So easily she didn’t want to think about it. “Ninety is…high. I don’t think you can get to ninety.”
“We’re already at eighty-five, Mer, and you know it.”
She laughed at the verbal game. “Yeah…but ninety percent certainty for a kiss.”
“Eighty-six?” He slid his hand from her shoulder to under her hair, making chills dance under his touch. “Eighty-seven?” He threaded his fingers in her hair and brought her a millimeter closer. “Eighty-eight?”
She tried to breathe—really worked at something that should be natural—but all the air was stuck in her lungs.
He leaned down, their faces mere inches apart. “Eighty-nine?”
She felt his breath on her lips.
“And ninety,” he whispered, closing the last bit of space so that their mouths finally touched.
The breathless, heady, intimate moment made her dizzy as she closed her eyes and kissed him back. A beautiful kiss. An innocent, sweet, so long overdue kiss.
He broke the contact but then pecked lightly again as if still hungry for more. “Confession? I’ve been at a hundred for a while.”
The admission cracked something inside of her—a wall, a fear, a doubt—and she lifted both arms around his neck and pulled him back to her. This kiss was more intense and tasted like spearmint and surrender in a half-built room that smelled like wood shavings and joint paste.
He made a sound of surprise that lasted about half a second before his good arm came around her waist and drew her against him, the two of them suspended for a few seconds that felt endless and wonderful.
When they eased apart, the last of the sunset was bleeding through the open trusses above them, painting the raw lumber in shades of pink and gold.
“A hundred,” she breathed on a sigh. “That’s…a lot.”
“You with me?” He stroked her jaw with his thumb.
She let her eyes close. “Getting there.”
He dropped his forehead against hers. “Then there’s only one thing to do.”
“What?” she asked, not sure how fast or how far he would take this.
“We build our case, kick Vance to the curb, save the day, and then…” He kissed her nose and lightly turned her face to the golden glow of the sky. “Ride off into the sunset together.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or melt into his arms, so she did both.
The trio was perfect.
Two guitars and a cello, playing on a tiny stage in a café called Salt & Sound that Kate hadn’t known existed until Tessa declared the band as “the only option” for her wedding music. The guitarists were young, sun-bleached and effortlessly cool, and the cello player looked like he’d stepped out of a smoky New Orleans jazz club in the 1970s. They played a mix of acoustic covers and originals that would delight guests of all ages.
Tessa was enchanted, listening intently to every note. “These guys are exactly what I want. Can you hear that on the beach at golden hour? The cello with the waves?”
“It’s beautiful,” Vivien agreed, swaying slightly to a rendition of a Fleetwood Mac song.
“It’s settled,” Kate said. “We’ll book them.”
They’d spent the early evening here, tucked into a corner table at the small waterfront café while the trio played their first set. Tessa had grilled them during the break about their repertoire, their equipment needs, and whether they could handle sand in their instruments.
At the end of the second set, with the decision to hire made, the three of them decided to call it an early night. They paid, waved goodbye to a friendly server, and headed out to the warm evening air.
“One week,” Tessa said, holding up a finger as they gathered to hug good night. “One week until I walk down that boardwalk.”
“In the most beautiful dress ever made,” Vivien added.
“To marry the best man I’ve ever known.” Tessa’s eyes glistened. “Except maybe Dad.”