“Elijah!” squeals a voice. We turn just as Francesca lurches forward to throw her arms around his neck, then takes a single step backward.
“Uh, I don’t feel so good.”
I reach for her. “Let’s get you?—”
She grabs my arm as if she’s drowning...then vomits all down the front of my borrowed dress and Elijah’s pants.
I guess we’re not having sex in the bathroom, and based on how pissed I currently am, I guess maybe I really wanted to. I take Francesca into the women’s room and clean us both up as best I can. When we emerge, Elijah’s waiting with a glass of water for her.
We force her to drink it—it’ll probably come up, but hopefully that won’t happen until we’re back at the house.
We call a car and slide into the backseat with Francesca beside me. She’s asleep before I’ve even finished buckling her in.
“You think we need to take her to the hospital?” Elijah asks.
I reach out to feel her pulse, which is steady. “I’ll stay in her room for a few hours and keep an eye on her.”
His gaze meets mine over her slumped head. “I wish we hadn’t been interrupted.”
My smile is slight. It sort of hurts, playing this game with him. Indulging in this fling as if it’s totally cool that he’s not willing to pursue anything more than sex in a bathroom with me while I’d give the entire world up for him.
“I’m sorry I gave you a hard time about the dress,” he says quietly. “I was jealous.”
I laugh. “Really? You hid it so well.”
He grins and all is forgiven. No matter how he treats me, no matter how much he jerks me around...I’ll never be able to stay angry at him.
We have the driver take us to the back of the mansion, where the guest cottages are.
Once we get Francesca to her room, I ask Elijah to watch her while I use her shower. I’ll need to borrow clothes from Francesca or her roommate, I guess, since she destroyed the dress. When I emerge in nothing but a towel, Elijah’s gaze drifts over me, head to toe, and then back to the bathroom behind me.
I smile slightly, shaking my head. “We’d have a tough time explaining that if she wakes up. Plusyouhaven’t showered.”
I see him to the door. His gaze rests on my mouth for one very long moment before he leaves.
Fucking Francesca.
When I wakethe next morning in Kelsey’s room, it’s worse outside than it was the night before. The trees are swaying like marsh grass.
I’m pretty sure trees aren’t meant to do that.
I grab my phone to check the weather forecast. Hurricane Mallory is now due to make landfall about an hour west of here. There is no evacuation for New Orleans, but plenty of warnings about flooding and high winds.
“I guess this is why they say not to plan on an outdoor wedding,” yawns Kelsey.
I roll toward her. “You’re really not upset?”
Her eyes glow, and a delighted smile curves her mouth. “We could get married in a parking lot for all I care. I just can’t wait to be his wife.”
A voice in my head says, “But you did so much planning! Where are all the guests going to sit? Where’s the band going to play? You spent so much money on this!”
None of that is helpful, however. Her mind’s been made up, and why would I try to make her less happy with her decision?
The house is in an uproar when I get downstairs. A buffet has been set up in the Boudreauxes’ dining room. Guests attempt to load scrambled eggs and French toast on their plates while staff move furniture to make room for rental tables and chairs.
Bridget has finally given up on convincing Hawk and Kelsey to cancel, so the conversation has turned to the question of where to hold the ceremony instead.
There are two hundred and fifty guests coming, minus any last-minute cancellations, and the only place in the entire house large enough for that many people is possibly the foyer, if people are willing to stand on the staircase and second-floor railing to watch.
