“I guess so,” she says.
I adjust in my seat, tightening my grip on the steering wheel.
“What if we just let it ride? No performing.”
“So,” she pauses on a soft inhale, “you mean, pretend it’s real?”
“It is real, Chloe. I might not have dropped to one knee, and we might not have dated in a decade.” Which is a regret that sits square in my chest in the moment. “But you’re a bride today. You’re stunning, and it would be a shame to let someone else have these moments.”
She’s quiet for a stretch, and I wonder if I’ve said too much. Then she extends her hand, palm up, in my direction.
I should be ashamed of the way I grab it, with zero hesitation.
“I propose an adjustment to the rules, or whatever we’re calling them,” she says.
I chuckle and nod. “I’m listening.”
“The lawyers get the paperwork, but the wedding is for us,” she whispers.
It’s more than I could’ve hoped for, under the best circumstances. So I’ll take it, greedily, and with even less hesitation than I grabbed her hand.
“Seconded.”
I don’t miss the flash of a smile, before she tucks it away again.
We ride in comfortable silence until the Buttercup & Bloom Café sign appears. I pull into a spot by the door.
This is really happening.
In a few signatures, the trust is unlocked, the state gets its money, and the farm gets one more shot at survival.
But I’m also marrying the girl I’ve always dreamed of.
“You ready?” I ask.
She exhales. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
I circle to open her door. She lets me, which makes me grin.
“Watch your step—icy spots.”
“Thanks,” she says, gripping my hand as she maneuvers out of the truck with her dress. “Don’t want another repeat of the tree-farm incident.”
“I think this pavement would hurt worse than dirt.”
“The lovebirds are here!” Harper rushes out, her red hair piled on top of her head. “You’re in such luck! Did you know that snow on your wedding day means fertility and prosperity?”
I practically blanch.
“I think we’ll both take prosperity and be fine with it,” Chloe says, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Oh, please. You’ll have the cutest babies. Now get in here.” She waves us inside.
Bells tinkle as we enter; florals and warm pastry scent the air. The place is quirky and bright—Edison bulbs, café tables, greenery everywhere. I grab a menu to browse because I’m suddenly starving. It’s chock-full of pumpkin breads, cranberry-brie tarts, hibiscus shortbread, and rose white hot chocolate.
“Thanks for doing this on such short notice, Harper,” Chloe says.
“Happy to do it,” she says. I think if a person could shine from happiness, Harper might be a living, breathing example. “Hey, Aiden—Madison and Colton will probably be coming to see you soon—Sugar Plum Inn needs all things Christmas-related.”
