FROM HOPE TO HOME
Nash’s long-held theory of love had been somewhat right. When it did come back to you, it wasn’t the same. It was stronger, sweeter, and swifter than anything I had ever known.
Dani had me so far gone, yet anchored to her as we moved as one. Fading into each other, forgetting where one of us ended and the other began. I rose to meet her, watching her eyes as their ratios changed, sky blue darkening to the most royal hue of blue velvet along with her desire. She rode my hard length, taking me above and beyond with each satisfying sigh and moan.
“Baby, you’ve got this. You got me. Now.” I grasped at the curls spilling down her back, losing myself as I filled her. Her eyelids fluttered and trapped my gaze, as we stared in wide wonder and rode out the hard wave before crashing together.
“I know you’re not a fan of mixing business with pleasure,” I murmured into her hair afterward, as we waited for our pulse rates to steady themselves. “But there is a vacancy in the building right next door.”
She played with her curls, smoothing them out over my chest.
“They’re connected, actually.” Dani laced her fingers through mine, her head warm on my heart.
“Business and pleasure?” I asked.
“I was talking about the buildings,” she said, giving me a nip and a nudge. “I know because I’ve already talked to the landlord about a day spa. Although”—she teased her curl around my collarbone—“when you love what you do . . .”
“And do who you love?” I joked, kissing her forehead.
“Yeah, that, too.” She laughed. “So, should we mix business with pleasure here, above the Night Kitchen . . . and Cravings Day Spa?”
I could already feel a stirring in my groin, craving her sweetness. Setting a course for satisfying her every wish. “Between here and the Half Acre? I think we’ve got a built-in clientele.”
Dani snuggled close in agreement. “I love this music,” she whispered.
“This?” I pulled her even closer. “This is my friend Derek. Remember the old guy whose arm you grabbed and danced with, in the second line? I was right there that day. That’s when I saw you. And that’s when I knew.”
Fate had grabbed me that day as well, and had taken me for a whirl, full circle.
From New Hope to New Orleans and back again. When I spotted Dani that day, I had known home wouldn’t ever be too far away.
Epilogue
DANI
“Sindy was right; this place is so perfect for a wedding.”
I leaned over and clasped Nash’s hand in mine. The grounds of the Half Acre were truly heavenly once again. Behind us, the new paint on the wrought iron gate gleamed. Below us, dewy fresh rose petals were abundantly strewn along the flagstone path.
And ahead of us, the open-air chapel stood majestically, rightfully at home among the trees in the orchard.
I think we both finally felt we were home as well.
Nash squeezed my hand and smiled. Thanks to the right cocktail of treatment, his grip was strong and he hadn’t had a flare-up in the past year. He looked dashing in his light gray suit, his blond locks carefully groomed for the occasion.
“The scenery ain’t got nothing on you, China Doll.”
I blushed. For once, I was wearing a dress that I had chosen myself, and this one wouldn’t be handed over to Bree at the end of the day.
Little fingers tugged at the chiffon of my dress. Logan stood there, handsome as all get-out in a miniature version of Nash’s suit and giving us a pointed look. Instead of a traditional ring bearer pillow, a small bird’s nest handcrafted from twigs and moss nestled in his palm. Small paper flowers in a dusty rose color were twined artfully around the edges, and it was topped with a bow tied from a long slice of matte silver ribbon. With his free hand, Logan signed “Do you mind?” by placing his index finger on the tip of his nose, and then moving it out to point at the both of us, his eyebrows raised in question.
“I think he’s trying to tell us were holding up the procession,” I stage-whispered.
Nash bit back a bashful smile at his son. He dropped my hand from across the aisle, clutched his fist to his chest and rolled it emphatically.
Sorry was one word in sign language he was really good at, but he was learning loads more as well.
Logan grinned, gave a nod in thanks, and continued down the path toward the open-air chapel. Quinn followed behind him, beautiful in a strapless gown of dusty rose that hugged her petite curves. She clutched a small bouquet inspired by the foliage all around us, and made her way down the aisle as the string quartet played. Nash’s eyes danced over her as she slid into the seat next to him. I caught her wink from across the aisle as she settled into the crook of his arm, and turned her head expectantly down the path.
The quartet finished their classical piece, and began a beautiful rendition of “Jumpstart My Heart.”
“Seriously?” Mick murmured against the shell of my ear. “Who uses their own biggest hit as their wedding song?”
“Bear, of course.”
Our gaze followed Angie as she flowed down the stone path, her gown gathering the rose petals at its hem on her way to Bear, beaming under the arches of the open-air chapel in his smart, charcoal gray suit.
I tilted my head back against Mick’s shoulder. “He totally deserves to, don’t you think?”
“I think,” Mick said softly, running his finger around the creamy ribbon at my neck until he came to the tiny silver cake charm resting at my throat’s hollow, “it’s about damn time we all got what we deserve.”
Mick
“You’ll be next, you two!” Sindy gushed in a stage whisper from her seat behind us, dabbing at her heavily made-up eyes with one of her vintage handkerchiefs.
“Will you make like a door and shut up already?” my uncle scolded. “We’re trying to have a wedding here.” But my aunt was right.
Dani and I would be next. She’d walk down the aisle to meet me in that dress she kept hanging in the closet of the Half Acre, layered with Chantilly and esprit lace like the finest cake.
Oh, and there would be one of those, too.
We didn’t know which flavor yet. But we knew we’d be next.
And not because Dani had pulled a tiny, silver three-tiered wedding cake as her charm.
Or because she had dreamed about me the night I tucked that slice of groom’s cake under her pillow.
It was because we had found home in each other, together. A place we never wanted to leave. And it was because she loved me just as much as I loved her.
All the rest was just cake.
Keep reading for a special excerpt from the first book in the Much “I Do” About Nothing series
Dictatorship of the Dress
Available now from Berkley Sensation
Terminal C Departures
Really, LaGuardia? One of the busiest airports in the country, and you couldn’t come up with a better name? You could’ve skipped C altogether, like some hotels do when they omit the unlucky thirteenth floor. You know, Terminals A, B, D, E . . .
I’m sure there would still be some clueless tourists in life, scratching their heads, consulting their maps. Pointing and asking, Whatever happened to Terminal C? Where’s Terminal C?
“It’s in my bones, Laney Jane.” I could still hear Allen’s throaty whisper and feel his long, strong drummer’s fingers tangle through my hair. “It’s not going away this time.”
If I were an airport architect, I would’ve come up with something better. Because only 25 percent of people make it five years through Allen’s type of Terminal C.
I pushed on, eager to check my luggage: the crappy soft-sided Samsonite I’d had since college, and the invisible, matched “his and hers” mental baggage I had solely inherited two years back. Perhaps Hawaii would be good for something.
The lame
heel on my favorite pair of boots finally gave out, sending me sprawling right foot over left. The heavy garment bag I carried twirled with me as I pirouetted like a demented ballerina across the concourse to the closest bench.
Freakin’ A, talk about adding insult to injury. I rubbed my ankle in quick consolation before yanking the boot zipper down the length of my entire calf. They were cheap 8th Street boots, not even worth the fix if it could be made. But they had been my first Big-Girl Paycheck purchase when I moved to the city, and their soles had carried not only me, but also miles of memories. Va-va-voom boots, Allen had christened them upon first sight.
There was no time to mourn them; into the trash they went. I plucked my flip-flops from my carry-on and slipped my freshly pedicured feet into them. Onward.
“Hi, one bag to check, two carry-on items.”
The Windwest Airways desk attendant threw a skeptical glance at the bulky garment bag as she reached for my license and boarding pass. “Are you sure you don’t want to check that now?”
I could hear my mother’s words echoing in my head louder than the PA speakers booming last call for Flight 105 to Miami. Whatever you do, do not let them check it, Laney. Do not hand it off.
“No, thanks.”
Rebel on the outside, mouse on the inside, Allen always used to say. Do you always do what your mother tells you to do, Laney Jane? Only Allen Burnside had the cojones to call me out on that.
“We can’t guarantee there will be room in the overhead. You may have to gate-check it anyway.” The attendant slapped a tag onto my Samsonite and sent it hurling onto the rolling belt, where it was quickly swallowed by two rubber flaps in the wall. She fixed a stare on me that made me wonder whether she got paid a commission per checked bag.
I contemplated the huge midnight blue bag with Bichonné Bridal Couture emblazoned across the front in frosty silver lettering. The metal hook of the hanger was cutting into the skin between my thumb and index finger. It would be so easy just to let it go. I imagined it getting chewed up through the luggage shoot, mangled in the greasy, mechanical gears. Stepped on by the handlers’ dirty boots. Run over on the tarmac by a baggage cart. Left behind in the dust.
I smiled.
“My mother called ahead. The airline told her a wedding dress could be carried on if the bag was under fifty-one inches.”
I watched as the attendant’s demeanor did a complete one-eighty; I’m talking ollie-on-the-half-pipe-at-the skate-park one-eighty. “Oh, true!” Her left hand fluttered up near her name tag—April R.—and a lone carat of promise on her ring finger glittered in solidarity. Apparently I had said the two magic words. “I would die if anything happened to my dress. I’m June.”
“I’m Laney,” I said slowly. “But your name tag says April.”
She laughed. “I mean my wedding! I’m a June bride.”
And you’re an oversharer, but that’s okay. “Cool, congrats.” I hefted the bag’s bulk to my shoulder and used my free, noncrippled hand to grab my carry-on. Out of available limbs, I had no choice but to pop my boarding pass between my lips. April the June bride was still smiling at me expectantly, so I offered my raised brow as valediction and lumbered on.
People talk about a monkey on your back; well, mine was eggshell white silk and taffeta, beaded and sequined and weighing in around ten pounds. About as heavy as my regret, but nowhere near as heavy as my grief.
And it belonged to my mother, the blushing bride.
Third time’s the charm, or so they say.
• • •
“Shoes in a separate bin, handbags, too. Any metal, loose change . . . take laptops out of their carrying cases,” droned the TSA worker. “Separate bins for everything, keep moving.”
Strangers around me in various stages of undress—belts whipped off, shoes untied and loosened—shuffled toward security. Oh, crap. I instantly regretted my sock and boot toss as I was forced to kick my flip-flops off. Think happy thoughts. Clean thoughts. Sanitary thoughts. My toes curled as my bare feet touched the cold airport floor. In less than twelve hours, I could buff my feet in Kauai sand and let the Pacific wash away the East Coast grime. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts . . .
“Is that yours?”
“Yep, that’s one of my two allowed personal items.” Personally, though, I wouldn’t be caught dead in it.
“Ain’t no bin big enough for that, girl.” TSA and I both watched as the garment bag went down the conveyor belt, followed by my bag and my cell phone, chirping happily. It was probably Danica texting, loopy on the time change. I wasn’t going to need an alarm clock in Hawaii, not when I had a best friend who was an extreme morning person under normal circumstances. I couldn’t imagine Dani on Hawaii-Aleutian Standard Time. I was going to have to slip an Ambien into her mai tai.
Although as heavy as chain mail, the dress made it through the X-ray and metal detector with flying colors. Me, on the other hand . . .
“Anything in your pockets, miss? Belt on?” I shook my head. “Jewelry?”
Allen’s class ring.
I hadn’t removed the chunky platinum band with its peridot stone since the weekend of our ten-year high school reunion, except to replace the string knotted on the back keeping it snug.
“But it’s so small.” And LaGuardia Airport was so, so big.
My heart vibrated in my chest like Allen’s sticks on the snare drum when he sound-checked to an empty room.
Mr. TSA wasn’t backing down. And there was a pileup of travelers in their stocking feet, holding up their trousers and grumbling, behind me. “All right, all right.” I plunked the ring into the little gray dog dish, held my breath, and crossed over to the other side.
East Concourse, Gate C15
Nothing a grande latte and a lemon poppy seed muffin wouldn’t fix. Ring? Check. Dress? Check. Phone? Useless, but I had time to power up before boarding. Boarding pass: nowhere to be found.
Are you kidding me?
I could practically hear my mother’s voice as I retraced my steps, back through Starbucks and over to the newsstand. “I swear, Laney, you’d lose your tuchus if it wasn’t stamped on the back of you!” No boarding pass tucked between the trashy novels I had contemplated buying for a beach read. I checked the perfume counter where I had impulse-purchased Aquolina Pink Sugar because no one was around to judge me . . . no sign of it. Nor was it in the restroom, first stall on the right.
I was a ticketed passenger without a ticket.
“Not a problem, we can certainly print a new one up for you, Ms. Hudson.” The attendant at the gate clacked manically at her keyboard. “I may even have an upgrade for you. That way you’ll be closer to your gown if there’s room for it in the first-class closet.”
“It’s my—” I paused. If I had to be the dress bearer while my mother globe-trotted around with her sugar daddy fiancé, shouldn’t I at least milk it for all it was worth? I had lost a boot heel and a boarding pass, but gaining a first-class seat would more than make up for it. “It’s my first time on a plane,” I finished, flashing pearly whites to go along with my little white lie. “That would be terrific, thank you.”
“Oh, then you definitely deserve a bumping up, Miss Bride-to-Be!” she enthused. “I won’t know until boarding time, so I’ll call you to the desk then, okay?”
“Sounds good.”
I made a beeline into the waiting area, in search of my favorite comfy seat and a power source. Between touring on the road with Allen’s band and escorting him down to that medical trial in Philadelphia, I was actually a frequent traveler through this particular waiting lounge.
The airline had pairs of great square chairs near the windows, in padded black leather with electrical outlets built right into the armrests. Unfortunately, the only free one was next to a guy in a matchy-match gray suit, draining half the tristate’s electric grid. Not only was he hogging both armrest outlets, w
ith his fancy phone and his tablet charging, he was also typing one-handed on a laptop balanced on his knee, its power cord like a tightrope that I had to maneuver past just to get close to the empty seat. At close range, his cologne was a force field I had to skirt around. A hands-free device winked from behind a lock of his thick jet-black hair like a glowing blue locust. This guy was wired to the gills and completely self-absorbed within his sensory-overload bubble.
I made a production of carefully draping the garment bag across the chair before plopping myself down on the floor near the one wall outlet he wasn’t zapping power from. New text messages from Danica lit up the minute I plugged in.
Where are you!?!?! TEXT ME.
Sorry, needed to find a plug. Evil supervillain is harnessing all airport energy at his superbase to fuel his death ray.
Tech-Boy had stopped typing. I stole a glance. Maybe that was no ordinary Bluetooth device in his ear: could it read my thoughts? Or my texts?
English, please?
Dude totally hogging the outlets at my gate. And now he is staring at me.
Oh. :-) Is he cute?
I flicked my eyes up nonchalantly. He now had his cell phone in his hand and was frowning at the screen as he loosened his tie.
A little like Keanu.
Pre-Matrix or post-Matrix?
Pre-Matrix. But with more technology. And more hair.
LOL. Take a pic!
Are you THAT bored in Hawaii already? What time is it there, anyway?
Laney! Come on. Pic or I don’t believe you.
The stuff I do to amuse you, Dani.
I nonchalantly angled my phone and pretended to admire my toes, freshly shellacked in a blue the color of sea glass, and stealthily captured him still in frowning mode. Three button pushes later, his picture was in Hawaii, in my best friend’s waiting hand. Gotta love technology.
Pretty hot. I like the scruff.
Courtship of the Cake Page 34
