“Aiden—”
“I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
I end the call, pocket my phone, and walk inside before I can talk myself out of it.
Warmth hits me the second I cross the threshold. The house smells like cinnamon and pine and a warm spice that’s unmistakably Chloe—like she’s been living in my lungs the last few days.
Phoebe is a blur in the living room, spinning in circles.
“Mom’s a PRINCESS,” she stage-whispers to me, like Chloe can’t hear her from ten feet away.
A faint blush deepens on her cheeks. “You know what, Phoebe? I feel like one,” she answers back in an overly exaggerated whisper.
Chloe spins slowly, the bottom of her dress lifting slightly off the floor, and for one suspended second, she looks like the girl I used to know—before real life carved the edges off us.
Phoebe gasps, then giggles.
I agree, Phoebe.
She stops and smoothes her hair before I feel the unmistakable heat of her gaze on me. Her eyes travel the length of my own clothes, and I suddenly think I’m underdressed.
I don’t know if I even own anything that’ll hold a candle to how she looks.
I pulled on my best jeans. Shined my boots. Then paired a sport coat I dug out of the back of my closet because Abby said, “If you show up like a lumberjack to your own wedding, I will haunt you.”
Chloe’s mouth tips, soft and surprised.
“What?” I ask, glancing down at myself.
“You look…” She clears her throat, cheeks turning an even darker shade of pink. “You look really handsome.”
I adjust the collar of my shirt like it’s suddenly strangling me. “Abby threatened violence.”
“She did something similar to me,” Chloe says, and her fingers brush the lace at her wrist like she’s still negotiating with it. “I didn’t ask for… any of this.”
“You look beautiful,” I murmur.
There’s a light tap on my leg, and I drag my eyes away. Mini-Chloe is peering up at me, with eyes just as evergreen as her mom’s.
“Since you’re getting married, do I keep calling you Mr. Wheeler?” Her brows knit together.
Chloe takes quick, tight steps toward Phoebe, dropping into an impressive crouch. “We talked about this last night, Phoebe.”
Her eyes swing up to mine.Sorry, she mouths.
“Maybe I want to ask him.” Phoebe sighs. “It’s his name, right?”
“You’re too young for this,” she mumbles, raising back into a standing position.
I wish Chloe could tell me how to navigate this. But based on her solemn expression, we’re at the first of many bridges we’ll have to cross in the upcoming year. So I opt for what I’ve already vowed to: honesty.
“What do you want to call me?”
Phoebe hesitates, picking at her chipped purple nail polish. “I’m not really sure.”
This time it’s my turn to crouch at her level. “How about this: you call me whatever you’re comfortable with. You’re probably used to grown-ups telling you all these rules, right?”
She nods, standing a little straighter.
