by Tawna Fenske
Bree jots something on her notecard and picks up another sample. “He’s been working like crazy fine-tuning the menu for the restaurant.”
“The menu he’s planned for the wedding sounds amazing, too.”
Bree nods and plucks another bite of cupcake off the tray. “He kicked me out of his kitchen this morning after I taste-tested too many of his parmesan crispies,” she says. “Rude.”
I laugh and pick up a tiny cupcake with peachy-colored frosting. “I’m just glad he agreed to do the wedding catering,” I say. “It’s been crazy pulling it together on such short notice.”
“I’m amazed he found time,” Bree says. “Between finishing the restaurant and getting things ready for inspections and the stress of having his damn mother under the same roof, he’s been working nonstop. He must really like you.”
I smile and try to focus on the last part of what she said, but it’s the middle part that snagged my brain.
“His mother?” I dig my nails into my palm, hoping Bree doesn’t catch my confusion.
She grabs one of the mint mocha cupcakes with vanilla icing. “God only knows how long she’s staying, but at least it’s not with me. I don’t know how Sean’s living with—” Bree stops and stares at me. “You didn’t know.”
I fumble for another cupcake bite and force a smile. “I’m sure he mentioned it and I forgot,” I say. “It’s been crazy lately.”
“Wedding planning pickles your brain like nothing else,” Chelsea adds, offering a helpful smile.
Bree studies my face, her expression unreadable. “Sean’s always been weird about his mom,” she says. “Don’t take it personally.”
“Weird how?”
“She’s a real piece of work,” Bree says. “She’s been here more than a month, and we’ve spent the whole time freaking out that she’s going to file some stupid suit and try to claim part of our property.”
A month. More than a month his mother’s been here, and Sean never said a word. Never mentioned a family freakout of any kind.
I clear my throat and force down a piece of cupcake with the texture of cardboard. I have a hunch it’s me and not the cupcake. “She could take your resort?”
Bree shakes her head and glances at Chelsea, who gives her a reassuring smile. “No,” Bree says carefully. “Our lawyer seems confident that can’t happen. But she could tie us up in legal crap, and that’s a pain. Not to mention expensive.” She shrugs and reaches for another piece of cupcake. “It wouldn’t be so bad, but Sean refuses to talk about it.”
The words tumble around together in my head, and I try not to read too much into this. Is it a red flag that Sean never mentioned something so huge?
Bree studies my face again, and I force a smile. “I love this one,” I say, pointing to the sample with vanilla and lemon.
Hesitating only a moment, Bree takes my cue. “This one with orange and salted chocolate is my favorite.”
“Mine, too,” Chelsea says. “It was our most popular combination over the holidays.”
Chelsea smiles at me, but there’s a question in her eyes.
You okay?
I nod and pick up a sample with vanilla on mint mocha. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Bree’s comment about trust issues just set me on edge, that’s all. There’s no reason to panic. No reason to assume Sean is anything but a super nice guy who’s a little closed off.
I can’t let this wig me out. I don’t know where things are headed with us, but I can’t sabotage things by worrying he’s another jerk who’s destined to shut me out now that he’s gotten what he wants.
Dusting my hands on a little pink napkin, I jot a few notes on my mint-green index card. “I’m really liking the vanilla and lemon. Very bright and springy.”
Chelsea smiles and hands me a bottle of water. “Here’s this, in case you want to cleanse your palate.”
“Thanks.” I take a swig from the bottle, less worried about my palate than I am the lump in my throat.
Chapter 14
SEAN
I flip the switch on my coffee pot and glance at my watch. Six a.m.
Amber’s early rising habits might be rubbing off on me.
The thought of Amber—and okay, the whole “rubbing off” thing—reminds me of last night in her barn when our final survey of the reception site turned into a whole lot of heavy breathing in the hay loft.
“I can’t believe how happy I am when I’m with you,” I told her, plucking a bit of straw from her hair. “You’re amazing.”
She smiled up at me with her cheeks still flushed with pleasure. “So was that swirly thing you just did with your thumb.”
I laughed and leaned in to kiss her again, ignoring the stab of guilt in the center of my chest. There’s still time to be honest. Time to open up the way I know I should. Right then, right there in that hay loft, I chose to stay in the moment, to lay her back against the straw with my hand sliding up her—
“Good morning!”
I whirl to face my mother, who sashays into the kitchen in a shimmery silver robe that looks like expensive silk. I grip the edge of the counter and ignore another stab of guilt. It’s the kind that tells me I have no business fantasizing about my dream girl when there’s all this other shit to deal with. “I didn’t know you were up.”
“I heard you moving around out here and thought I’d see if you have any coffee.”
“It’s coming right up.”
We stand there a little awkwardly until Gordon Ramsay comes ambling out of the living room, his crooked whiskers making him look like a disgruntled mobster shaking off a hangover. His three-legged gait adds an extra swagger to his step, and he shoots a disdainful look at my mother as he passes her en route to his food bowl. I pry open a cupboard and set to work fixing his breakfast.
“Today’s the wedding at the ranch next door,” my mother says.
I nod, surprised she’s aware of my schedule. “That’s right. I’m heading over to the lodge in a minute to finish the food prep.”
“Need any help?”
“I’ve got it handled.” I fill up the cat dish and consider whether I should make an effort to accept her entrée to connection. “I could use a hand getting everything loaded up, though.”
“I’m sure one of your brothers can help,” she says, waving a hand. “Or Breann. Lord knows she’s got the muscles for it.”
And just like that, my warm feelings for my mother start to shrivel. I’m saved from replying when my phone rings. I slide it out of my pocket, thrilled when I see Amber’s name on the readout.
“Hey there,” I murmur, keeping my voice low. “How’d you sleep?”
My mother lifts her perfectly-sculpted eyebrows, but says nothing. Just sets to work pouring herself a cup of coffee. I move into the living room, wanting a little privacy.
“Morning.” Amber’s voice is tight and breathless. “The flowers are too tall for the mason jars, and we’re having to trim them all down by hand. The flower girl came down with chicken pox, and we just got word that the DJ got thrown in the slammer last night for drunk and disorderly conduct.”
“Yikes.”
“I’m calling so you can tell me it’ll all be okay.”
My urge to swoop in and save the day is overpowering. But she’s asking for words, not damage control. In a weird way, it’s gratifying to know words could be enough. “It’ll be okay,” I tell her. “It may not be perfect, but at the end of the day, they’ll be hitched, right?”
“Right.” She takes a few deep breaths on the other end of the line, and I picture her chest rising and falling. “I have to just keep telling myself that.”
“That’s what matters. That he says ‘I do’ and she says ‘I do’ and they walk off with a signed piece of paper that says ‘I’m in this for good.’”
“True enough.” Amber gives a tense little laugh. “I teased Jade over Christmas when she’d get all stressed about the reindeer stuff. She’s getting the last laugh now.”
&n
bsp; I hear laughter in the background, followed by Amber telling her sister to can it. There’s no real venom in the words, and I wonder what it would be like to grow up with a family that has your back no matter what. Is that what I’m building now with my siblings? I hope so.
“I’ll come early,” I promise. “The food will be easy to set up, so I can help with whatever you need.”
“How are your hay bale stacking skills?”
“Superior,” I assure her. “I have a Masters Degree in hay bale stacking.”
She laughs, and I’m relieved to hear it sounds less tense than it did at the start of this conversation. Maybe if there’s time when I get there, I can rub some of that tension out of her shoulders.
The thought of having my hands on her again sends a rush of warmth through me. So do her next words.
“I can’t wait to see you later,” she murmurs. “Maybe after the wedding’s over, you can stay the night.”
“I love the sound of that.” I lean against the back of the sofa, picturing all the things I want to do to her tonight. Or now. Now would be good.
“You know, I could come to your place,” she says. “I feel bad that I’m always dragging you over here, and I’ve never seen where you live.”
My mother moves past me, toting a mug of coffee so huge that I wonder if she left any for me. “Your place is great,” I tell her. “I’ll bring an overnight bag.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Listen, I’ve gotta go get ready, but I’ll see you in an hour?”
“Sounds good. Sean?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks again.”
She hangs up before I can ask why she’s thanking me. Gordon Ramsay jumps up onto the couch beside me as I switch off the phone. He butts me with his head and shoots a wary glance at my mother, who has parked herself on the saddle-colored loveseat beside the fireplace.
“That’s the young lady you’ve been seeing?” she says.
I don’t answer right away as Gordon Ramsay curls himself into a donut on my lap. So much for getting up to get that coffee. “That was Amber.”
Not exactly an answer to her question, but close. I don’t know why I’m so guarded.
My mother blows on her coffee. “Maybe sometime I can meet her.”
“Maybe.” I stroke my hand down the cat’s back, knowing I need to get moving. But there’s something about sitting here with my cat and my mother and warm gas flames flickering in the fireplace. It’s almost like we’re a normal family.
I glance at her mug and see it’s filled to the brim. “Did you leave any coffee for me?”
“There’s plenty left,” she says.
“What else is in there?”
“Just a splash of cream, a little amaretto, and some of that clover honey from the ranch down the road. I hope you don’t mind, I used the last of it.”
I swallow hard, eyes still fixed on the mug. “It’s fine. It’ll all be fine.”
“Of course it will.” My mother gives me an odd look, then gets to her feet with the elegance of a dancer. “You’d better get ready.”
“Sure.” I stay where I’m seated, stroking a hand down Gordon Ramsay’s spine. “Mother?”
“Yes?”
“You sure everything’s okay?”
She tosses her hair and looks at me as though I’ve just asked whether Santa Claus is real. “Don’t be silly, darling. Things are fine.”
“And there’s nothing you want to discuss? About the ranch or your grandparents’ property or what’s happening with your show or—”
“I’ll be sure to let you know, darling.”
She turns and walks out of the room, leaving behind a trail of perfume and amaretto and a growing sense of unease in the pit of my gut.
* * *
Despite Amber’s fears, the wedding goes off without a hitch. I spend most of the ceremony setting up for the reception, but I slip into the back of the chapel to catch the final minutes of the ceremony.
“True love requires two people committed to working together,” the minister says, peering over the top of his glasses at the couple wearing matching scared-as-hell smiles. “What you’re agreeing to today, in front of all your friends and loved ones, is that you’ll show up and do that work. You’ll do it when you’re joyful, and you’ll do it when you’re angry. For better or worse, you’ll do it because you love each other.”
From across the room, Amber catches my eye and smiles. I smile back, my chest filling with fizzing warmth that bubbles up into my brain. She’s stunning in a pale green dress that floats around her curves, and I have to force myself to drag my eyes off her and turn back to the door. The ceremony’s almost over, and I have to be ready.
I sprint across the pasture, admiring the flower arrangements that line the trail from chapel to the barn. Josh, the culinary student I met at Greg and Aline’s wedding, is setting up chafing dishes and making sure the food is ready to go. He looks up at me and grins.
“No exploding meatballs this time?”
I groan and straighten the tray of soup shooters. “Definitely not. These are top-of-the-line warmers,” I assure him. “Are the shrimp puffs ready to go?”
“All set,” he says. “Diane’s finishing up the garnish.”
A trickle of organ music flows out across the pasture, followed by the cheerful clamor of voices. I glance at my watch. Right on time.
“All hands on deck.” I clap to get everyone’s attention as I survey the rest of the crew. “They’ll start walking in the door in one minute.”
Ginny the bartender finishes a final flourish on her chalkboard detailing the specialty cocktails. “Aren’t they taking pictures first?”
“Nope, they did that before the ceremony,” I say. “No receiving line, either. They wanted to get right to the reception.”
“We’re all set for the champagne toast.” A short redhead whose name is Carlie or Carrie finishes lining up a row of champagne flutes on the other side of the room. “Want me to start pouring?”
“Let’s wait until they get settled.” I look up to see the first batch of guests surging through the door. Everyone’s smiling, practically vibrating with good cheer as they chatter about the vows and the rings and when the happy couple might reproduce.
I catch myself watching for Amber, hungry for a glimpse of her in that green dress.
How the hell did I get so smitten so fast?
I don’t need to answer that. I’ve been smitten for years. Since the first time I saw her with those brown eyes and pigtails. Since the day I watched her bare shoulders rise up out of that moonlit pond.
But it’s more than that now. So much more.
Now I know her. Now she knows me, and best of all, we like what we see. God, I never thought I’d have that.
I order myself to focus on food, running between the reception area and the small kitchen in the outbuilding next door. Everything looks amazing, even the bruschetta, which I was worried about after a last-second snafu with the heirloom tomatoes.
But it’s all going great. Josh and the rest of the crew turn out to be hard workers, circulating among the guests with passed apps and refilling wine glasses. I make a mental note to talk to a few of them about applying for jobs at the resort once this is all over.
I’ve lost track of time when a familiar laugh bounces off the barn rafters.
I jerk my head up as my pulse starts to gallop. Where is she?
I scan the crowd, hands clenching into fists. No.
It can’t be her. She can’t—
My eyes fix on the familiar form, and my heart stumbles to a halt in my chest. There’s Amber, smiling pleasantly in her green dress.
But it’s not Amber who’s making dread pool in my stomach like curdled buttermilk. It’s Melody Bannon Bracelyn Buchanan, in the flesh.
My mother.
I start toward them as my heart resets itself and begins pounding in my ears. My mother clutches a lipstick-smudged champagne flute in one hand
, and I fight back a wave of dread. How long has she been here?
She doesn’t see me, neither of them sees me, and I consider pushing past them and going straight out the door. Just sprinting over the threshold and out into the pasture, letting the spring air fill my lungs.
But I can’t. I have a job to do. A job I’ve obviously failed at if I’ve let things get this far. Guilt jabs its sharp little claws into my chest as I make my way through the crowd.
“So then George Clooney comes up to me,” my mother prattles on, oblivious to her son bearing down on her. “And he says, ‘pardon me, but does this relish tray have—’”
“Mother.”
Her gaze swings toward me, and I see it in her eyes. Goddamnit. It’s worse than I thought. I swallow hard, trying to get a grip on the situation.
“Darling, it’s so good to see you.” She clutches my arm and sweeps a hand at Amber, nearly knocking the plate out of her hand. “I was just getting to know your friend here. Such a charming girl. Amber, right?”
“That’s right,” Amber says, smiling warmly at my mother. “Your mom was telling me some great stories earlier. I had no idea you played the clarinet in school.”
I never played the fucking clarinet. I take a deep breath and force myself to smile. “Can I grab you some water, mother?” The words come out more stilted than I want them to, and I look around wildly for a passing waiter. I catch someone’s eye and make what I hope she understands as a universal gesture for H20. She nods and disappears toward the bar.
“Sweetheart,” my mother says, still clutching my arm. “How is it possible that Amber never heard the story about that time you accidentally used salt instead of sugar in the crème brulée when you were a contestant on that Gordon Ramsay show?”
Amber gives me an odd look. “I had no idea you were on Hell’s Kitchen.”
“It was a long time ago,” I say. “Before I even went to culinary school.”
