Or it would be.
If this were real.
Chapter 17
Dane
The minute Amanda’s text message lands, I’m done trying to work for the day.
The accompanying message says she’s excited that her mom and my sister and cousin are getting along, but I can barely look at the three women who are supposed to be the subject of the photo for getting stuck staring at the reflection Amanda got of herself in the mirror too.
Wearing a wedding dress.
And not just any wedding dress, but a dress that matches her ring and makes her look like a winter princess.
No, a winterqueen.
I zoom in on the reflection, studying the way her eyes look misty, the way curls are once again falling out of her bun to frame her face, the way the dress hugs her breasts and caresses her shoulders, how it wraps around her as if it was made for her and her alone.
She’d make a fucking beautiful bride.
But she won’t be mine.
So I text back a quickgreat news, I’ll work on my dad, and then I do just that.
He wants help with some last-minute arrangements for my grandparents’ anniversary party this weekend.
And I need to bring every ounce of game that I have if I’m going to keep up this ruse solo.
I snort to myself as Chili and I head across town to meet him at the banquet hall.
All I really need to do is picture Amanda in her wedding dress, and I’ll look like a lovestruck fool.
Dad’s inside the banquet hall talking to the caterer when we arrive. Grandma’s with him. I kiss her cheek, then give him a hug, and then they loop me in on the final decisions that have to be made.
Grandma and Dad argue over table layouts—I take Dad’s side—and the location of the photo albums—I take Grandma’s side—and then about a last-minute substitution for the broccoli salad, since there’s apparently a nationwide shortage of broccoli suddenly.
I take the caterer’s side on that one, with a very pointed clearing of my throat and accompanying glare, mostly because Grandma starts to say something aboutthose Andersons probably took the last of it.
Finally, everything’s settled.
But as we’re about to leave to visit the florist for final approval on the centerpieces, the caterer grins at me. “And then you’re next,” he says.
Is it possible to grimace and smile like a lovestruck fool at the same time?
That’s what I feel like I’m doing.
“Everything’s so last minute that we’re asking anyone who wants to come to the wedding to bring their own picnic dinner,” I tell him.
“Smart, smart ... if you want a backup location in case of rain, we’re keeping Monday open here. Not that we usually book up on Mondays this time of year, but we’re still keeping it open for you.”
There’s no good answer beyond “Thank you,” so that’s what I say.
He slides a look at Grandma, who’s gone stone faced, then at Dad, who’s poker faced, before pulling his shoulders back and looking at me. “And good for you for fighting for who you love. Can’t be easy. The town’s behind you.”
“His family’s behind him too,” Dad says quickly, angling away from Grandma.
“It would be nice if we knewwhyour families dislike each other so much,” I say.
