My apparent descent into wedding planner psychosis—a condition I’d clearly contracted from spending too much time with Anica—drew concerned glances from the Rhodes Estate staff. Three months ago, I wouldn’t have noticed if the flowers were not quite right, let alone if they were 0.3 inches off center. Now I was channeling my inner Anica, seeing all the tiny imperfections she would have spotted instantly. It was both terrifying and comforting, like carrying a piece of her with me while the staff politely avoided the elephant in the room. Or rather, the missing bride in the venue.
“Mr. Burkhardt,” Ms. Windsor approached, clipboard in hand and frown lines permanently carved into her face. “Whileeverything looks absolutely exquisite, there is the small matter of... well...” She cleared her throat. “The bride? Or rather, the lack thereof?”
“Ms. Marcel will be here,” I said, adjusting my cufflinks for the fourteenth time. “Or she won’t. Either way, the wedding proceeds as planned.”
Ms. Windsor blinked, as if trying to process this information through her proper British sensibilities. “I... see. It’s just that in my many,manyyears managing this venue, we’ve never had a... solo wedding before. It’s not like you can marry no one.”
“If she doesn’t show, then obviously I won’t be married by the end of the day,” I replied, spotting another imperfection, a chair with a slightly looser bow than its neighbors. I strode over to fix it, ignoring the whispers from the catering staff.
“But sir, the?—”
“Everything has been handled. Besides, this estate has been paid in more than full already. I don’t know why you’re complaining considering the other sizable donation I made.”
Ms. Windsor looked like she wanted to say more but thought better of it, retreating with her clipboard and wrinkles.
I couldn’t blame her. This whole situation was certifiably insane.
All because I tripped and tumbled straight into that stupid L-word.
Love. The word I’d spent my entire adult life avoiding, dismissing, and thoroughly denying.
I pulled out the folded paper from my pocket. My vows, rewritten seventeen times since last night. The current version still felt inadequate.
“Those better not be stock market predictions,” a familiar voice said from behind me.
I turned to find Chance, adjusting his bowtie.
“Vows,” I corrected, tucking the paper back into my pocket. “For when she shows up.”
“When,” Chance repeated with a small smile. “Whenshe shows up. Notif. That’s progress.”
“Where are the other two assholes?” I asked, glancing around for Kris and Morgan.
“Checking on the bar situation. And by ‘checking on’ I mean ‘depleting.’ Kris said something about needing liquid courage to stand next to you while you potentially humiliate yourself in front of New York’s elite.”
“Good to know my groomsmen have such faith in me.”
“Actually,” Chance said, his expression growing serious, “we do. Have faith in you, I mean. This is... it’s brave, Cal. Possibly insane, definitely dramatic, but brave.”
“Or desperate,” I muttered, spotting another imperfection in the floral arrangements and resisting the urge to fix it. “I’m not convinced there’s much difference.”
“How are you feeling? After everything?”
I stared out at the assembled chairs, the flower-draped archway, the string quartet warming up in the corner. Everything perfect, everything planned down to the last detail by the woman who might or might not walk down that aisle minus a few adjustments from me.
“I don’t know. Terrified may be the best way to explain it.”
“Are you excited?”
“Of course,” I said simply. “I want, no, Ineedto see her again. And shit, if it’s in that dress, I may need you to find the nearest AED to bring me back when I inevitably keel over.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Gram.
“How’s my boy doing?” she asked without preamble when I answered.
“Depends on your definition of ‘doing,’” I replied. “If you mean ‘micromanaging floral arrangements while sweatingthrough an extremely expensive suit,’ then I’m doing spectacularly.”
“Nerves are good,” Gram said. “Shows you care. How’s the venue? I’ll be there soon enough if Norbert would step on the gas instead of the brakes every five seconds.” In the background, Norbert muttered an apology.
