by Watson, Lucy
I don’t have the heart to tell her that she very well may be the worst people-reader on the planet. Instead, I give her a warm smile and take a sip of my cold coffee.
She returns my smile and hands me another piece of paper from her overflowing planner book.
“We’ve finalized everyone on the guest list, which considering the timeframe, is a small miracle, so we’re looking at close to seventy-five guests total.”
I glance at the paper full of names and plus-ones I don’t know, and my pulse spikes. “Wow. That seems like a lot.”
I set down the paper and take in a steady breath with a tight smile. More guests, means more wedding donations to St. Jude, means more kids helped—especially with the kind of money floating about this place.
Which means this is not a wedding.
This is a fundraiser.
So, suck it up, buttercup.
“Well, once word got out…which didn’t take long with Dottie.” She draws the words out, seeming to back-step from what she was going to say and finishes with, “He’s a Crawford, dear, so it’s a bit difficult to keep things as small as you both wanted, but it’s still very intimate.”
Think of the kids.
“I’m sure it will be perfect.”
I can’t wait to walk down the aisle toward a man I love who does not love me back in front of seventy-five of his people for a fake ceremony. Good times.
Think of the kids.
My heart jolts, and my breath catches as Nick storms into the kitchen like Kramer from Seinfeld. It takes me a few seconds to fully process the head-to-toe khaki fishing gear he’s decked out in, complete with pole. It looks like he raided his Grandpa Bud’s fishing closet—if he has a Grandpa Bud who has a fishing closet.
“You need to talk some sense into your man,” Nick demands, pointing at me with his fishing pole with his gaze jumping to Betsy as if just seeing her. “Sorry to interrupt.” The fact he continues without missing a beat means, not really. “He won’t let me throw him a bachelor party. He’s ruining this wedding for me,” he whines.
We stare at each other for a few weird breaths before Betsy breaks the silence.
“Well, I think I better go check on Josie to see how the aisle arrangements are coming along.” She pushes back from the table and readjusts her oxygen.
I go to help her, but Nick’s at her side before I can stand.
“Thank you, Nick,” she says, giving his hand on her arm a grandmotherly pat when she’s steady.
“Anytime,” Nick replies with a tender smile.
I exhale. It’s sure hard to hate a guy, no matter how freaking annoying he is, who looks at Betsy that way.
Over midnight tea once, I asked Rose what the worst part of growing older was. Yeah, I’m a blast at parties. She said becoming invisible was the most painful part. As she got older, people stopped catching her eyes on the street. Salespeople stopped scrambling to help. Family stopped talking with her and started talking to her like someone would talk to their pet or their TV.
They stopped seeing her.
Nick sees Betsy, and I kind of love him for that.
“Do you want me to go with you?” I say to her, trying to give her a “say yes” look, which she probably can’t see because of her cataract.
“That’s alright. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” she says before scurrying off.
We watch her go, and then Nick turns back to me. His chin dips, his brows raise. “Blue,” he says my nickname in a way that punctuates his previous rant.
There’s a short silence as he just stands there looking at me with hawkish yellow-brown eyes peeking out under his god-awful bucket hat.
When I don’t say anything, he continues, “He said no. No to a bachelor party.”
I fight the bittersweet smile tugging at my lips, realizing that even though he takes sadistic pleasure in making my life hell, I’m going to miss this little shit too.
“And…” I prompt, with a pointed look that I hope conveys that I have no interest in weighing in on whether or not Ben has a stripper grind on him in celebration of our fake wedding.
I will not picture Ben getting a lap dance. Will not picture it.
Fuck.
“What do you mean and?” His chest puffs, making the metal fishing doodads hanging on his vest twinkle in the light. “It’s my god-given right as the ordained minister of your blessed union to throw him a kick-ass bachelor party. You can’t let him take that from me, Blue.” He gives me his best puppy-dog pout.
Which I probably would’ve fallen for before. Before he took it upon himself to become an ordained minister online to officiate our “blessed union,” which is now how he refers to our fake wedding. And before he started referring to Ben and me as his “flock of love.”
Yeah. That’s now a thing.
You don’t know torture until Nick follows you around saying “flock of love” this and “blessed union” that while wearing a Father Guido Sarducci costume. I’m pretty sure if you flip to the last page of the FBI Interrogation Tactic Handbook, there’s a picture of Nick, grinning.
“Sorry, that’s between you and Ben,” I say.
My stomach flips when Ben stalks into the kitchen, fishing pole in hand, wearing a worn-out, bent-brim baseball cap and equally worn jeans, his beard looking a little longer.
I bet he’s one of those guys who’s just going to get sexier as he gets older, like Kevin Costner in Yellowstone, or Hugh Jackman in literally anything.
Too bad I won’t be around to see it.
He’s shooting a death glare at the back of Nick’s head. “Stop being a pain in my ass, or I’ll go back to work and you guys can go fishing alone,” he growls.
By work, he means wrenching on the bikes his friend shipped that now sit in the garage. A garage where he spends most of the day and parts of the night.
Not that I care.
Nick turns to him. “Why you gotta be like that, bro?”
“Drop it,” Ben warns.
“Fishing isn’t a bachelor party.”
Winston saunters in, his Cheshire grin aimed at a fuming Ben. “I have to agree with him on that one. And as the best man, I feel it’s my duty to override your decision.”
“For the hundredth fucking time, you’re not my best man,” Ben growls, his neck flushed.
I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
“Not your call,” Winston challenges.
“Do I need to kick your ass? Because I’m starting to feel like I need to kick your ass,” Ben threatens.
Jesse stalks in with a cooler propped on his massive shoulder and shakes his head. “Not this shit again.”
Nick ignores Jesse and turns to me with that Diablo sparkle in his eyes. “Let’s let the other half of my love flock decide, shall we?” His hawk-eyes implore me to step in and demand that Ben get a lap dance.
Yeah. Not gonna happen, bud.
“One more fucking word and Winston’s doing the ceremony.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Winston pipes in.
“Shut up.”
“You would do that to me?” Nick says to Ben, his hand going to his heart.
“Try me.”
After a short standoff, Nick’s shoulders deflate, and I sort of feel bad for him. Ben’s crew is weirdly invested in this fake wedding—even Jesse’s building an archway for us to “get hitched” under, which is nice, but the fact they all know this wedding is “just for show” also makes it totally weird.
“Fine.” Nick raises his chin, and his spine straightens. “Reverend Nick may forgive his love flock…” He turns to me, and his eyes narrow. “But he never forgets.” It takes everything I have to stifle my laugh as he turns to Jesse. “I’ll be outside. Hope you got a lot of beer in there. I’m gonna need it.”
Jesse grunts with a nod. And with that, Nick stalks out of the kitchen, his fishing doodads clinking as he goes.
Jesse looks to Ben. “Got the ATVs gassed and ready to go.”
Ben nods. “Be o
ut in a few.” Then his gaze finds mine, his eyes shadowed by the curved bill of his baseball cap.
Needing to do something other than burying my face in his chest and wrapping my arms around his waist, I get up and carry my cup to sink.
“I call the Kodiak!” Winston yells as he rushes out of the kitchen.
“No, you don’t. I’ve got the coolers and shit, asshole,” Jesse barks after him.
And then it’s just Ben and me.
I hate that every time we’re in the same room my body hums with his energy. Hate that I feel him on my skin even when we’re feet apart.
I run the coffee cup under the sink, my lower back tingling as he walks up and leans against the counter facing me, his fishing pole propped up at his side.
Giving him a small smile, I turn off the water and set the cup in the strainer, my hand stuttering when his deep rumbly voice cuts through the silence.
“You slept on the couch last night.”
“Sleep is a bit of a stretch,” I say with a weird snort-laugh.
Jesus take the wheel.
My cheeks feel hot and prickly. It sucks that I flush so easily. I take in a breath and a little extra time making sure the coffee cup is balanced perfectly on the rack, giving my cheeks a chance to cool, before I turn back to Ben.
His cap is in his hand, his hair is sticking up in places. My fingers itch to run through the mussed strands.
“I do something to put you there?” The concern in his steady gaze rips at the edges of the tape holding my heart together.
I put the tape back in place and push away the thought of him missing me. And accept the fact he’s just Sweet Benny checking in on a girl who, despite his warning, got attached and then got hurt.
I take in a deep breath and force a smile. “No… I just need to take a step back is all.”
“A step back from me?” His rumbly voice and eyes darken a bit.
Yes. Because I’m leaving next week. Because you’re leaving. Because we’ll probably never see each other again and knowing that while lying in your arms kills me.
“No, just from all this.”
His brows raise in question.
“The wedding. The will being finalized…” Losing you. “It’s a lot to deal with, at least for me.” I shrug, feeling insecure. Feeling like Ben handles all this so easily, and I’m just the weak link.
He nods with a heavy grunt, his gaze holding mine for a moment until a high-pitched horn outside steals our attention. We both turn to the kitchen window to see Nick sitting in a golf cart, staring us down, his hand raised in a what-the-hell-is-taking-so-long question.
Did I mention Ben has a lake on his property? Yep. A freaking lake.
Ben shakes his head in annoyance and turns back to me. “Cell service sucks at the lake, so no text or calls. Made you a map on how to get there if you need me, or if you get bored, or whatever. It’s on the dresser.” He puts his cap back on. “I should be home before dark. We’re going to finish this conversation then.”
“Okay.”
He nods. “Made you lunch. It’s in the fridge.”
My eyes go wide. “You made me lunch?”
His lips tug into a small smile. “Don’t get too excited, Shortcake. It’s just PB&J.”
“Thanks…” A smile tugs at my lips. “That’s surprisingly nice of you.”
I love when we’re like this. When his face is relaxed and our conversation playful and easy.
“What? I’m a nice guy,” he states with a wink.
I love that wink. This is the fourth one he’s given me. Not that I’m counting. Because that would be weird.
“Try again,” I tease.
“I can be a nice guy.” He flashes me a white-toothed smile that melts me like an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. Do I want him to lick said ice cream cone with his magic tongue?
Yes. Yes, I do.
“Alright. I’ll give you that,” I concede with a small laugh and mock-push of his solid shoulder. Because I’m cool and easygoing. One of the guys. His friend.
He raises a dark brow with a crooked smile. My breath catches when his hand goes to the side of my face. The stitches on his palm, which he refuses to cover with a bandage, feel rough on my skin. Then he bends down and presses his lips to mine in a tender kiss filled with unspoken promises.
In the next breath, he’s grabbing his fishing pole and walking out the backdoor. My fingers go to my tingling lips.
He kissed me like a husband kisses his wife before he goes off to the coal mines. And even though I’ve felt Ben’s lips on mine a hundred times. This is my favorite one.
This kiss meant something. I know it. Or I think I do. Or maybe—
Honk-honk-honk.
I snap my eyes to the window to see Nick grinning at me like a proud dad. He gives me a thumbs-up like I just scored the winning goal. I exhale with a shake of my head, a small smile I can’t help tugging at my lips.
Ben’s deep voice sounds from outside. Nick turns to him and whatever he sees dulls his light a bit. Does that stop him from giving Ben a thumbs-up like he’s Chuck Norris in Dodgeball?
Nope.
Fucking Nick.
* * *
The way I’m staring at the sandwich on my plate, you’d think I was standing in the Louvre, studying the perfectly brilliant cut of the Regent Diamond, not a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
But this isn’t just any sandwich.
This is a sandwich made by Benjamin Crawford. For me. Which is why I waited until the Wedding Brigade cleared out and went home, so I could sit at the kitchen table with season one of Return to Amish playing on my laptop (just keeping my options open), and stare at it without judgement.
Did I google what it means to cut a sandwich diagonally versus straight down? Yes, I did. Ben cuts his sandwiches straight down the middle, which according to Buzzfeed means he’s practical and trustworthy.
My ovaries have translated this to mean that he would make a good father—the kind of father that wouldn’t leave his daughter to navigate this world alone.
I fight to fill the empty ache forming in the pit of my stomach. It comes whenever I allow myself to go there, which is why I try not to. Try not to think about my dad, and if I’m honest, sometimes I try not to think of my mom, too.
The doorbell chimes, snapping me out of my thoughts. I shut the laptop and push back from the table with a sigh. How many deliveries can one person get in a day? A freaking shit load, apparently.
Even though I’m pretty sure I have a better chance of Elon Musk choosing me for his first solo mission to Mars than getting married again, if I ever do tie the knot, it’ll be at a courthouse like Carrie Bradshaw and Mr. Big, except I’ll be wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
I readjust my ponytail, more out of habit than anything else, and swing open the front door. My stomach jumps and pushes my heart to my throat at who I see. Shit.
“Catherine. Hi.” There’s no mistaking the surprise in my voice as my mind scrambles with all the reasons why she could be here.
Mr. Wellington said, to his surprise, they didn’t contest the will. Not yet, at lease. And even though Catherine’s been nothing but nice to me, I can’t help but feel guarded around her.
“Hi, Emelia,” she says. Her smile is soft and easy, but the dark half-moons shadowing her red-rimmed eyes tell a different story. “I’m sorry to just drop by like this.” She fidgets a little with her purse strap. She’s wearing white jeans and a cream-colored cardigan that hangs on her slight frame. “I was going to call, or email… but I was afraid you wouldn’t answer.”
I can’t help the worry that tingles up my spine. This isn’t a casual I-was-just-in-the-neighborhood drop-in. This is something else. Something more.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
She tucks an ash blonde strand that’s fallen loose from her low bun behind her ear. Her gaze flicks down before she shakes her head. “No, not really. Do you mind if I come in?”
I step to the side. �
��Please.” I motion her inside, feeling locusts start to swarm from my stomach to my chest like the helicopters in Apocalypse Now.
We walk to the living room, giving each other quick glances followed by flashbulb-smiles, which isn’t awkward at all.
Her eyes flare in surprise as we step into the living room. “Oh, wow. The house looks amazing.” She takes in all the new furniture, new paint, dark-stained wood beams, and new decorations with a look of approval. “Just beautiful.”
“Thanks.” I force a bright smile. “We did the easy part. Rose picked out all the furniture and stuff,” I say, with a disproportionate amount of enthusiasm for the occasion.
She returns my smile, her eyes losing a bit of their spark.
“Can I get you some tea? Or something,” I ask because that’s a good-hostess question.
“I’m okay, thanks…” Her gaze slides to the picture window, then back. “Is Ben home?”
Relief that maybe she’s here for Ben washes over me.
“He’s at the lake with friends.” I glance out of the same window, like I have Superman’s telescopic vision. “I don’t think they have cell service there, but he left a map… I can totally go get him. It’s not a problem.” I take a step back, hoping my eagerness to escape whatever this is isn’t too evident in my voice.
“Actually, I was hoping we’d be able to talk alone,” her gaze holds mine. My stomach squeezes at her words.
I give her a short nod, forcing a smile, and motion for her to take a seat on the couch. She returns my smile, but it fades quickly as she sits. Her gaze drops to her lap.
“What’s going on?” I take a seat next to her and place my hand on her arm. My heart sinks when I feel only bone. She looks so thin and frail, even more so than I remember.
Her tired eyes meet mine. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice is colored with regret. “I didn’t even say congratulations on your wedding.” She shakes her head. “My mind is so scattered these days.” She gives me a watery smile. “He must be crazy about you.”
Wanting to get married this soon is implied, but not said.
“I’m pretty crazy about him too,” I say, pushing down the panic breaking the surface at the truth of my words.
