PROLOGUE
Clover
I’m all dressed up and fully prepared to be left at the altar.
Well, technically the judge’s bench.
“Did he say he would be here?” asks Marianne. “He’s probably just running late.”
My stomach is swimming as I realize this isn’t going to work. Bennett is going to be a no-show, and this absolute Hail Mary is about to sail right past me.
I wipe my sweaty hands against my thighs as I look up to Marianne in her polka-dot wrap dress. My mouth opens to thank her for taking the morning off work even if it was for no reason, when I hear the clicking of shoes. Expensive shoes.
“I’ve got eyes on the groom,” whispers Marianne as she frantically smacks my shoulder.
I turn and there he is, briskly making his way down the hall toward me.
“Don’t call him that,” I tell her. Despite what we’re about to do, I refuse to think of Bennett as my savior.
He wears a fitted navy tux and polished leather dress shoes. The black silk tie matches the lapels of his suit, and his crisp white shirt is simple and makes my mouth dry for reasons I have no plans to explore. My gaze lingers for a moment on his gold bumblebee tie pin. Leave it to Bennett to show me up on my own damn wedding day.
I traded in three of my old Reformation dresses over the weekend at Revived Threads, the secondhand store downtown. The dress I walked away with is a white raw silk shift with a boat neck and little white bows stitched all over in a scattered pattern. The back scoops down a little lower than I’m comfortable with. I also picked up organza wrist gloves and wore my hair in waves, half pulled back with a long, light pink tulle bow that Marianne’s daughter wore when she was inThe Nutcrackerlast December.
I feel silly for dressing up, but he’s practically peacocking down the main corridor of city hall, so I guess this is better than underdressing.
He strides toward where I sit in front of the courtroom. A soft smile—the one that always has people forgiving him before they even know what he’s done wrong—reveals his dimples as he tucks his sunglasses into his breast pocket.
“You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago,” I tell him.
“Weddings never start on time,” he says.
Obviously one of us hasn’t spent the last two years getting paid hourly.
“Well, maybe this one could if the groom were on time.” I wave at his flashy suit. “And this is just the Cannon Beach courthouse. You didn’t have to come dressed as an Armani ad.”
“Tom Ford, actually.” He holds a hand out for me even though I have no intention of taking it. “I’m here now, Clo. You needed me and I’m here, aren’t I?”
I stand up. God, I hate the way he saysneeded. It sounds so pathetic. “Mynameis Clover.”
“Well, Clo is your nickname.”
“Nicknames are reserved for close friends and loved ones.”
He winces slightly but says nothing.
“The flowers are a nice touch,” Marianne tells him, and I’m annoyed with her for even trying to cut the tension. I give her awhose-side-are-you-on-anywaylook, but it’s lost on her because she has been infected by Bennett’s charm and dimples.
“For you,” he says, presenting me with the bouquet of light green hydrangeas framed by eucalyptus leaves, with bright red berries and large peonies scattered throughout. Then I notice the small clusters of green peeking through. “Clover.”
He clears his throat into his fist. “And, uh, those are rowanberries.”
It’s… kind, which feels suspicious. And it makes the fact that this day is probably nothing either of us expected when we imagined our future weddings that much worse. I’m frustrated with him for trying to make this anything more than what it is: a means to an end. “Thank you, Bennett. This—you didn’t have to do this.”
“It’s nothing.” He brushes the palm of his hand up the back of his head, and my fingers tingle a little at the thought of what the short, prickly hairs might feel like against my fingertips.
What the hell is wrong with me? He walks in here with a suit and flowers and suddenly I’m thinking about touching his hair full of overpriced products.
The three of us wait in the courtroom, watching a few other couples in front of us take the plunge. It’s impossible to ignore the bouncing of Bennett’s leg, and I think for far too long about whether I should reach over to still it. By the time I decide that I should, the clerk calls our names.
