Chapter 23 Brooke
Brooke
“Tits up!” I wink, sending the bride and her moms down the aisle. All three are crying to varying degrees and I’m beginning to tear up myself. It’s so beautiful to see all that love exploding from someone’s eyeballs.
I dab the corners of my eyes. I can’t help but think of my mom and my own cancelled wedding.
She’d never cry tears of happiness walking me down the aisle.
The only tears she cried over the whole ordeal were about what it all meant for her.
I don’t have time for those tears right now, though.
There’s work to be done. Twenty minutes until the ceremony is over and guests fill the pavilion for cocktail hour.
I walk back to the venue, clipboard in hand. The sun shadows a Caleb-looking shape ahead of me.
“Did you just say ‘tits up’ to the bride?” he asks, eyes wide.
“Caleb!” I whisper-yell. The string quartet playing the processional music is loud, but I don’t need guests hearing Caleb say tits! “What are you doing here?”
“Well, Mrs. Maisel, Joey needed a last-minute sous, so here I am.” Here he is all right, chef coat hugging his thick arms.
“You’ve watched The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel?”
“Of course I have. Something about a commanding woman does it for me.”
I look down at my clipboard to hide the flush in my cheeks.
“What other crude language do you use in front of your clients?”
I give him a light smack with my clipboard and start walking ahead of him to the pavilion. He quickly catches up, walking with his hands in his pockets.
“If you’re lucky, you’ll find out at the Quincy wedding. Until then, those are my secrets to keep.” Wait until he sees the bush-to-bush demo.
“Looking forward to getting lucky,” he says with a smirk, dimpled cheek looking as good as ever. “Babe.”
I fake a groan because, as annoying as it was at first, I’ve grown to like it. I only wish he actually meant it. “Shouldn’t you be helping Joey? Cocktails start in fifteen minutes, and for some insane reason, Joey agreed to passing ten different hors d’oeuvres.”
“Oh, I know. I’ve been wrapping pigs in blankets for hours.” He stops walking when we get to the venue’s small kitchen. It’s literally bursting with too many cooks. “I just wanted to say hi.”
“Hi, Caleb.”
“Hi, Brooke.”
He smiles and turns to the kitchen. I hug my clipboard against my beating chest and watch him walk away. How does he work in a sweltering kitchen with three other cooks in the middle of July wearing jeans that hug his ass like that?
“Brooke, my eyes are up here.” Caleb’s turned around to stare at me, smirking, pointing a finger to his face. Shit. I have to focus. I’m at work, damnit.
“Get to work, Caleb!” I yell before turning on my heel to oversee cocktail hour.
Guests quickly fill the pavilion and swarm the bars as soon as the ceremony ends.
My team immediately swings into action, grabbing the ceremony chairs from the beach and dismantling the chuppah while I help the photographer facilitate family photos.
Tonight, that requires asking passersby enjoying golden hour at the public beach to get the hell out of the shot.
The pavilion can be rented, but the public beach cannot.
I’ve tried. I’m used to managing it, though.
This is my third wedding at Beachside Pavilion this summer.
Last year, I had five. I’ve mastered the art of politely ruining someone’s beach evening on behalf of my clients.
My favorite thing about this venue is the location. The view does all the hard work. It’s low tide, making the seascape even more striking. Tide pools dot the sand, dozens of sailboats glide along the cotton candy horizon, and you can see the path to the lighthouse off the coast.
My least favorite thing about this venue is the chairs.
They’re terrible, clunky ballroom chairs that belong in a dated country club, not a venue that opened less than five years ago.
I wish someone had thought to consult us before the town opened the building and purchased two hundred ugly chairs.
Thankfully, tonight’s clients decided to rent better seating.
The night continues according to my timeline. Before I know it, the bride and groom are cutting the cake and it’s smooth sailing from here. I stand at the edge of the room watching the guests.
“Come here often?” Caleb asks.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” I smile up at him, somehow charmed by the lamest pickup line ever. I’ve barely seen him tonight. Except for the dozen or so times I made an excuse to peek into the kitchen. If he didn’t already think I was a micromanager, he definitely does now.
Instead of laughing at guests and critiquing dance moves like we used to, we enjoy a comfortable silence. Until glass shatters on the dance floor and we both spring into action to clean it up.
These goddamn chairs.
Another reason I hate them so much is because the venue contract requires that if rented chairs are brought in, the original ugly chairs have to be returned to the ballroom from the storage closet.
As a full-service wedding agency, this responsibility falls to me.
And because I’d been distracted by Caleb fucking Foley all night, I let my support staff leave already.
I’m stuck handling this tedious task alone.
The catering team’s still here cleaning the kitchen and packing up.
I could ask for help, but they’ve been on their feet as long as I have, maybe longer.
And I haven’t been in a hotbox kitchen for the last six hours.
The band is packing up too, but there’s no way I’m asking them.
I’d have to give up the slice of cake I snuck into the van for later, and I’m not about to do that.
I’m on my sixth trip out of the storage room when Caleb and Joey emerge from the kitchen. “Yo, Brooke.” Joey calls from across the room. “You need some help?”
Oh, thank god.
“Nah, I got it,” I say, juggling three chairs. “Only fifty or so more trips.”
They don’t move.
“Of course I need help!”
We spend the next fifteen minutes moving stacks of chairs out of the closet and back to the ballroom where we arrange them around the tables, as per the contract. We’re almost through the task when Joey steps out to take a call.
With most of the chairs in the ballroom, Caleb and I can both fit in the storage closet to grab stacks at the same time.
I’ve been able to carry three at a time.
Caleb has been carrying six. I don’t know how many chairs Joey’s managing, because I can’t take my eyes off of Caleb’s muscled back each time he lifts a stack.
He makes it look effortless. I feel like I’m going to pass out.
A loud, sudden bang startles me and I drop the stack in my hands. When I turn to see what caused the noise, I realize that the storage room door slammed shut.
“Shit,” I say. “I’ve got it.”
I grab the door handle, turn it down, and push. Nothing. I turn the handle up and push. Nothing. Shit. Behind me, the stack Caleb’s holding hits the ground.
“Is it stuck?” He walks over. The storage room is long and narrow. I try to step aside to get out of his way but there’s nowhere to go.
I keep trying the handle. “Yeah, I think so.”
Caleb comes up behind me, his breath warm on my neck, and reaches for the handle, grazing my arm with his fingers. The heat of his body is at my back. My heart rate increases steadily, and I’m sweating more than I was five minutes ago.
I shift a little so he can try the door, bumping into his solid chest. He turns the handle up and down as I try to push the door with my body weight. Nothing works.
“Shit.” Caleb exhales. “It’s really stuck.”
I turn around to face him. He’s so close we’re almost touching. He could step back but he doesn’t. His eyes are wide, and one hand is all but pulling out his brown hair. Little beads of sweat dot his hairline, making his waves curl a little.
“Caleb, are you okay?”
“Um…yeah….” He swallows and his chest heaves, eyes darting around frantically. His skin pales. He’s definitely not okay. “I think I might be claustrophobic.”
I try not to laugh. “You think?”
“Okay, yeah, I am claustrophobic.” His voice shakes. “But I didn’t know it until right now. Are you going to give me shit about it?”
“Caleb,” I say, resting my hands on his chest. He looks side to side like he’ll find a secret escape from this godforsaken storage room. Stupid ugly chairs. I rise to my tiptoes—I changed out of my heels hours ago. Cupping his cheeks in my hands, I turn his head. “Look at me.”
I take a slow breath in. Then a slow breath out. Slow breath in. Slow breath out. Caleb grips my wrists lightly to anchor himself. His warm touch is distracting. I lean back on the door to steady myself. He mirrors my breathing. In…and…out. In…and…out.
I’ve never seen him like this. Scared. Vulnerable. Needing me.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say, my palms still on his cheeks. A strand of my hair has fallen into my face, and I fight the urge to move it. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to stop touching him. “I left my phone in the ballroom, but Joey will be back any minute. Okay?”
“Okay,” he says. It’s all he can manage. His dark brown eyes pierce into mine. I can see the golden specks in his irises. We continue the deep breathing and he doesn’t look away. Minutes pass. He doesn’t move to break physical contact. Slowly, color returns to his cheeks and his body relaxes.
“Better?” I ask.
He takes another deep breath and removes his hands from my wrists.
He steps closer, placing one hand on the door behind me.
The other brushes the hair off my face, but he doesn’t let go of it.
He twirls it between his fingers, my gaze following his hand.
His hands. Maddie’s words about hard-working calloused hands pop into my head.
I inhale and make a sound that gives away what his closeness is doing to me.
“Brooke,” Caleb whispers, voice thick.
I swallow slowly and his eyes watch my throat. Time seems to slow as his face moves closer to mine. Now I’m the one who can’t breathe. He looks at my lips and leans in. They’re so close to grazing mine. I close my eyes and it feels like I’m tumbling backwards. Losing all sense of purchase.
Shit.
I am tumbling backwards—the door behind me has swung open. Joey catches me as Caleb stumbles right onto the floor next to us.
“Oh, shit!” Joey helps me stand, and I dust myself off. “Sorry, Brooke.”
He offers Caleb his hand and pulls him up. “Sorry, man.”
“The door jammed,” I say, feeling hot and flushed. From the fall or from the way Caleb was looking at me, I don’t know. The way he said my name. He’s never said it like that before. Like it means something.
“Yeah…” Caleb mumbles, raking his hand through his waves and shuffling his feet. “We…uh…we were just trying to open it.”
“Dude, I told them to fix that door,” Joey says. “I was here two weeks ago and the groomsmen helping at the end of the night got stuck in there.”
Caleb scoffs. “Thanks for the heads up, man.”
“I’ll call the venue manager in the morning and remind her,” I say. I might have a word with her about the chairs, too.
Joey looks back and forth between me and Caleb, like he’s caught us doing something wrong. A knot twists in my stomach. I’m a rule follower who always has a plan, and it’s been a long time since I had a plan that involved Caleb.
“Brooke, we can wrap this up if you want to get out of here?” Joey says, making steps toward the storage room.
“Yeah…uh…sure, okay,” I say, but my feet stay planted. I look at Caleb and the pained expression on his face. I want to ask him what almost happened in there, but I can’t. Not without risking my heart again.
“Um…so yeah, great wedding guys!” I turn and dash to the ballroom to grab my phone.
Thank god I didn’t dismiss the rest of the staff until after the van was loaded.
I need to get far away from Caleb. Screw my post-wedding routine, I need to get home and take an ice-cold shower.
I don’t know what to make of what just happened.
Either Caleb had been moments away from kissing me or he was about to pass out on me post-panic attack.
I don’t know which one I want it to be.