It’s the same thing she asked me when meeting with Andrea, and I’m ready to give her the exact same answer when she points at me sternly.
“And don’t give me that crap about you never being in my shoes. I know about your wedding wish list, remember? I know you’ve dreamed about it even if you want to deny it.”
I clamp my mouth shut. To be fair, she’s right. I have dreamed about my own wedding forever. Of course I have my cake picked out.
I haveeverythingpicked out. A few times over, even.
“Well, for a summer wedding”—mine wouldn’t be, I’d get married in the fall—“I would do something fruity but not overwhelmingly so. Something light and airy yet yummy.”
“What do you have on your list?”
My eyes go to my bag, where the list is tucked safely into the back of the notebook I have inside it.
“Lemon raspberry with a Swiss buttercream,” I tell her, looking back her way.
“And for a nonsummer wedding?” she asks with a glint in her eye, like she’s trying to prove a point.
“Apricot spice with cream cheese.”
She grins. “That sounds lovely. And for your flowers?”
Dahlias, gerbera daisies, roses, hops, and celosia in mauves, burnt oranges, and terra-cotta.
But I don’t tell her that. Instead, I say, “This isn’t my wedding, Iz. It’s yours, soyouneed to decide whatyouwant.”
She huffs. “But it’s so damn hard.”
The little bell over the door to the bakery chimes, and I know who walks through the door before I even look over.
I don’t know how I know it, but I do. I can feel it in every cell of my body.
Which is why I’m not surprised when Izzy’s face lights up.
“Noah!” she calls to him. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes widen when they land on me, and I pray Izzy doesn’t notice.
It’s the first time we’ve been together with her since we started ... well, beingtogether. It’s strange, yet not, and I’m not sure if I should be unsettled by that.
While I know I should tell my best friend what’s going on with her brother, it won’t last, so what’s the point? No point in bringing it up and freaking her out, especially not when she already has so much on her plate with the wedding.
“I’m, uh, grabbing some cupcakes,” he answers, shoving his hands into his pockets and dragging his eyes away from me and to his sister.
“You are? Since when did you develop a sweet tooth?” Izzy asks.
I shift in my chair, remembering the other night in his truck. The ice cream I licked off myself. The words he uttered later, when he told me how cotton candy might be his new favorite flavor as he bent me over his couch, unable to make it to his bedroom.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Can’t a guy buy a damn cupcake without getting asked a million questions?”
Izzy holds her hands up. “Sorry, sorry. But now that you’re here ...” She kicks out the third chair that Sybill abandoned a while ago while we make final decisions. “Can you help us decide which one to choose? We can’t pick between the triple-chocolate cherry and the vanilla with orange mousse.”
Our eyes meet, and I know he’s remembering our discussion about my feelings on vanilla.
I expect him to argue or make up an excuse as to why he can’t join us, but to my surprise, he drops into the chair next to me, his thick, strong thigh settling alongside mine.
I could move. I could give him more space to stretch out.
I don’t, and I have a feeling he wouldn’t want me to anyway.
