I. Don’t. Care.
As I deliver her to the table, Fran trots over and shoves something in Morgan’s hand. “I think you need this, dear.” She points at Morgan’s face. “Concealer for the bags under your eyes.”
Morgan’s mouth falls open, and the little bottle shakes in her hand. But before she can say anything, Fran flits away across the stone patio, balancing like a pro on her spiked heels.
Horrible woman. Morgan’s cheeks have pinked, and I swipe the bottle from her. “Give me that. You’re the most beautiful girl here. And for the record, I liked your hair yesterday.”
Yikes. The words have left my mouth and are out there between us.
Morgan’s eyebrows shoot high on her forehead.
My mouth hangs open as if I could breathe the words back in. I shrug and pocket the bottle. “She’s the worst.”
The corners of Morgan’s mouth lift. “She really is…and, um, thank you.”
I bolt away the second she sits. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?
I blame Fran for being so blunt. I was protecting Morgan. That’s all. We’re friends. Sort of.
I hiss out a breath, grab a pitcher of fresh orange juice, and make the rounds, filling glasses upon request as the other groomsmen usher the rest of the ladies.
Matt seats Ava next to Morgan, and when I top off their juice glasses, Ava says, “Wow, Will. Looking sharp.”
“Thanks.” My chest puffs. Morgan’s watching me again, smiling again. I continue around the table. But the phone call plagues me, and Morgan’s words—longer than I would have liked—play, stuck on repeat.
Then Fran calls us groomsmen back into The Meeting House, where we take trays from the bewildered kitchen staff who can’t be used to guests bringing their own suit-clad servers.
Balancing plates of quiche and fruit, I ferry them to the long table.
As I pass behind Morgan’s chair, Ava tilts her way. “He said he wants to see you? What did you say?”
I slow. But they lower their voices, and I must continue to the other end of the table.
Maybe they’re not even talking abouthim. But, then again, perhaps this is the answer to my question. That phone call went well, and she wouldn’t be talking about seeing him if she wasn’t thinking about it.
A squeal arises from Fran, who’s standing at the head of the table. All heads turn her way. “Look who made it!”
She rushes to the gate to let in another woman about her age. They hug, and Fran leads her to the table. “Everyone, this is one of my dear friends, Karen Pax. I wasn’t sure she could make it, but here she is.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t miss it, honey,” the woman drawls in her thick country accent.
“We? Did you bring a date?”
“No, no. Leo insisted on joining me. The dear. He didn’t want me to have to come alone.”
Did she say Leo?
Morgan’s eyes are wide, but she’s not looking at Mrs. Pax. She’s looking toward the parking lot.
A tall, good-looking blond about our age stands in the gravel near her car. He waves and leans against the door like he owns it. Behind him, the faded remnants of blue ICEE are barely visible. With a dimpled grin, he points at it and mouths, “What is that?”
She shrugs and waves back.
If I wasn’t sure before, I’m sure now.Here’smy answer.
I grind my teeth, annoyed with Hudson for pushing me toward her. I chuck the concealer in the garbage and head for the gate.
It’s time for me to clock out.
