Chapter 7
Hunter
Claire walks down the aisle last, her sage green dress hugging every curve.
Her auburn hair is pinned up with pieces falling loose, the sunlight catching the pieces falling around her face, and she’s holding flowers like she’s been doing this her whole life.
I forget how to breathe.
The ceremony’s on the beach, the late afternoon sun sinking low to our left. Salt hangs thick in the air, mixing with gardenia boutonniere pinned to my suit.
The water’s calm today, just a whisper of waves behind the altar. Rows of rattan chairs perch onto the packed sand, rows of them facing the ocean. The sun’s already cooling off, casting its golden hue on everything… the sand, the chairs, and even Franklin’s face as he waits.
My boy’s already crying at the altar, and I smile at him, happy as hell he met a woman who fits him so perfectly she was probably created just for him.
My heart skips a beat as I remember myself doing the same thing when I married Jenna.
I still in my heart believe she was created for me the same as I was her.
And I will never forget the call from the hospital about my wife and the aneurysm that took her from me.
We were trying to start a family, but it wasn’t in the cards.
Now I understand that love isn’t finite and that we have room in our hearts for more without disrespecting those we already love. And I can’t look away from Claire.
She glances up and catches me staring. Pink crawls up her neck, that blush I want to taste again. Her grip tightens on the bouquet, tropical florals mixed with magnolia blossoms, and her breath hitches.
I grin.
She narrows her eyes but her mouth curves, just enough to let me know she’s loving this.
My hands flex at my sides, sweat sliding down my spine under this damn jacket, and I want to touch her so fucking bad that the ten feet between us feels like a mile.
The breeze picks up, catches her dress, and molds it to her body for half a second before it settles.
The ceremony starts, and my friends do their readings, recite their vows… all of it. I’m supposed to pay attention. Instead I’m watching Doc across the aisle, ten feet away and completely untouchable.
She keeps trying not to look at me, but she fails.
And I catch her every time.
Every time Franklin says “I do,” her eyes flick to mine. When the minister talks about love being patient, I think about how fucking impatient I’ve been. How tonight I’m done waiting.
The dress shifts when she moves. I track the line of her throat, bare shoulder, skin meeting fabric at her collarbone.
Mine. Tonight.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Franklin dips Esme like being away from his bride for one night starved him. Everyone cheers. Claire’s smiling, genuinely happy for her friend, and something tightens in my chest.
We process back down the aisle together, my hand finding her lower back as we reach the end. She shivers when my thumb drags up her spine.
“Cold?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Her breath catches but she doesn’t argue.
Photos take forever. Why do they need me for seventeen different poses? First I’m with Franklin, then the groomsmen, then me with the bridesmaids, then me with Claire. As we wait for posing instructions as maid of honor and best man, my insides practically ignite.
Claire’s hand rests on my chest. My arm wraps her waist, pulling her close. My hand spans her curves, making me want to be careful and reckless at the same time.
“Closer,” the photographer says. “Hand lower. Maid of honor, look up.”
Claire tilts her face up. I look down. Her pupils are blown despite the bright sun.
The camera clicks. “Perfect shot, you two.”
The reception’s open-air, strung with lights amid stone columns.
The venue overlooks the water, three sides open to catch the breeze.
Thankfully, the temperature has dropped.
Tables are draped in white, the candles already lit even though it’s not dark yet.
Tropical flowers are everywhere in the same sunset colors from the bouquets.
Beyond the railing, the ocean’s turning a deep turquoise in the early evening light.
We’re announced as a pair and I keep my hand exactly where it’s been since photos—low on her back, right above the curve of her ass.
Public. Possessive. Everyone can see.
Good.
We’re seated together at the head table, also draped in white.
A cascading centerpiece of birds of paradise along with with a mix of tropical red and yellow flowers spill down the middle of the table like a slow volcanic pour, their petals still dewy from the hotel greenhouse.
Two oversized rattan chairs with peacock backs mark the bride and groom’s seats, and a low wooden sign perches at the center of the table reads “Mr. without them she’d fit under my chin easy. I’m probably holding her too tight, but she’s not complaining.
“That speech,” she says quietly.
“What about it?”
“It was impressive.” Her fingers find the scar on my neck, trace it without thinking.
I pull her closer, and she fits perfectly, soft curves against hard muscle. She smells like vanilla and citrus and something underneath that’s just her.
“Thanks.”
We don’t talk after that. We just move to the music’s rhythm, her hair tickling my jaw in the best way.
The sun dips below the horizon, and the string lights overhead turn everything soft and gold, the candles still flickering on the tables.
Ocean waves roll in, rhythmic and constant.
Beneath our feet, the wooden planks are smoothed by years of dancing couples.
The air’s cooled but still warm enough Claire’s bare shoulders don’t need my jacket.
Her is head tucked against my shoulder, my hand on her waist, and when the song ends, another starts, and we keep going amid the steel drums and waves.
Laughter carries from the tables, punctuated by the crash of waves on rocks below.
The music’s bass vibrates through the floorboards, into my chest.