THIRTY-SEVEN
CLARA
Wes.
In a tuxedo.
I blinked. He was just ... there. Black jacket, white shirt, dark tie, large broad shoulders filling out the fabric like it had been tailored for him alone. A breeze off the lake ruffled his hair. Late-afternoon light cut along the strong line of his jaw, and my eyes burned. He was solid and strong and waiting.
My brain tried to reject the image as some kind of stress-induced hallucination. Wes did not do crowds or attention. He certainly did not do cameras. Wes did not put on formal wear and stand under a decorated tree on purpose.
My heart took off at a dead sprint.
Cal cut the engine, and the sudden quiet made the blood rushing in my ears louder.
I was still staring when he lifted his chin, his mouth curving into a soft, devastating grin.
“Guess the groom problem sorted itself out.” Cal winked as he climbed out of the ATV and made his way over to my side.
A hysterical bubble of something—laughter, maybe, or a sob—hit the back of my throat. “That’s Wes.”
“I know who it is.” Cal smiled. His eyes were kind and uncharacteristically twinkly. “You good?”
That was an impossible question.
“No,” I said honestly. “Yes. I don’t know.”
His boots crunched in the snow as he tried to tame the skirt of my dress. When he offered me his hand, I clung to it like it was the only stable thing in a world that had suddenly tilted.
The skirt of the dress fought me, layers of tulle and lace catching on the edge of the side-by-side. Cal untangled me with careful patience. Once I was upright, he squeezed my fingers.
“You got this,” he murmured. “I’ll hang back.”
Then he stepped away, retreating toward the photographer, who was staring between me and Wes with a wide smile. She lifted her camera.
I could feel everyone watching. Cal joined Elodie, who stood off to the side, by the barn. Some staff were near the path, a couple of curious farmhands pretending to check on something. The whole scene shimmered like a movie set: snow glowing blue white, lights in the oak tree blinking steadily, breath fogging in the cold.
I was frozen in place.
Wes’s gaze found mine, like maybe it had never really left, and the rest of the world dropped out of focus. His shoulders squared. His expression shifted, and his lips formed a determined line. He stepped toward me.
“Clara,” he said, just loud enough to carry.
My name in his voice did something awful and wonderful to my rib cage.
His feet took one step. Then another. I moved forward, drawn to him by an invisible tether. The dress rustled around my legs. Halfway down the makeshift aisle, the slow, careful walk turned into something else. My body chose for me.
I ran.
The skirt bunched in my hands, lace fluttering around my boots as I closed the distance in a rush of cold air and thudding heartbeat. I heard the photographer’s shutter pick up speed, quick, stunned clicks like distant applause.
I barreled to a stop right in front of him, breathless and shaky and so full I might crack.
Up close, the tux was even more obscene. The jacket hugged his frame, the white shirt made his tan skin glow, and his eyes—bright and earnest—were pinned on me like there was no one else in the county.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
Tears stung my eyes. “You’re in a tux.”
