I fold my hands in my lap, but my palms are growing clammy. “Who’s going to marry us now? Is the magistrate coming?”
“Nah. Not in their job description,” Dex says. “Bridger found someone online.”
“Like a minister?” I swallow past what feels like a wad of bubble gum lodged in my throat. “I assumed we’d be reciting vows to some government official. But I can’t”—my voice drops to a whisper—“I can’t lie to God.”
“I’m pretty sure the lady’s not a minister,” Dex says.
Pretty sure.
We fall quiet, and I chew my lip, as the driver eases our limo onto the long, winding road that ends at Harvest Farms. When their sign rises in the distance, my heart squeezes. I’ve always loved this place. Their corn maze and pumpkin patch are iconic in the fall. So is their Christmas tree farm in the winter. They sell fresh flowers and vegetables in the springtime. Now I’m here for a summer wedding. My wedding. My idea.
What were you thinking?
I swore I’d never endure another engagement, let alone a marriage. And yet, I’m about to be somebody’s wife. Not just anyone. My dear friend. One I absolutely can’t afford to lose if things get messy. A small swell of panic rises in me.
Don’t let things get messy, Loren.
“There they are,” Dex says, nodding out the back window, and I turn toward the glass. At the edge of the pasture, beside a cluster of trees, is an archway completely decked out with roses and lilies. White ribbons ripple in the breeze.
“That looks a little romantic,” I say.
“It sure does,” Sayla agrees.
There’s a woman I don’t recognize with a halo of puffy white hair. She’s wearing a blue pantsuit and clutching a sheafof loose paper. Next to her, Bridger faces the road in a traditional black tuxedo. He’s shielding his eyes from the midday sun, watching for cars.
The groom, waiting for his bride.
And for the second time in three days, I feel like I might faint.
I don’t faint.
That’s the good news.
But this entire scene isn’tjustromantic. It’s an absolute dream-worthy setup, complete with a white satin runner that leads to Bridger, who looks wedding-cake-topper perfect.
We’re talking celebrity-levels of gorgeousness. LikePeoplemagazine’s Sexiest-Man-Alive status. No offense, Lincoln James, but Bill Nye Science Guy blows you right out of the water. And yet, I’m definitely not supposed to see my friend in that way.
Your husband-friend.
While the driver helps me climb out of the limo, Dex collects a set of portable speakers, then he pulls a tripod from the back.
“I think Sayla can just hold her phone,” I tell him, a bit breathless.
“Nope. Not for the ceremony,” he says. “The matron of honor needs her hands free.”
Sayla produces two bouquets of pink peonies and passes one to me. Then she smiles.
Yep. I amdefinitelybreathless.
As the two of them arrange their equipment, I wait at the end of the runner, fidgeting. Alone. I shift my weight, fluff my skirts, fiddle with my flowers. Then something sharp pokes at my ribs. Not an actual pin prick. A feeling.
My dad’s not here to walk me down the aisle.
Oh.
I press a hand to my heart.
It’s what we’d planned, of course. Bridger and I decided this was for the best. Still, as I wait for our friends to join him under the archway, I just want to be down there already, with them.