Page 13 of Wedding or Not

“We do. All our lives.” I slant him a look.

He’s shaking his head at me. Then, in a wry gesture, he scoots his chair to the side so there’s a little more distance between us.

Laughter spills out of me, and it’s genuine. Something about the look on his face.

When the orchestra starts up, we settle in to listen.

I’m dying to check my phone to see if anyone filmed and posted about us, but I don’t dare.

Instead, I sit for a couple of hours next to Wes and try to focus on the music.

But mostly I’m thinking about Blossom Park.

And a little bit thinking about Wes.

CHAPTER 4

The following morning is Saturday, and I walk over to Jake’s cottage at just after nine to discuss spending estimates for the upcoming quarter.

At my knock, he calls out, “Come on in” with his gruff voice, and I let myself in.

The cottage we assigned to Jake and his wife, Holly, who died four years ago, is set up exactly like the one I now live in with Audrey and Natalie. There’s a comfortable main room with a kitchen, living area, and dining space, plus two bedrooms on the ground floor and a spacious loft above them. The finishes are updated but rustic—hardwood floors, painted cabinets, butcher-block countertops—and the overall feel is cozy but not cluttered.

We’ve decorated our cottage with florals and pretty shades of pink and taupe, but Jake’s place is mostly beige walls, brown furniture, and no adornments except framed family photos.

Aunt Grace made muffins earlier and packed up a basket for him, so I carry it to the kitchen table where he’s sitting with a cup of coffee and the paper newspaper he still gets delivered every morning.

“Mornin’, Ella. Take a seat. You want some coffee? Wes, bring her some coffee!”

I give a slight jerk as I glance over to the kitchen to see Wes is indeed present, looking uncharacteristically relaxed in old sweats, a T-shirt from our old high school that’s now a bit too small for him, and rumpled hair.

“Oh” is my brilliant response to the sight of him.

“Oh,” he says in a wryly amused tone as he grabs another mug from the hooks along the backsplash and pours coffee into it. “Surprised to see me?”

“I just thought you’d be working.”

“It’s Saturday.”

That is true. I’ve never actively investigated his work habits, but I’m under the impression he pretty much works all the time.

“He works Saturdays too,” Jake says, still focused on his newspaper. “I keep telling him work won’t love him back.”

“I only work on Saturdays when there’s something that needs doing.” Wes pulls the half-and-half from the refrigerator without asking how I like my coffee and adds a tiny amount. “All I’ve got today is to help Dad with this stuff.”

“I don’t need help,” Jake mutters. “I’ve been doing this crap for years.”

He has. For as long as I’ve been alive, Jake has handled almost all the grounds work—supervising the staff, managing the budget, taking care of all the upkeep and repairs in the buildings and gardens. But he’s still up at dawn every morning with a mower or chainsaw or drill, tackling various projects himself.

“I know, I know.” Wes is carrying his and my coffees to the table. “You don’t need my help, but I like to pretend to be useful anyway.”

I’ve already had two cups of coffee this morning, but I wouldn’t dream of objecting to the mug set in front of me. I murmur thanks as Wes takes the chair next to his father.

Both Wes and Jake reach into the basket of Grace’s fresh muffins simultaneously to claim one.

“Mmm,” Jake says over a bite.

“Tell Grace thanks,” Wes adds.