Now it’s almost here. It’s real. And somewhere along the way, it started to matter.
I shove the feeling down where I keep everything else I don’t look at.
The wedding planner’s office is full of fabric samples and place settings. Flower arrangements everywhere. Brochures covering every surface. Photographers. Bands. Venues. Magicians. Hot air balloons.
A petting zoo.
Who the hell wants farm animals at their wedding?
I lower myself into a chair that looks more decorative than functional. It creaks under my weight but holds.
The wedding planner is in her fifties. Drawn-on eyebrows. Practiced smile. Her hairspray is strong enough to make my nose itch from across the desk. But she didn’t blink at the short timeline. Amazing what a fat deposit and the Andretti name can do.
“Welcome. My name is Marjorie, and I can’t wait to make your dream wedding a reality.”
She focuses her attention on Sierra. Smart.
I’ve got nothing to offer this conversation. My mind keeps drifting somewhere it has no business going.
Last night, Sierra above me, gasping my name. Usually, sex clears my head. Lets me move on. Not this time. I woke up wanting her more than before.
She’s different.
She’s become something to me without my permission.
She’s a weakness.
The truth settles heavy in my gut as Marjorie talks about color schemes. I catch maybe every fourth word. Sierra and I agreed to keep things simple before we walked in. This wedding isn’t about us. It’s about putting on a show.
That’s starting to feel like bullshit.
“Is that okay with you?”
Sierra’s turned toward me. Waiting.
I blink. “What?”
The edge in my tone makes her frown. Fuck. I wasn’t snapping at her, just pissed at myself for drifting.
“I asked if you’d mind if I took care of the flowers.” Her fingers twist together. “It’s kind of my thing. I’ve made bouquets for friends for years, and I’d love to handle my own flowers.”
I don’t know why that gets to me. But it does.
She wants this. Not the show. Not the fake marriage to trap Viktor. She wantsthis—the flowers, the cake, the bullshit wedding details that don’t mean a damn thing to me but clearly mean something to her.
Did she ever think about this day? Marrying someone she loved? Having a family?
I’ve never wondered about another person’s hopes before.
My discomfort grows teeth. I shift in the chair, suddenly aware of how wrong I look in this room full of lace and pastels.
I jerk my head in a nod. “Of course.”
Her smile is small, but it’s real. And it does things to me I don’t have time to process.
Marjorie keeps talking. We just need to decide on music and cake today. Lorenzo already chose the venue. A small church in Lone Mountain, nearly a century old, with Red Rock Canyon rising behind it. Beautiful spot. Also sits on five acres of flat land with clear sightlines, which isn’t a coincidence.
Sierra’s family is handling food. Her mother used to cater. After eating one meal at their house, I know it’ll be good.
