Page 107 of Autumn on My Mind

He hums skeptically, tucking his hands in his pockets and giving my dress a pointed look. Then his lips twitch.

“Get in the truck,” he says, jerking his chin at the Ford. “Unless you want to walk in those heels.” After a pause, he adds, “Or unless you want me to carry you again.”

I get in the truck—while chastising myself for wondering how it would feel to be cradled in Dom’s arms once more.

It would feel the same way it always does: uncomfortable and full of worries about being dropped.

What about wonderful? my stupid brain adds. You forgot wonderful.

“Calm down,” I mutter as I buckle my seatbelt.

Dom looks over at me, raising his eyebrows. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. Then, to change the subject, I add, “You look nice.”

It’s true. He’s wearing a blue button-up shirt with tan pants—are they khaki? Is there a difference between tan pants and khaki pants?—and there’s not a smudge of dirt or grease or oil to be found. He smells like himself today, not like nutmeg, and I find myself torn about that.

His fresh, wood-shavings scent is always warm and appealing and comforting. But there’s something undeniably sexy about smelling myself on him, like we’ve been⁠—

“Berkeley? Your face is really red.”

“It is, isn’t it?” I agree in a strained voice, rolling down the window of the truck and kicking myself. My mind is clearly addled today. “I’m fine. Just need some air.”

Dom rolls his window down too, and for a moment, it feels like old times—driving with our windows down, music blasting, young and carefree and grasping life everywhere we could find it. I look over at him, his elbow propped carelessly out the window, his hand lazy on the steering wheel.

So many things have changed. But so many haven’t. And the more I see of Dom, the more my feelings try to sneak in his direction, subtle steps and occasional leaps.

Perfect mindset for a wedding, I’m sure. Watching other people be lovey-dovey and soaking up an atmosphere tailored for romance, all while my mind and my heart tangle themselves into knots.

The wedding is lovely, though, internal debates and all. Dom and I sit together for the ceremony and then later at the reception, and we both grin when we see Ben and Maven there, hand in hand and very much not divorced.

“Glad they got that figured out,” I say to Dom from where we’re seated at a table next to the wall of the tent—a soaring white affair, perfect for the occasion.

Dom nods, his eyes on them. “Me too.” Then he glances at the empty plate in front of me, scattered with crumbs. “You done?” he says. “Or do you want more?”

“I think I’m done,” I say. “Good cake, though.”

“It was.” Reaching over, he says, “I’ll throw these away. Do you want a drink?”

He makes the offer so casually that I accept. “I’d take a cup of water. Thanks.”

Since weddings are ideal for people-watching, I take in the crowd while Dom is gone. The Ednas and their husbands are here, of course, and I spot Liv and Tate sitting together. I look back and forth between them, and when Liv meets my eye, I give her a knowing smile. Her cheeks turn red, and I laugh.

I look around for Dom for a few seconds and then back to Liv, only to see her leaving her seat by Tate; so I turn my eyes back to the table in front of me, drumming my fingers and smoothing my dress.

When Dominic finally returns, I breathe a sigh of relief. There’s something vulnerable about sitting at a table by yourself, especially when half the town is present and sure to notice. He appears over my shoulder, and I turn toward him.

He’s still looking stupidly handsome.

“Here.” He passes me a cup of water, and I smile up at him.

“Thank you.”

“No prob—” But he breaks off as the music changes, his brows jumping at the gentle strain of melody that begins to float through the air.

And I know exactly why he’s stopped talking. Because for the second time in as many weeks, I recognize the song playing as the one I’ll always associate with our love: “If,” by Bread.

My gaze searches the space until it lands on Ari and Liv, who sure enough are watching Dom and I with a little smile. I narrow my eyes at them, but they shrug and give me looks of grinning apology—as though to say Sorry, but you should at least dance.