nothing to prove. Just him. Just me.
And when his teeth catch my lower lip, coaxing and savoring, it’s as if he’s relearning me.
My hands, which were gripping his shoulders, slide up his neck.
Oh, his hair, under my hands, it’s silkier and thicker than it has a right to be—slips between my fingers as he tilts his head.
“Turning silver here,” I whisper. Because I’m noticing. That this is us even though we’re both different.
“You like it?” he asks, angling the kiss deeper.
“I do.”
But oh… Closer. Please.
The room tilts, or maybe I do.
Either way, the next second I’m sinking into the mattress, air whooshing out of my lungs as my back meets the duvet. Beckett braces above me—one arm beside my head, the other still cupping my cheek, staring down like I’ll disappear if he lets go.
“Oh, Beckett.” I shouldn’t.
We shouldn’t. Am I just asking for pain?
His eyes meet mine for a heartbeat, and something in my chest folds in on itself.
And instead of pushing him away, I’m melting.
“Ash…” Beckett hums my name.
He shifts, and I’m cradling him with my thighs. My hands map him instinctively—shoulders, chest, jaw.
God, this kiss…
It’s like I’m seventeen again.
Like we’re in the back of his stupid Jeep, fogging up the windows, making out until my lips were swollen and my shirt was unbuttoned and we’d gone too far to turn back. That giddy, electric thrill of knowing we were playing with fire and not caring one damn bit.
I lift my hips, sliding my leg along his, and then I feel it—him. Hard against me.
My breath catches and I reach down, my fingers slipping under the waistband of his sweats.
But his hand closes over mine.
Not rough. Not panicked.
Just… firm.
And the second our eyes meet, everything stills.