Her lips part slightly, and her gaze drops to my mouth. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to kiss her, and that's exactly the problem. I inch back, clearing my throat.
"We should head back. The florists will arrive soon."
She blinks as if snapping out of it, then nods. "Right. Yeah. Let’s head back."
21
LIV
Istep back to assess our progress, brushing dirt from my hands as I survey the metal frame that Marcus delivered an hour ago. The basic structure is elegant—wrought iron with delicate scrollwork. Now, with layers of ivy and wild grape vines woven through the metalwork, it's starting to look beautiful.
"Can you hand me that longer piece of ivy?" I call to Blair, who's standing on a stepladder. "The one to your left."
She passes it down, and I wind it around the base of the arch, stepping back periodically to check the overall effect. Behind us, the two florists are working at one of the round tables. They've halved the watermelons and are inserting white roses and greenery directly into the bright red flesh. The fruit holds the stems in place while keeping them hydrated—a trick I learned from a sustainability-focused wedding I planned last year.
"Those are going to be lovely," I say, watching one of the florists add the final touches to a centerpiece. "Especially when we add the lights."
The battery-powered string lights I sent Marcus to find will go inside each centerpiece, creating a soft glow over the table.They’re not the candelabras Emma originally planned, but it's certainly romantic.
Blair stretches to reach the highest point of the arch, her white t-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of tanned skin above her sweatpants. I catch myself staring and quickly look away.
Was I imagining things earlier, or did we almost kiss? I could have sworn she was leaning closer. I wanted her to. Even lingering embarrassment from last night can't take away that physical pull. I'm sober and I still want to sleep with her. It's not wine-fueled desperation now—it's a clear-headed attraction that I can't seem to shake.
Sex. That's all I want. Like an itch I need to scratch.
"Can I ask you something?" Blair's voice comes from above me.
I nod, continuing to weave ivy through the lower section of the arch. "Anything."
"Why weren't you Emma's wedding planner in the first place?"
The question stops me mid-motion. I've been anticipating this conversation, knowing it would come up eventually. My hands still on the vine as I meet her eyes, and for a moment I consider giving her the easy answer—too busy, couldn't get away from work, scheduling conflicts. All technically true, but not the whole truth. I hesitate for a beat too long, and she notices. Blair seems to notice a lot.
"Between you and me, I don't believe in marriage," I finally say.
She frowns. "But you're a wedding planner."
"Yeah, but it's just a business for me." I shrug. "And for most of my clients, it's often not much more than a transaction either. Sure, sometimes there's real love involved, but even love is often an illusion. People get caught up in the romance, the fantasy, the idea of forever. But statistics don't lie."
Blair climbs down from the ladder and regards me. "Are you saying you don't believe in love either?"
"Don't tell anyone. I don't think it would do my reputation much good if people knew that." I let out a sigh. "Look, Emma has fallen into the trap of marriage, and I struggle to support that. I would never tell her as much—I was always going to be here with a smile—but to orchestrate it, to actually organize it, that was just a step too far for me. Because she's my sister, and I love her."
"But she seems genuinely happy with David," Blair says.
"Yeah, well, fifty percent of marriages end in divorce and the average marriage lasts eight years. And those are just the people who actually get divorced. How many couples stay together out of convenience, fear, or financial necessity while being miserable?"
I'm hiding behind numbers because they're safer than emotions. But Blair isn't buying it. She's watching me with those perceptive brown eyes, and I can see her putting pieces together.
"She hurt you, didn't she?" she says softly. "Andy?"
The blood drains from my face so fast that for a moment I can't breathe. "How do you know about Andy? Did Emma tell you?"
"No," Blair says. "You did. Last night. You cried."
Fuck. The missing pieces of last night finally slot into place. I mentioned Andy. While drunk and half-naked and throwing myself at Blair, I brought up the one person I never, ever talk about.
"I don't remember that," I lie, turning away from her, my hands shaking as I focus on the arch with renewed intensity.
