Marjorie hands us a QR code for bands. Six available on short notice. I’ll do two dances. One with Sierra. One with my mother. Then I’m off that floor.
Marjorie shakes our hands and tells us she’s thrilled to be part of our special day. I manage not to grunt at that. In the truck, Sierra gives me the bakery address so we can sample wedding cakes.
“White cake,” Sierra quips as we pull into traffic. “I’ve always loved wedding cake. It’s so fluffy and perfect.”
I glance at her. She’s excited. Genuinely excited.
And I’m wondering if a better man would share that excitement. If she wishes she had someone who gave a shit about cake flavors and floral arrangements instead of a grumpy enforcer who’d rather be anywhere else.
Not that Iwantto be anywhere else.
The thought of another man sitting next to her, planning to marry her, makes my hands tighten on the wheel.
I’m not worthy of this. But I’ll be damned if I let anyone take her away from me.
At the bakery, the samples come out. White cake with lemon curd. Chocolate with raspberry. Red velvet with cream cheese. I try them, but don’t say much. I don’t have a sweet tooth, but I don’t want to kill the light in her eyes.
She’s practically glowing.
I’m stiff. Distant. And I don’t know how to fix the war in my chest.
Duty. Desire. Feeling inadequate while wanting to be more.
All because of this woman holding out a fork with cake on it, looking at me like this moment matters.
She looks happy.
I try to remember feeling that way. Maybe as a kid. Before.
The walls of this place are too close. The lights are too bright. The sweetness in the air is cloying, and I can’t quite catch my breath.
I need space.
“I need some air.” I stand. “Pick whatever you want.”
I curse myself as I walk out. So much for being better.
Outside, I light a cigarette and lean against the wall. The smoke takes the edge off.
I like her. That’s the problem.
I’m not a good person. Thinking about the difference between her and me makes me want to put my fist through brick.
Two women walk past. One eyes my cigarette with disgust. I smirk back. Once they’re inside, I crush the rest under my boot.
Before I can head back in, the door opens and Sierra steps out, but she’s not pissed. She’sconcerned.
My sunshine.
“So.” She leans against the wall beside me. “Was it the red velvet that broke you, or the thought of picking napkin colors?”
I grunt.
Her teasing fades. “Seriously, though. You okay?”
I give a quick shrug. “I’m fine. Just needed a smoke.”
She doesn’t say anything about the habit, but I see the flicker of disapproval in her eyes. I tell myself I don’t care.
