“I can assure you it’s not,” he says, the light color in his eyes darkening to an emerald hue as he continues to hold my gaze.
I don’t know where he came from or who he is, but right now I don’t care. Relief washes over me. I just know this is a sign, and I’m being given a second chance. My skin tingles as I jerk my arm out of Patrick’s grasp and start grinning.
“Sir, what objections do you have to this marriage?” the minister asks, looking confused, his gaze bouncing between the three of us. Neither Patrick nor I turn to acknowledge him. Instead, we both stay locked onto the unexpected guest. I don’t know him, and it doesn’t appear that Patrick does, either. So, who is he?
“You can’t marry him,” he says, his voice deep and confident, his regard intense. I don’t understand what is happening, even though I feel like I should.
I don’t respond—I don’t know how to. All I can do is return his stare.
“I love you. Marry me.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, and his eyes smile back with a mischievous glint at my obvious amusement.
This is absurd!
The murmurs through the crowd pick up in volume. Patrick says something to someone—presumably my father—but all I hear in my head is, I love you, and the more I repeat it, the more the voice sounds familiar. I’ve heard it before, but I can’t place where.
“Look, pal, I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but I think it’s best if you leave,” Patrick says as he moves to stand in front of me, shielding me from the mystery man’s view. I quickly step around him and move down two steps to put myself at eye level with the beautiful stranger.
That’s what he is—a beautiful stranger.
“Camille,” he whispers, reaching for my hands. His hands are warm, solid, dotted with calluses and coiled with a strength like I’ve never felt before. He looks down at our entwined fingers, and his thumb rubs across the white line where my engagement ring usually sits.
I nervously glance at Patrick then find my way back to eyes so green they warm me like the sun on a long summer day. This guy looks nothing like Patrick. Patrick is tall, lean, fair, and wearing a classic black tuxedo, whereas the beautiful stranger is taller, layered with thick muscles, and wearing a charcoal suit that looks expensive and perfect on him.
“Camille, this is insane. You can’t possibly be considering this!” Patrick stammers, pulling one hand back to him and clinging to it like a life vest.
When the stranger tugs on my other hand, my eyes return to him, and butterflies take flight within me. “It’s time to make that move,” he says, and a gasp slips through my lips as my eyes widen.
That phrase . . .
The voice . . .
It’s him.
A flush burns in my cheeks as I absorb and memorize the details of his face for the first time. His lips tip up into a lopsided grin, and my eyes are drawn to how full and pink they are. I dreamed about these lips last night, and by the way his eyes smolder at me, he knows exactly what I’m thinking about . . . and he’s pleased.
“Ms. Whitley,” the minister calls out, and I force myself to look at him. “Are we going to have a wedding today?” he asks calmly. “And if so, with whom?”
I turn to Patrick, whose eyes are wild and frantic with fear. It’s not a fear of losing me—well, maybe a little—but I think it’s more a fear of this hurting his political dreams. I know marrying him is the safe choice, the choice that was made for me, and that’s the reason I’m wavering. We’ve known each other a long time. He’ll take care of me, provide for me, and I’m certain we’ll do great things together. I love Patrick, I do; I’m just not in love with him. Regardless of our relationship recently, I never want to hurt him, but is all this enough? I don’t know.
I turn to the man with the most alluring green eyes, and I see not only an escape, but also an opportunity—an escape from a life I’ve felt chained to for the last five years, and an opportunity for a different path . . . a life I’ve only dreamed of and never really thought was in reach. Maybe it was there all along. Maybe I just need to stand up for myself a little bit more, or maybe my whole life has been leading up to this moment.
Is it a risk? Yes.
Is it a gamble? Yes.
Am I okay with strapping enough scandal to our family name to last for generations? I don’t know.
Then, just past his shoulder, I see Clare standing in the aisle watching us. My heart rate slows, and I find comfort in just the sight of her. Without her even having to say the words, I know she’ll stand behind whatever decision I make, even if my decision is neither of the two men—but is that what I want, to walk out of here? Even if I did, I’m not sure I’d find myself in a different place. Patrick and my father would chase me down and demand a redo. Am I strong enough to stand up to them? I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I tried.
What I do know is that ten minutes ago I was suffocating, and now I can breathe. I’m certain that whatever I choose in the next minute or so, I’m forever cementing or changing the course of my life, and I’m surprisingly okay with it.
“Camille, have you decided?” the minister pushes, and I briefly close my eyes, gathering myself.
Taking a deep breath, I drop both their hands and turn to face him. A smile splits across my face and I stand a little taller as I answer.
“Yes.”
The day before
SLOWING DOWN, I pull up to the entrance of the plantation, glancing again at the navigation screen and Nate’s text to make sure I’m in the right place. In front of me is a sprawling wrought iron gate with the name Whitley scripted into it, and there’s a guard house just before manned by four police officers, two standing on each side.
As I roll down the window, a cool earthy breeze fills the inside of the car, reminding me I’m no longer in Tampa, and one of the officers approaches. He doesn’t smile or frown, his demeanor neutral, but there’s something about an officer walking toward you, no matter where you are or what you’re doing, that’s unsettling.
“Evening, sir, how can I help you?” He leans over to get a better view of me.
I look away from him and down the long oak-canopied driveway. For a split second, I wonder what the hell I’m doing here, and then remember I promised Nate, my younger brother, I would come see him.
“I’m here for the rehearsal dinner and the wedding,” I say, looking back at him and forcing myself not to stutter or shiver on the last word.
“Identification, please.” He holds out his hand.
Reaching into the center console, I grab my wallet and pull out my driver’s license. When he takes it from me, my fingers tighten around the steering wheel. Growing up where I did, it was never a good thing when cops were involved, and although this is a completely different situation, old memories stir up old feelings, and some things never change.
The radio of one of the officers crackles and a garbled voice comes through. I don’t understand what the person is saying, but it’s enough to make my already agitated nerves even more jumpy.
The thing is, in addition to hating cops, I also hate weddings. Just the word alone makes me want to turn around and drive the other way. I’ll never understand why people feel the need to legally attach themselves to someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I love relationships—the kind that are easygoing, free of expectations, and filled with hours of endless fun. Why anyone wants to give that up for a joint bank account and shared bills, I’ll never understand.
Watching the cop, I see his eyebrows rise in surprise and his eyes flicker back to me. He recognizes my name, and his gaze quickly travels over me and my car for confirmation before typing something on the iPad he’s holding. This is crazy. Where am I, and who are these people that they need this type of security?
Nate called three days ago to tell me he was flying from New York City to Savannah for a wedding. His friend apparently surprised him last minute with a plane ticket, so when he asked me if I would drive up and be his plus
one, I didn’t hesitate in saying yes. Savannah is only five and a half hours from Tampa at the most, an easy drive, but what he didn’t tell me is that this friend who’s getting married appears to be some kind of Southern royalty.
Grabbing my phone, I shoot Nate a text, and he replies almost immediately.
Me: Meet me out front in 5, at the gate.
Nate: K
“All right, sir, you’re all set.” He hands me back my license. “If you’ll just follow the drive about a mile down, an attendant will be there to assist you with overnight parking.”
I nod, roll up the window, and begin to drive forward as the gate swings open.
Large oaks line the driveway. They’re beautiful but covered with moss, making the canopy thick and dense. Sunlight streaks through the branches here and there, but since it’s late afternoon, the drive is mostly dark and creepy. I should have asked who this friend of Nate’s is, but I was so excited at the possibility of seeing him, the details were unimportant.
As the trees begin to fade away, a massive white mansion comes into view.
“Holy shit, I’ve entered the Deep South twilight zone,” I mumble to myself.
There are huge white columns running the three levels of the structure, each of which has a wraparound porch. Aside from the massive double front door, there are several sets of French doors on each level leading out to perfectly placed rocking chairs. The lawn is manicured, the interior is lit up, and it couldn’t look any more different from where Nate and I grew up if it tried.
I spot the parking attendant at the fork in the driveway, and he uses a lighted wand to direct me to the right toward a building that looks like a stable but is actually a garage.
I stop next to the valet and climb out of the car. My nose scrunches at the smell of the nearby paper mill faintly lingering in the air.
“Good evening, Mr. Jackson.” The valet tucks another iPad under his arm and hands me a ticket. “What would you like brought to your room?”
“There’s a bag in the back seat.”
He smiles and moves toward my open door. “Perfect. You’re staying in the Magnolia room, and when you’re ready to retire for the evening, someone will direct you.”
“Thank you.” I nod to him and shove the ticket into my pocket. Magnolia room—is that meant to be cute or cliché? I can’t decide.
Following a lighted path, I’m walking toward the front steps when Nate comes strolling out, and his face splits in half with the biggest grin when he sees me. Man, I love this kid, no matter how old he gets.
“Bro!” He skips down the steps, meets me in the circular drive, and throws his arms around me. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“Of course.” I pat him on the back and give him a once-over. He’s muscled up even more since I last saw him over the holidays. “I’d never pass up an opportunity to see you! Especially when you’re so close. You’re sure your friend is cool with me being here?” I look past him at the grand double doors. We sure are a long way from the Bronx.
“Absolutely. Wait till you meet her—she’s awesome.” He slaps me on the back as we enter the home, and I can’t help but eye him suspiciously.
“Awesome, huh?”
His gait slows and he pins me with a fierce scowl. “No, dude. It’s not like that—at all.”
“Whatever you say.” I chuckle and he rolls his eyes.
Quickly, we walk through to the back of the house and out onto a terrace that overlooks a large lawn completely decked out for a party. There are large white tents, tables scattered about, and waiters wearing black tie attire walking around with drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Beyond that are acres and acres of rolling fields with more sprawling oaks.
The buzz of people talking and a five-piece band playing in the background slowly distract me from the sheer awe I feel of this place. I glance at Nate and he smirks.
“It’s nice here, right?” he asks me.
“I feel like I’ve been transported to the set of an old Southern movie. Jesus, Nate, what do these people do for living?”
“Camille, my friend who’s getting married, is the daughter of one of the current senators for the state of Georgia.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I glance at him and then back at the crowd. Georgia is predominantly a red state, and looking around, Nate and I definitely stand out as the minority with our darker olive skin.
He shakes his head and grins.
“How in the hell did you become friends with a Southern Republican socialite?”
“You know my buddy, Beau? His sister-in-law—well, future sister-in-law—dances with her. They’re friends, he and I are friends, and we just kind of ended up in the same circle.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs his shoulders.
Last year, Nate headed off to Columbia on a tennis scholarship, and Beau was on the team with him before he decided to go pro. I met him once, but I never met any of his other friends.
“Hold up.” I lean in closer to him and lower my voice. “She’s a dancer?”
Nate busts out laughing and shoves me in the arm. “Not that kind of dancer! She’s a ballet student at Juilliard.”
“Juilliard,” I mumble.
Nate is five years younger than me. Right after I signed my letter of intent to play football at Syracuse University, I took Nate around to the different colleges in and near New York City, wanting to show him what life was like outside of the Bronx. I wanted him to see opportunities for another life, a better life. All he had to do was pick one thing and work hard at it, every day. When we stopped at Juilliard, he asked me if I had ever dated a girl who looked like the ones we saw there, and I said, “Not yet, but one day we both will.” Of course it was meant to be symbolic, but as I look at him now, I really take him in.
Fingering the sleeve of his suit coat, I smile. “You’re moving up in the world, kid. Looks good on you.”
“Yeah, feels good, too—but hey, so are you. I bet that new five-year contract with the Tarpons looks real pretty in your bank account.” He laughs, but I have to agree with him; it really does.
“So, who all is here with you?” I glance around, searching for a group his age but seeing mostly older people.
“From the city, it’s Beau, Leila, Ali, Drew, and Charlie.” He points toward the bar at the back left.
“Charlie—that name rings a bell.”
Nate’s eyes light up and he laughs. “You’ve signed some things for him before.”
“Oh, yeah. He’s your friend who’s like a super fan?”
“You could say that, and he’s the dude walking this way now.”
I glance over and see a tall lanky guy speed walking toward us, wearing a seersucker suit and a pink shirt, grinning from ear to ear. “Get prepared, he’s really excited to meet you.”
A groan rumbles out of my chest as I frown at Nate. “Then our first stop needs to be the bar.”
Three hours pass and more people have recognized me than I expected would. It happens everywhere I go and I understand it’s par for the course, but here at a wedding in a different state, I just wanted to spend some time with my brother and not be bothered by people wanting to get autographs and talk football all night. Kill me.
Desperately needing a moment of silence, I wander back into the house and dip into a dark empty room. I think it’s a library or a sitting room, but with houses like this, who knows.
Over and over, I was asked why I’m here and who I’m friends with. Not wanting to look like a wedding crasher, I repeated that I knew the bride, saying we’d met in New York City and hoping she’d just agree with my story if approached. After all, Nate did say she said it was okay for me to come.
Moving over to one of the bay windows, I look out across the party and search for the bride. Nate pointed her out not too long after I arrived, but she was busy being social and playing the part of bride-to-be, so she never made it over to us. I hate to admit it, but I’ve watched her throughout the night more than I should have. Sh
e’s not the type of girl I typically go for, way too proper and fancy, but there’s something about her that kept drawing my eye. Maybe it’s because she’s strikingly beautiful with her white blonde hair and porcelain doll face, or maybe it’s because if you look long enough, it’s easy to see she hates every minute of this.
I first noticed the unease through her repetition: smile, stiff hug, clasp hands in front of her, repeat. With each passing person, she’d tuck her hair behind her ear, even if it was already there, and the charade would start all over. Not one of her conversations appeared genuine, and a few times, she looked downright sad and uncomfortable.
Then again, if I had to stand next to that inattentive dick she’s been with all night, I’d be sad too. For a dude about to get married, he certainly didn’t strike me as gushing with love for his bride-to-be, but then again, what do I know. I’m never getting married.
Behind me, the door opens, quickly closes, and giggling hits my ears.
Great. Just great.
“Shh, you don’t want anyone to hear us, now do you?” asks a male voice.
“Maybe I do,” a girl replies, a little louder than I’m sure this guy wants.
There’s a brief pause and then she moans.
This. Is. Not. Happening. I scowl.
Glancing through the darkness, I try to get a glimpse of who might be in here, but from where I’m sitting, it’s just too far. I can see them, but not a whole lot of their details.
“Britt, we’ve talked about this. You know this is it, this is all I can give you, so why don’t you just stay quiet for a few minutes and let me enjoy the feel of you.”
She moans again, “Yes . . .”
They bump into something, and the sounds of them making out echo around the room. Letting out a sigh, I sit down on the window seat and lean against the wall hidden behind the long drapes. How I found myself in this situation, I don’t know, but hopefully it’ll be over quickly.
Looking back outside, I spot Nate laughing with his friends, and I can’t help the surge of pride that fills me. He’s done well for himself, looks genuinely happy, and I’m glad I came. I didn’t realize how badly I needed to know he was doing okay.
Chasing Clouds Page 2
