by Jayne Denker
“But you have to—”
“I know. Put out Paulie’s stuff, but hide the contraband good stuff behind his bottles. Serve the good stuff, keep Paulie’s just for show. If he inspects his bottles, pour some out so it looks like people are drinking it. I know.” Casey sighed and cradled his bride’s face with his hands, reddened from the cold. “Everything’s set. There’s nothing else to do but get married. That is, if you really want to.”
George smiled up at him with a look of the purest confidence and love. “I really want to.”
“Okay then.” He kissed her tenderly, then gathered her to him, curling one hand around the back of her head as she rested it on his chest. “Let’s do this.”
Jordan quietly crept out of the room and made her way up the stairs. She peeked into the two guest rooms made up for Casey’s and George’s parents to make sure everything was in order, then slipped into one of the smaller rooms farther down the hall and flopped onto the bed. She was a lot more functional than she had been this morning, as the hangover symptoms had gradually eased up over the course of the day, but she was exhausted. She just wanted to rest a minute, let her knotted muscles slacken before she put on her new dress and did something about her hair and makeup. Not too long, though. If she lay there for more than five minutes, one of two things would happen: she’d fall asleep or, worse, she’d start thinking about Will again.
Memories of last night had come back to her in brief, random flashes throughout the day. What they’d talked about, what they’d joked about. Pulling on his arm trying to get him onto the dance floor. Doing shots (ugh, she could do without that memory).
Kissing him.
And, overall, how much she’d enjoyed being with him. Beyond the hookup she was always so adamant about. She liked him.
Jordan’s eyes flew open. She’d said that, hadn’t she? She had a recollection of Will kneeling at her feet. Taking her shoes off. Tucking her into bed. Then she’d . . . she’d said something about liking him. Liking him too much.
Well. It was the truth. She shouldn’t care that she’d said it. Besides, it was too late now—it was out there. Sure, she could lie and say it had been the booze talking. But she didn’t want to.
The boinging noise made her sit up like a shot. Her phone was going off. She groaned, her voice echoing in the darkened bedroom. She’d been right. She’d lain on the bed too long, and she’d both thought about Will and fallen asleep. What the hell time was it?
She checked her phone. The text was from Will:
Where are you?
Crap. She quickly texted back.
At the inn. Getting ready. Where are you?
Downstairs. I don’t see you.
Well, you wouldn’t. I don’t normally get dressed in the foyer.
Smartass.
Is George looking for me?
George has got it together. So does Casey. They’re ready to go.
I’ll be down in a minute.
It turned out to be more like fifteen minutes, but that was impressive, right? Considering most women took hours to get ready for a party? Jordan tugged at her dress, trying to smooth it out, then climbed onto the mattress to get a look at herself in the oval mirror over the ornate antique dresser. Not bad, as far as she could tell.
When a knock sounded on the heavy wooden door, she nearly fell off the bed. Someone needed something already? She thought she was in the clear for at least a little while longer. She cautiously opened the door a crack and let out a relieved breath. She’d know that blue eye anywhere.
“Hi there. Does the door open any wider than this?”
“How’d you find me?”
“Followed the sound of swearing. Are you going to stay in there all night?”
“No, I’m ready.” She ducked back inside for one last look at her makeup, wiped away a spare fleck of mascara, then rushed into the hallway, stopping short at the sight of Will Nash in a suit. “Well, look at you. Hot cha cha.”
“Is that bit of gibberish a good thing?” Will tugged at his tie—a little nervously, she thought.
“Very good.”
“You’re looking pretty amazing yourself.”
“Thanks much.” She did a little twirl because, well, why not? Will was staring—a hungry look if ever she’d seen one. Frankly, she’d forgotten she cleaned up well enough to get that kind of a look from a guy. All the better that it was Will doing the ogling. “So are you taking me to this thing or aren’t you?”
He shook himself. “That’s why I came up to find you.” He offered her his arm. “Ready?”
“So ready.”
Jordan had to admit it felt pretty darn good, walking down the center of the broad hallway with a handsome guy escorting her. This could be a lot of fun—quick wedding, nice party, hot date . . . but when they came around the curve in the staircase, she nearly stumbled. The foyer was full, guests milling around, waiting for the ceremony to start. This was not what George and Casey had planned. What happened to the small head count of “just family and a couple of friends”?
“Why are all these people here?” she whispered.
“Everyone loves George and Casey, and they want to share their joy.”
“Oh, please.”
“Okay, everyone’s nosy. And they want to be able to say they were at the wedding of the century, for future gossip sessions. Better?”
“That I believe.”
They waded into the crowd, and Will was pulled into a conversation with Casey’s parents. Jordan gave his arm a squeeze and made her way over to George, who apparently had dispensed with the tradition of the groom not seeing the bride before the wedding. She also didn’t seem to care about making a grand, breathtaking entrance, because she was already in the middle of the hallway, tucking some baby’s breath into her little niece’s hair clip.
“Wow,” Jordan couldn’t help blurting out. George was a vision. Nothing too outlandish, of course—this was George Down, after all—but her dress was perfect: calf length, form fitting, cap sleeves, ivory lace. Just . . . perfect.
“Not too much?”
“Oh, you look fantastic. Shut up.”
Jordan knew the woman in the deep green dress sniping at George was Sera, George’s older sister; she’d stopped by the inn once or twice while Jordan was working. Sera was just as beautiful as George, but more earthy compared to her younger sister’s more ethereal air—possibly due to the clay under her fingernails, ever present from her occupation as a ceramics artist. Her wife, Jazmine, was by her side, as always, a delicate beauty whose dark skin gleamed in the candlelight as she straightened their daughter’s pale green dress.
Amelia, little angel that she was, beamed up at her mommies and her Auntie George, then said to her aunt, “Yeah. Thut up.”
“Hey. You shut up.”
All the women turned to stare at Jordan. Oops.
Amelia sized her up, then started giggling. “You’re funny.”
“Yeah, well, you’re funny looking.”
“Who are you?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Amelia. Duh.”
“Nice to meet you, Amelia Duh.” To George, she said, “I’ll go check on things. Give me the signal when you want to start and I’ll get everyone into the room.”
She crossed the hallway with a bit of difficulty, pushing past knots of guests and through the double doors into the smaller parlor. With the room awash in pillar candles and with a fire dancing in the grate, it was about a thousand degrees in there. Jordan checked the iPod dock on the mantel, then decided to crack open the windows and let in a little air. She turned around . . . and nearly tripped over the small person behind her.
“Hey, Amelia. What can I do for you?”
The little girl said nothing, just stared up at her with enormous blue eyes.
“Okay. Back it up, child of the corn. I’ve got to try to get these windows open.”
Amelia did as she was told, still staring, while Jordan leaned in to push up one of
the deeply recessed windows. When she turned back around, dusting off the heels of her hands, Amelia was still there.
“You’re freaking me out, kid. What do you say we get you back to your mommies?”
Amelia dodged Jordan when she offered her hand, and now the kid wouldn’t follow her. Weird little thing. So Jordan got behind her and pushed until she’d essentially shoved the little girl back to her aunt and her mothers, the child skidding on her heels the whole way. And giggling. Once she’d made her delivery, Jordan turned to go, only to find Amelia blocking her path again.
“How did you get there so fast?”
“Wow, she’s really taken with you,” Jaz commented.
“The kindred call to one another,” George whispered in a demonic tone.
Jordan rolled her eyes at the jovially smiling George. Yeah, Jordan couldn’t really argue. She’d heard about Amelia; the kid was a hell-raiser, and a potty mouth to boot, despite her mothers’ best efforts to keep her in line. Denying their similarities wouldn’t do any good. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be. Round ’em up.”
Jordan took a deep breath and raised her fingers to her lips, ready to produce an attention-getting whistle, when a hand appeared in front of her face with a crystal goblet and a small butter knife.
“Try this instead.” Will smiled, highly amused at her confused look. “Ding, ding, ding. Way classier.”
“Well, where’s the fun in that?” But she accepted the makeshift gong and tapped the glass with the knife. She had to admit it was a much more melodic way to summon everybody. She didn’t even have to direct them; with Casey guiding everyone from behind, the herd moved obediently through the double doors. She turned to thank Will, but he was gone, already in the throng waiting patiently in the other room.
“Okay, honey,” George said to her niece, handing her a straw basket of rose petals. “When the music starts, you walk down the white rug, just like we practiced. See Uncle Darryl in front of the fire? Go to him, and your mommy and I will be right behind you.”
Amelia studied the basket, the flower petals, her shoes, and the runner leading from the doors to the fireplace, where a very large man stood, nearly blocking the firelight and sweating profusely. Maybe having the ceremony in front of the fire wasn’t the best idea, but it was too late now. Off to one side, Casey waited patiently with his best man, Elliot, hands behind his back, looking unbelievably handsome. It was the suit, it was the setting, but mostly it was his adoring and amused expression as he watched the woman he loved try to get this show on the road.
George nodded at Casey, Casey nodded at Darryl, and Darryl turned around and started the iPod. Dignified classical music floated out, and George picked up her bouquet from the table behind her. “Go ahead, Amelia.”
Amelia shook her head so vigorously she dislodged the baby’s breath from her hair.
George, Sera, and Jaz exchanged panicked looks, and Sera marveled, “Since when is she bashful?”
“She’s four years old,” Jaz said gently. “Cut her some slack.”
“She wasn’t bashful when she chased the Glover twins around the pre-K classroom and beat on them with a plastic banana.”
“Well, they called her a doody-head, didn’t they?”
“Should we have Darryl call her a doody-head now? Would that get her in gear?”
“Stop,” George murmured to the bickering couple, as the crowd in the other room started to fidget. “She doesn’t have to do it if she doesn’t want to.”
“Are you kidding? This is all she’s been talking about for days. Mark my words, when the opportunity’s gone and she didn’t do it, there will be hell to pay.” Sera looked down at her daughter. “Right, kid?”
And Amelia had the audacity to nod.
“Will bribery work?” George suggested.
“You couldn’t afford her,” Sera muttered, then reached for her daughter. “Come on, Amelia, let’s get going. Everyone’s waiting.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Immediately, the little girl dropped the straw basket, dodged out of her mother’s grasp, and hid behind Jordan, clutching the young woman’s dress in both fists.
The Down family members sighed, aggravated, but froze when Amelia spoke. “I want the red lady.”
“What . . . Jordan? This lady here?”
Jordan desperately hoped they got to the bottom of this quickly, because Amelia was starting to gnaw on her dress about halfway between her ass cheeks and the hem, which was going to leave a very unusual mouth-shaped mark on the fabric at mid-thigh. That kind of conversation piece she didn’t need. She felt Amelia nod vigorously and, mercifully, stop sucking on her dress.
George raised her eyebrows and sighed. “The demon child has spoken. Would you mind escorting her up the aisle?”
“Let’s put it this way,” Sera said, “we’re not going to give you a choice in the matter.”
Jordan let loose a sigh of her own, crouched down, picked up the scattered rose petals, put them back in the basket, and took Amelia’s hand. “Let’s go, little demon.”
When Jordan led her, Amelia went willingly, looking up at Jordan with a huge smile on her face. Jordan couldn’t help but smile back. They walked to the door, and at the sight of everyone in the room beaming down at her, the little girl froze.
“That’s a lotta effin’ people,” she breathed.
Jordan choked and stifled a cough. The people nearby who heard Amelia started to laugh. “No more talking, demon. Just do your thing.”
Amelia obeyed, for once, and they made it down the aisle without further incident. Jordan helped her scatter the rose petals, then guided her off to one side. Once they were in place at the edge of the runner, she glanced around, and her eyes locked on Will’s. He gave her a thumbs up. Jaz slipped into the room and Sera, as George’s matron of honor, came down the aisle. Then George. And when her eyes met Casey’s, and they joined hands by the fire, all was right with the world.
“Dearly beloved . . .” Darryl began in his powerful rumbling baritone.
Chapter 25
It was only a wedding ceremony. A short one at that, officiated by Darryl Sykes, Casey and George’s good friend who’d gotten his minister’s license online just to be able to marry them. Casey and George pledged their troth to one another, just like couples do all the time. Sure, some folks thought they should have done it ages ago, but no big deal. It had finally happened, simply an official stamp of approval on the relationship they’d committed to years before. Of course, this ceremony was made memorable not only by Amelia semi-swearing up a storm, as she always tended to do, but also by George tripping over her intended’s full name (Casey Arthur Bowen became Basey Carthur Owen), but laughing about it; and an incongruous Lester Biggs, the dairy farmer, trussed up in a suit he may or may not have gotten from Missy Preston’s consignment shop (“I would never have let him leave my store looking like that,” she’d later sniffed in denial), hair flattened with what looked—and smelled—like engine lubricant, not-so-surreptitiously slurping his beer during the vows. But none of that stood out for Will.
Will forgot everything—including his own name—when he laid eyes on Jordan, in that off-the-charts-sexy red dress, tenderly guiding a docile (for once) Amelia Down-Montgomery down the aisle as they both scattered red and white rose petals like a pair of angels. He conveniently ignored the niggling feeling they were both more likely to sprout horns and tails than wings, because when they came down the aisle and then shared a look, silently congratulating each other on a job well done, Will’s common sense was completely lost. When he caught Jordan’s eye soon afterward, and she smiled at him, his heart followed his common sense over that virtual cliff he’d been teetering on since last night.
So what else could he do but smile back and . . . give her a thumbs up.
Cripes.
Thumbs up. Smooth.
When the ceremony was over and everyone spilled back out into the hallway, both Casey’s and George’s parents took tur
ns smothering Jordan with huge hugs to thank her for helping with the ceremony. Will even overheard Barbara Down apologizing for Amelia and crediting Jordan with “saving” the wedding. Jordan stared at him, wild-eyed, over Barb’s shoulder, and the bemused, throttled expression on the young woman’s face was priceless.
A quick look around showed him there had been a distinct sea change in the Marsden population when it came to Jordan. The other wedding guests weren’t giving her the ol’ side eye, weren’t whispering behind their hands (or right out in the open) while staring at her. They were quietly accepting her, smiling at her, talking to her. Being accepted by others wasn’t something Jordan was comfortable with, but it looked like she was going to have to get used to it.
Whoops—she’d even won over Lester Biggs, who had zeroed in on the single, pretty female and was gradually backing her up to the wall in the foyer as he talked nonstop, likely regaling her with stories about his cows. His three hundred girls were his whole life, after all. Yep, Jordan was glancing around for an escape route—a sure sign Lester was on his favorite subject again. Will decided he’d better rescue her. Not that it was a chore. If there was one thing he didn’t mind, it was being by her side; in fact, he’d stayed away about as long as he could manage.
“So, can I get you a beer?” Lester was asking, while trying to sneak a peek down Jordan’s dress.
“No thanks. Not drinking tonight,” Jordan said, still glancing around desperately. When she spotted Will in the crowd, she lit up. “There you are! Lester, look—here’s Will. My date.”
Her date. She’d finally called him her date. He liked that a lot. And he took it as permission to slip an arm around her waist. “Hey, Lester. What’s up? How are the girls?”
“Doing all right,” the dairy farmer answered shiftily, obviously disappointed in Will’s appearance—and his intimacy with Jordan. “Bought them some nice Christmas presents. Don’t tell ’em, though. I want it to be a surprise.”
“Mum’s the word.”
“Well, I guess I need . . . another . . .” Lester indicated his glass and scooted off in search of a refill.