Chapter 8 Man I Need
Man I Need
Franki
The morning and afternoon pass in a blur.
Dante’s and Noah’s family and friends sit on white wooden chairs on the terrazzo waiting for the ceremony.
The late afternoon sun gilds everything it touches with a golden glow.
Bright pink bougainvillea drip from the walls and the wedding arbor, and a salty breeze fills the air with the perfume of the lemon trees and rosemary bushes surrounding the space.
It’s absolutely perfect, even if the marble altar in the background is a little off-brand.
Elliot, standing beside me waiting for our cue from the wedding planner, clears his throat. “I want to apologize again, for my behavior toward you yesterday. I don’t want to make excuses because I don’t have any, but I’m sorry.” He finishes his clearly rehearsed speech on a rush.
Maybe he’s not irredeemable. “Thank you for apologizing. Now, do better going forward.”
“I will. I’ll try. I left the online groups I was in. Henry is nothing like them. They talk about what to do to be successful. But they’re not successful or happy. Henry sees the world differently. I want to be like him.”
For a moment, I’m at a loss. “Henry has a very strong moral center. Emulate that, and everything else will fall into line.”
“I don’t remember much about my father. He died when I was small.
But Henry gives off . . . well, sort of .
. . dad energy, you know? If you don’t count the part with the cliff .
. . or the knife . . . but, really, it’s best not to count those parts.
He’s protective of the people he loves. I can’t find fault with that. ”
I nod soberly, then speak on impulse. “I think Henry would love to hear that from you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he told you to keep in touch.”
“Really?” he asks eagerly.
“Really,” I say with a smile.
Henry may grumble, but he loves nothing better than knowing he did some good in the world.
The quartet plays, and Henry and his brother, Gabriel, wearing black tuxes, take their positions on the opposite side. Elliot and I enter from our own.
Henry’s lips quirk, his navy-blue gaze on mine.
Our seven-year-old niece, Phee, dark blonde hair in a curly updo and wearing a frothy sea-green dress to match mine, skips down the center aisle flinging flower petals from a basket, then she comes to a stop beside Henry.
He smiles at her, and she grins back and takes his hand to stand between him and Gabriel.
After a moment, Phee shifts, putting a hand to the top of her head, and whispers something to Henry.
He takes the empty basket and places it on the ground behind them, then appears to adjust a bobby pin in her updo.
Phee relaxes and smiles back. Then Henry turns to look my way and wait for the two grooms to make their entrance.
I wouldn’t have been surprised by a swell of emotion during the ceremony. I didn’t expect it before it started.
I married this man. This is my life now. This mutual love and support and peace are mine. I don’t want to ever take it for granted.
When my eyes flood, Henry digs into his pocket and produces a clean, folded handkerchief, takes a single step toward me and stretches out his hand to place it in mine, then immediately steps back into position.
I mouth, “Thanks” just as Dante and Noah enter from opposite sides and walk toward each other.
I use the handkerchief again when big, tough Dante knuckles away a tear.
When the officiant asks for the rings, Henry produces them. Noah and Dante speak the vows they’ve written.
The ceremony goes quickly. Then, we’re cheering and filing out. Phee runs to her parents, and Henry offers me his arm as we enter the villa.
Henry guides me into the room set up for the cocktail hour and passes me a glass of the limoncello signature drink the guys chose.
When I take a sip, he asks, “Do you feel the need to sing bad karaoke?”
“Do you?”
“Not sure. I need to double check.” He takes another sip of his own. “I don’t feel the urge to sing, but I think I can make out the Mamma Mia! soundtrack somewhere in the distance.”
I laugh.
He tugs me against his body. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll stay long enough to be seen when the guests enter for the cocktail hour.”
“Okay?”
He nods decisively. “Fifteen minutes should be adequate. After which time, you and I will find some privacy before the reception starts.”
We participated in group photos before the ceremony. Now the guys are having wedding portraits taken alone during the cocktail hour.
“You’re having fun,” I say, surprised.
Henry having fun at a party doesn’t happen. He hasn’t even pulled his fidget spinner out.
His lips curve.
“And sneaking off has nothing to do with getting away from the sounds and noise and overstimulation for a while?” I ask.
“Of course it does.” He offers me a heavy-lidded look that curls my pink-polished toes. “I prefer stimulation of a very different sort.”
I lean against him, grinning into my drink. He tightens his grip on my waist and raises his chin in greeting to a group of guests walking past us.
When I’ve finished my cocktail, he takes my empty glass, hands it off to a passing waiter, and checks his watch. “Let’s go.”
The limoncello has me warm and languid and almost giddy with excitement. Or maybe that’s just knowing what we’re going to do. Henry guides me through the cooler corridors, away from the crowd.
When we reach an unobtrusive wooden door, he draws me closer. “Laundry room,” he murmurs.
Henry produces a set of keys to unlock the door. It swings open, but we’re not greeted by a dark, empty room. Instead, a startled gasp reaches my ears. I stand frozen, a deer caught in headlights, at the sight that greets us.
“Ack,” Henry’s strangled voice wheezes out. “What the hell?”
Henry’s mother’s cheeks flush pink under her white-streaked golden hair as she stares back at us with round blue eyes. Charlotte and Arden are fully dressed, thank God, but Arden’s hands are firmly and decidedly on his wife’s ass, her arms are around his shoulders, and—
“You were making out in here,” Henry accuses.
“What exactly were you planning to do in this laundry room?” Arden asks, his steel-gray hair ruffled, and his expression so like Henry’s when he’s annoyed that it’s a little like getting a glimpse of thirty years into our future.
“You’re—” Henry cuts himself off abruptly.
“We’re not that old,” his father says.
Henry closes his eyes briefly, shoring up his mental fortitude, then he backs up a step, pulling me with him, until the two of us are in the corridor once more. “Carry on.”
“Lock the door behind you,” Arden calls.
Beside me, expression stony, Henry locks the door, then takes my hand, guiding me away.
“Oh my God. I can’t believe your parents—”
Henry places a single finger on my lips. “We will never speak of this moment again.”
I rip his finger away. “Oh, yes, we will. This is gold.”
He sighs deeply.
“Your parents still love each other so much that they sneak off together. You’re lucky to have grown up with parents like that.” Maybe it’s the cocktail making me weepy, but I can’t help the sniffle that follows my words.
His eyes soften and turn introspective. “I am.”
He uses his thumb to wipe a tear from below my eye, then passes me another clean handkerchief from his pocket. “Okay, they stole our spot, but I know another one.”
When we unlock the door to the utility closet, we’re greeted by the sight of Henry’s sister’s bare legs framing her husband’s still-covered, thankfully, ass.
“You cannot be serious,” Henry snaps.
Dean jerks his face toward us with a scowl. “Out.”
It’s an unnecessary order for me. I’ve already practically flung myself backward into the corridor.
Henry remains, frozen. “You two are parents.”
“Why do you think we hide in closets? We take time where we can get it, and you’re interrupting,” Bronwyn says, glaring at Henry around her husband’s shoulder.
Henry backs out and closes the door with a firm snap. No one has to tell him to lock it this time. He does so with alacrity.
“We’d have been better off to go up to our room,” I say.
“We would have if I’d realized we had competition for the closets. There’s no time now. I know one more place.”
“Maybe we should just call it a wash. You can’t win them all.”
Henry shakes his head. “Third time’s the charm.”
Henry pulls open the door to the verdant greenhouse on the edge of the villa. We step inside. And stop short.
Henry’s brother, Gabriel, and his sort of co-worker, my friend, Sydney, are near a potting table near the back with Gabriel seated on the edge.
Sydney, her long dark hair falling in a cascade down her back, her tan skin even warmer than usual from time spent in the sun, stands between his spread thighs, her hand curled in the front of his jacket.
They’re not kissing, but her lips hover millimeters from his, suspended in that intimate almost-space where something was about to happen.
And we interrupted. Dammit.
I grab Henry’s arm to drag him back before they see us, but I’m too late.
Sydney springs away from Gabriel like a startled cat. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
I shoot them both an apologetic smile, then rally. “We didn’t see anything.”
Gabriel clears his throat and glances toward Sydney, his lips curving with humor.
Sydney gnaws on the corner of her lip. “Right. Well, we were discussing a project. For the lab.”
Gabriel’s expression freezes, then turns to stone. Straightening to his full height, he steps slightly in front of Sydney in the process, almost as though he’s guarding her. “We’re talking about work.”
“What exactly were you discussing?” Henry drawls. “Pheromones? The percentage of cotton in your shirt? How close you two can get without technically calling it a kiss?”
I elbow him lightly in the ribs. “He’s kidding.”
“I’m sarcastic. They aren’t the same thing at all,” Henry says.
“We’re leaving. We didn’t see you here. Bye.” I tug on Henry’s arm to lead him out the way we came in.