The redhead doing my makeup does a double take. Her lashes flutter.
“Excuse the interruption.” He casts me a tight smile. “The license is here. All we need is your signature, and then the American officiant will legalize everything immediately following the ceremony.” He places a form on the table in front of me and holds out a pen.
He’s already signed it.
Roman explained this to me before. We can’t legally be married in France since we aren’t citizens, so we’re having a simultaneous remote ceremony to make this one legal. “Oh, uh, they’re painting my nails. I’ll sign it when they’re dry.”
He frowns. “This is important. They will fix any damage to your manicure.” He clears his throat.
The nail tech stops painting and releases my hand. Everyone stops. Esther is still holding the steamer, but it’s nowhere near the dress. The man behind me stops working on my hair. Just like that, everyone is staring at the license and holding absolutely still.
What. The. Fuck.
I carefully raise the pen between my half-painted fingers. Roman smiles and gives me a little nod of encouragement. It’s intimidating as hell. I slide a teasing smile his way, pen hovering over the signature line. “Haven’t you ever heard that it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?”
The corners of his mouth bend higher, but his dark eyes don’t twinkle with the smile. “Then it’s a good thing neither one of us believes in luck.”
“Right.” On our first date, Roman admittedthat he liked my Alex Rogue character because she didn’t believe in luck or magic. Like Hercule Poirot, the character is governed by logic and deduction. I guess Roman believes I share that personality trait with Alex, but the truth is, she’s entirely fictional. As childish as it may be, I do think that luck and magic exist in this world, and I find myself sad that I’m marrying a man who doesn’t. “Are you nervous at all about today?”
He glances down at the license and sighs as if annoyed I haven’t signed it yet. “Of course not.”
I wait for him to ask me if I’m nervous, but he doesn’t. Just glances between me and the license while the room grows uncomfortably quiet again. Although he doesn’t actually say anything, the message is clear in the set of his shoulders, the way he hovers over me, the weight of expectation hanging in the air. Immediate compliance is expected. I get the distinct impression I’m the first person to make him wait for anything.
Why am I hesitating? Christ, I’m about to walk down the aisle and exchange rings with this man in front of a garden full of guests. Why should the legal documentation of what’s about to occur feel oppressive?
“Fiona?” He takes a step closer. “Is there a problem?”
I glance up at him.Yes, of course there’s a problem. I’m having an existential crisis around our upcoming nuptials. “No.” I chuckle. “I must need another coffee.”
I scroll a sloppy signature on the line and hand the form back to him.
He gives me a small nod of acknowledgment, then kisses me on the forehead. “There. Easy enough.” He winks. “Meet you at the altar.”
He starts to leave, but then I remember something I’ve been meaning to ask him. “Has your father arrived? I thought maybe I could ask him to walk me down the aisle considering…” Considering I’m an orphan whose only family recently died in a terrible accident.
His expression softens. “What a wonderful idea. Unfortunately, his flight is delayed. I’m not sure he’ll make it by the start of the ceremony.”
“Oh! Maybe we should push back the wedding. You can’t get married without your family here.” Our small guest list is mostly his friends and relations, but I can’t imagine he’d want to move forward without his only living parent.
His smile falters, his jaw tensing. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The officiant is on a tight schedule. Besides, my father has been married twice. He knows how this works.” He gives a dark laugh.
Roman slips out the door, and it’s like the entire staff breathes a sigh of relief. Everyone starts talking again.
Esther turns to me. “You must be a very strong woman to have landed such a man.”
I chuckle as the man beside me starts painting my nails again. “Yeah… Strong.”
Two hours later,I find myself standing in the outdoor gardens at the end of an aisle the staff has created between rows of white chairs. I cling to the handle of my bouquet to distract myself from the itch that runs the length of my body. I itch like a kid with chicken pox. Mydress is some kind of scratchy couture, sewn together by the devil himself to torment my flesh like nothing else I’ve ever worn.
It’s a beautiful, sunny day with miles of blue sky. Blush-colored roses, freesia, and calla lilies cascade from pedestals at the end of each row of chairs, and more blooms line the altar. It’s too early for this garden to be in bloom, but you’d never know it from the topiaries and large planters surrounding me. I can’t even fathom how much it must have cost to ship all of these in and set them up here.
I wiggle, wondering if the heaviness in my stomach is nerves or dread. Maybe it’s a little of both. Every bride gets cold feet I suppose. Giving in, I scratch my neck. It doesn’t help. Out of habit, I feel for my crucifix, then remember that Esther removed it from my neck because it showed through the dress.
Swallowed in a monstrosity of lace and wearing shoes that pinch my feet, I try my best to stay in the moment, but my painfully tight bun is making my head pound. As beautiful as the flowers are, the scent is cloying, almost suffocating, and I breathe through my mouth to keep from getting sick. Or maybe it’s not the flowers or the hair or the dress. My stomach sinks again, a growing knot in my gut telling me this is wrong.
Vivian chooses that moment to appear beside me in a gorgeous lilac mermaid dress. Her eyes widen when she sees my face. She knows. She knows she was right yesterday. I am standing at the head of the aisle on what should be the happiest day of my life, thinking aboutrunning. Thinking about calling the whole damn thing off.
“Fiona?” she whispers. “Take a deep breath.”
