Chapter 12 #3
“It’s a bit lower,” she said. “Um—no, to the left.”
“Jesus. Help me? For the camera.”
For the camera?
Yes, she could do this.
For the camera, she made an oversized napkin of their blanket.
For the camera, she feathered it over Wes’s jaw.
Skirting the dimpled corners of his mouth, she wiped away the mustard.
For the camera. But then she leaned a little closer through the dusk, because.
. . were there crumbs beside the condiments in his stubble?
Yes. He wouldn’t be able to see those, either.
Would he? Breathless, but determined to help—for the camera—she brushed them into the sand.
The dark golden bristles on his cheeks were rough against her fingertips, though pliant to the touch.
Fascinating. Her thumb edged the sun-chapped curve of his lower lip.
. . and had she dropped the towel? Yes, again.
But maybe that was all right. It would have blocked the camera’s view.
Isn’t this better?
For the photographs.
For the interview. . .
“This is so embarrassing.” A new wave of raspy laughter rumbled under her palm. “I’ll take this as a sign to shave. Get myself cleaned up, in case we’re at the courthouse tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
“I like you as you are,” her dark-drunk mouth said.
Fortunately, Wes just went on laughing. “Sure, thanks. The camera’s not recording audio, though.
You don’t have to whisper sweet nothings about my sunburns and my jellyfish stings, or how sexy my sunscreen smells.
And—I didn’t pack a tux, either. I’m guessing we didn’t miss one alongside the VHS tapes at the thrift store tonight? ” He snorted.
She exhaled in relief. (Not in disappointment. Besides, if she was exhaling, she couldn’t possibly be sniffing for the scent of his sunscreen.) She folded away her hands. “We didn’t. Not even in tie-dye.”
“A huge overlooked market,” with a third laugh, before he sobered.
“So, no tux. I don’t even have a suit. If we get married tomorrow, I’ll be in jeans.
Or cargo shorts. My mom’s going to kill me twice.
Once because she missed the ceremony, once for the shorts.
Nothing about this will be as nice as your San Francisco plans. ”
Nice?
He couldn’t be worried about that. Or even thinking about it.
Could he?
Nice.
“They weren’t my plans,” she said. “At the St. Francis Yacht Club on Friday. Not on September thirtieth at the Officers’ Club, either.”
“His?”
“His mother’s.”
“For God’s sake.”
“I appreciated that,” she clarified, for the sake of honesty more than God.
“No one asked me to choose table arrangements or colors. To test flavors. Fabrics. Karen Meyer already knew the right vendors. I didn’t.
She managed them. She managed everyone. The consultants. The family. Friends. It was easy. But—”
“But?”
“She asked about food allergies. She never asked whether I wanted octopus appetizers.”
“The catering company didn’t ask you, either? Seriously?” Shaking his head, Wes retrieved his phone. “They should know better. It was your wedding! Then one of their servers actually fucked Chase at the event? Yeah, I’m calling to complain.”
Maybe the catering company should have asked for her preferences. But would she really have told them anything that contradicted Chase’s or Karen’s plans?
She knew the truth about herself: no.
“It wasn’t Perfect Pairing’s fault that their staff—”
“Phone number for Perfect Pairing Catering.” A voice search on his screen overrode a scroll of Monaghan texts. He jabbed the dial button:
Calling Perfect Pairing Catering
“No—” Scrambling to end the call before it connected, Isabel snatched his hand and his phone, startling the seagull into the air.
Startling herself, too.
Silence.
Call Ended
She didn’t release him. “I don’t want to call the catering company. I don’t want to make a complaint.”
“But—”
“I know.” If voicing her frustration had been safe, she would have screamed.
At Perfect Pairing Catering, at Karen Meyer, at Chase.
It wasn’t. Loud behavior was dangerous, volatile.
Attention-grabbing. Plain grabbing. After another slow exhale, she explained, “None of it mattered. You know why I was there at the yacht club on Friday night, why I wore the ring. I didn’t care about flowers.
Or even about most of the hors d’oeuvres. ”
“Or. . . Chase?” Wes’s voice was suddenly very soft. No more protests. Just a murmur.
“Or Chase,” she confirmed.
But the heat rising into her ears at that admission wasn’t shame.
Not when her heart was fluttering, pulse drumming in her throat while she kept her grip on Wes’s hand, while his breath ghosted over her lips in the fading light, while a blush suffused his own cheeks where her fingers had brushed away crumbs and sand.
In contrast, her guilt was muted. A stale, cold, and distant thing. While this—this. . .
His mouth was mere inches from hers.
His gaze dipped. “Isabel?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I. . .”
Keow-keow!
The seagull dive-bombed them.