Caroline gave up at ten thirty, yawning and apologizing as she put down her pastry bag. “I can’t even see straight anymore,” she said. “Let alone make tiny little rosettes on tiny little cookies.”
“Go.” Emily hugged her and thanked her for her help.
“We’re putting these in little gift bags, right?” Summer frowned down at her handiwork.
“Little clear bags with ribbons, yeah. Why?”
“Well, you might want to think about bags that aren’t see-through. That’s all I’m saying.” Summer used a silicone spatula to scoop some more icing into her bag. “There’s a reason I didn’t go into the visual arts.”
“Looks fine,” Emily said. The green and pink icing was a bit lopsided, but after months of demanding perfection for every single aspect of the wedding, she found she was willing to settle for “good enough” with the cookies. “It’s the thought that counts.”
“We’ve only done, what? Thirty cookies? We’re going to be here all night,” Summer said.
They heard the clatter of high heels on the stone floor and then Georgia swept in, wearing a backless navy gown and glittery combs in her red hair. “There you are, Summer! I’ve been looking everywhere for you! You have to get changed and come with me. Chop-chop, right now.”
“Where are we going?”
“My suitor has a friend.” Georgia sank her pearly pink nails into Summer’s sleeve. “I told him you’d be happy to join us all on a double date.”
“Whoa, whoa, not so fast.” Summer hung on to her chair as Georgia tried to pry her fingers off. “Who is this guy? How old is he? What’s he like?”
“Does it matter? It’s just a few hours.”
“Help me,” Summer begged Emily as Georgia led her away.
“Wear your work uniform,” Emily advised. “No man can resist a sassy flight attendant.”
“I want a new family!” Summer howled, and then the kitchen doors swung shut behind her and she was lost to Georgia’s machinations.
Emily sat back, assessed their progress, and looked at the mountains of cookies still left to ice. She could quit, she knew. Bev would take over in the morning. The finished products would look better. No one expected her to tackle this monumental task by herself.
But if she went to bed now, she would have to lie there in the darkness and think about all the things she was trying so hard not to think about. She would have to feel all the feelings she didn’t want to acknowledge.
So she picked up her pastry bag and resumed piping. The kitchen felt cool and peaceful. She could hear the low hum of the refrigerators and the lights overhead. She didn’t have to make any decisions right now. She didn’t have to think at all. She just had to make tiny pink flowers.
And she did—for forty-five minutes. Then she ran out of icing and realized, when she attempted to make more, that she didn’t know where to find the rest of the confectioners’ sugar Bev had bought. Her hands were aching, her mind was churning, and now she had nothing to do with them.
She checked her cell phone. Still no texts or calls from Grant.
Something inside her snapped, and she started crying. She was shocked at her own reaction, but she couldn’t stop. A silent, steady stream of tears rolled down her cheeks while she cleaned up after herself and started back to her room.
As she crossed through the hotel lobby, she heard Ryan’s voice out on the front porch. She knew she should keep moving. She should retreat, the way she had at the campfire.
Instead, she pushed open the huge double doors and headed straight for him.
He was pacing and yelling into his cell phone: “The reception out here sucks.”
As soon as he saw her, he hung up. “Hey. Are you okay?”
She nodded. “I’m out of sugar.”
“And you’re crying about that why?” His tone was gentle, indulgent.
She buried her face in her hands, knowing as she did so that she was ridiculous. She was a caricature of every histrionic bridezilla on cable TV shows.
She was also about to have her second official panic attack.
Ryan didn’t say anything else. He guided her to one of the wide wooden benches, sat down next to her, and waited while she struggled to regain her composure.
He didn’t ask what the problem was or how he could help. He simply put his arm around her and pulled her against him.
She closed her eyes and let him hold her, feeling completely safe and knowing that feeling this way was incredibly dangerous.
The knots in her stomach loosened and the adrenaline surge drained away. As she came back to herself, she became aware of the crickets chirping and the luminous glow of the moon. She could smell the sharp, clean scent of the pine trees mixed with…
Her eyes flew open. “Are you wearing Drakkar Noir?”
Ryan grinned and gave her a squeeze. “You noticed.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re a grown man. Who lives in LA and goes to fancy red carpet events. Might be time to upgrade to cologne that you don’t buy at the drugstore.” She laughed. “In middle school.”
“When I’m working the red carpet, I wear designer aftershaves that I can’t even pronounce.” He pressed her closer. “I save the heavy artillery for you.”
“Drakkar Noir is the heavy artillery?”
“You know you love it.”
She did. Damn him. The scent was evoking total recall of that night they’d first met and all the nights afterward.
She forced herself to ease away from him. “You’re evil.”
“I’m strategic,” he corrected her. Judging by the way he smiled at her, he knew his strategy was working. “And solving problems is my job. If you need more sugar, I’ll get you more sugar.”
“You really want to talk about sugar right now?”
“No.” And he gave her a smoldering look that made her turn away. “But you’re having a nervous breakdown over it, so right now I’m on sugar detail.”
“It’s almost midnight,” Emily pointed out. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“I have a GPS and an iron will. I’m your guy.”
“Ryan.” She got to her feet. “You’re not my guy.”
“There’s a twenty-four-hour grocery store ninety minutes away. Come on—we’ll take the motorcycle.”
And just like that, Emily McKellips, levelheaded MBA, was replaced by Emily McKellips, cautionary tale.
Emily knew, even as she pulled the sleek black helmet over her head, that this was a bad idea. More than that, it was dangerous—on every level.
Grant disapproved of motorcycles. Most physicians did. They saw the carnage and casualties in the ER and on the operating table. Emily had once asked, “But doesn’t wearing a helmet protect you?” and Grant had laughed and explained that his team referred to bikers’ helmets as “brain buckets.”
“Besides,” he’d added, “maintaining brain function is a small comfort when your entire body is shattered from the neck down.”
Grant would not like the idea of his future wife on a motorcycle. Not that they’d ever discussed it—the Emily he knew would never do such a thing.
She stood next to Ryan, one hand resting on the restored bike, and told herself that this was her last chance to back down and back out.
But when she opened her mouth to explain that she couldn’t do this, the words that came out were, “Promise me you won’t go too fast.”
Ryan held up his palm like a boy scout. “I solemnly swear I will not go fast.”
“And no hairpin turns or sudden stops.”
“You got it.”
“And if the road is wet or it starts to rain—”
“We’ll be fine.” He stepped in front of her and checked the fit of her helmet. “I won’t let you get hurt, Em. You know that.”
“Yeah, but there are so many factors out of your control,” she argued. “Potholes and fog and, like, oil slicks that you don’t see until it’s too late.”
Ryan straddled the bike. “You c
oming or not?”
With a final, guilty glance back toward the Lodge, Emily climbed on behind him. He turned the key in the ignition and the cycle rumbled to life. She could feel the slow, steady thrum of power beneath her, and as he swung the bike out of the gravel parking lot, she knew she had to hang on to him.
Her grip was tentative at first, barely clasping the side seams on his worn black leather jacket. But as he accelerated, she tightened her grip, inching her fingers toward his waist.
Ryan captured her hand in his and pulled her right arm firmly around his waist. Her palm slipped under the flap of his jacket, against his soft cotton T-shirt. She could feel his abs, firm and warm, underneath her hand.
This was a bad idea, she thought.
But then she stopped thinking and started to enjoy the ride.
She couldn’t hear anything beyond the rush of the wind and the roar of the engine. She couldn’t feel anything besides the pounding of her heart and the warmth of Ryan’s back against her chest and the cool, damp evening air on her bare fingers as she clutched him. She wasn’t worried about upcoming potholes or devastating car accidents.
Between the passage of time and all of Grant’s horror stories about “brain buckets,” she had forgotten the sense of freedom that came with riding a motorcycle. The sense of immediacy and the certainty that some things in life were worth the risk. She leaned into Ryan as he leaned into a turn.
Her arms were wrapped around him now, but it didn’t feel sexual or inappropriate. She was just hanging on to him for a little while, reconnecting.
Remembering.
By the time they returned to the Lodge, Emily felt energized and bubbly. Ryan carried the bags full of confectioners’ sugar to the kitchen for her, then glanced at Bev’s recipe.
“Oh, you don’t have to stay.” She gave up trying to straighten her windblown curls. “I can take it from here.”
“No way.” He dumped some sugar into a measuring cup. “If you’re going to stay up all night, so am I.”
“Really?” She portioned out the water and handed it to him. “You’ll help me?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “As Val Kilmer said in Tombstone, ‘I’m your huckleberry.’”
“But you hate girly stuff like this.”
“I’m a producer. Which means I do whatever needs doing.” He turned on the mixer. “So if what we’re doing involves pink frosting and edible glitter, then pass the frosting bag.”
She arched one eyebrow. “You’re not even going to make a suggestive comment about edible glitter?”
He peered into the big metal bowl. “Not right now. I’m in work mode.”
“I can see that.” While Ryan made the icing to Bev’s precise specifications, Emily prepped pastry bags for each of them.
He pulled up a chair and started icing the cookies with the same grim concentration she imagined he’d use in the film editing room. She tried to keep up with his swift, steady pace, but her eyes fluttered closed and she let herself doze for a moment, startling awake when she pitched forward.
“Sorry.” She reached for her pastry bag, but Ryan grabbed it away.
“Don’t be sorry. Take a break.” His tone brooked no refusal. “You do sloppy work when you’re tired.” He got up, found a stack of folded cloth napkins in a cabinet, and placed them on the counter in front of her. “Just put your head down for a minute.”
She did, planning to rest her eyes for five minutes.
When she woke up, the overhead lights were turned off and the golden glow of sunrise illuminated the kitchen.
Ryan was gone. But the pile of naked sugar cookies had been replaced with stacks of beribboned cellophane bags, all of them containing precise, identically decorated little wedding cakes.
Emily skipped her five-mile run the next morning. For the first time in months, she slept in. Her slumber was deep and dreamless, shattered only when insistent pounding on her door jerked her back to consciousness.
She threw on her robe and cracked open the door to find Summer standing in the hallway, quaking with rage.
“An ice-cream social?” Summer held up the calligraphy-scrolled invitation for Emily’s bachelorette party. “That’s Bev’s big surprise?”
“Oh dear.” Emily scanned the invitation and nibbled her lip. “But you like ice cream, don’t you?”
“I like ice cream when I’m hanging out in my pajamas watching Clueless for the seventy-third time. I do not like ice cream when I’m forced to socialize with a bunch of buzz kills who keep giving me pitying looks and telling me not to worry, it’ll be my turn next.”
“Give it a chance. Maybe it’ll be fun.”
“Unless the ice cream is made out of White Russians, it’ll be hellish, and we both know it.”
“Summer, come on. Be a good sport. Bev and her sisters have been planning this for weeks.”
“I have been a good sport. I’ve taken a week off work, I’ve gone along with all the guitar strumming and Kumbaya-ing, I bought a dress that breaks all of my personal style rules—bows, pastels, and tea-length hemlines–and I choked down the cucumber sandwiches and crumpets. I even went on a double date with my ex-stepmother and a pair of guys she barely knows.”
“Hey, how did that go?” Emily asked.
Summer was too worked up to deviate from her rant. “But I am drawing the line at an ice-cream social bachelorette party. Do you hear me? The line has been drawn!” She ripped up the invitation, threw the pieces on the floor, and stomped off toward the lobby.
Emily pulled on jeans and a tank top, gathered up the pieces of invitation, and hurried after her friend. She caught up with Summer on the front porch of the Lodge.
“Don’t freak out,” Emily pleaded. “I understand why you’re on edge. I know this is not your scene. And I deeply, truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me this week. But—”
“No buts!” Summer was practically frothing at the mouth as she marched down the steps and across the vast, grassy lawn. “Georgia’s right—Bev is taking over the whole wedding. And you’re letting her. What’s wrong with you?” A family of ducks changed direction and waddled away from Summer.
“I just wanted everyone to be happy.”
“It’s impossible to make everyone happy,” Summer decreed. “Case in point: me, right now.”
“I’ll make this up to you after the wedding,” Emily promised. “Whatever you want. My treat. You name the time and place.”
“No!” Summer raised her fist. “The revolution has begun. I demand a bachelorette party worthy of the name. I want booze, I want boys, and I want blackmail material.”
Right on cue, Ripley bounded up to see what all the screaming was about. Ryan followed, leash in hand. He looked rested and relaxed, despite the fact that he’d just come off an all-night cookie-icing marathon. As soon as she saw him, Emily wished she’d taken the time to fix her hair and put on makeup. Or at least a bra.
“What’s the problem?” He glanced at the fleeing ducks. “You’re scaring the wildlife.”
“It’s her.” Summer jerked her thumb at Emily in disgust. “She let Bev plan the bachelorette party.”
“It’s more of a general girls’ night out,” Emily hedged. “We’re all grown women. Ladies, actually. This isn’t a sorority kegger.”
“It’s an ice-cream social and I’m no lady.” Summer sounded on the verge of tears. “Ryan, help me. Make her see reason.”
“I already had a swing and a miss with that,” Ryan said. He found a stick on the ground and tossed it for Ripley. “But I might be able to shut down the ice-cream social.”
“Too late—it’s already planned,” Emily said. “Bev and her sisters have been talking about it since yesterday.”
“Only because they don’t have anything better to look forward to.” Ryan pulled out his smartphone. “I can fix that.”
“I want booze, boys, and blackmail material,” Summer informed him.
“Done.”
“No, no, no. I’m going
to have to veto this,” Emily said.
“You’re overruled,” Summer said.
“It’ll hurt their feelings,” Emily argued. “And besides, look at the time. You’d have to reschedule everything in a matter of hours.”
Her objections seemed to galvanize Ryan. “Luckily, I live for difficult decisions and impossible deadlines.”
“I don’t want some big production,” Emily warned.
Ryan’s grin was positively wolfish. “Too late, baby. That’s what I do.”
Rose and Darlene delivered the ultimate passive-aggressive present at high noon.
“Hi, Georgia.” Clad in straw sunhats and sensible shoes, they sidled up to the restaurant table where Emily, Summer, Georgia, Bev, and Melanie were finishing up their lunch. “We’ve been looking all over for you!”
“Yes.” Darlene simpered. “We checked the bar first, of course.”
Rose pulled a box out of her tote bag. “We brought you a gift.”
“For me? Oh, girls, you shouldn’t have!” Georgia looked both flattered and confused as she accepted the pink-ribboned package Darlene offered.
Bev’s fingers moved in helpless flutters around her throat. Melanie caught Emily’s eye and pantomimed strapping on a crash helmet.
Georgia waited until she had everyone’s full attention, then made a big display of opening the present. She peeled back layers of white tissue paper to reveal…
“Tights?” She held up the folds of magenta fabric with a bewildered smile.
“Stockings,” Rose corrected, sweet as pie. “Special stockings. We noticed you had a few, ahem…”
“Blemishes,” Darlene supplied.
“On your calves.”
Georgia’s smile morphed into a rictus of horror. “I beg your pardon?”
But the aunties remained oblivious. “We noticed a few little spider veins in your legs yesterday,” Rose whispered.
“When you were wearing that cute little miniskirt.” Darlene pronounced the word “cute” with a little too much emphasis.
“And these are supposed to be excellent for your circulation.”
“We thought you’d like the color, too. Since your personality is so very vibrant.”
The Week Before the Wedding Page 17