His face is sober. It’s not irritated like usual, just serious.
I still, my gaze searching his for something to go on. He’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what it is.
“Wade?”
“There will be a lot of people here tonight,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Don’t drink anything that isn’t given to you by my brothers or me. The security team has solid guys. If you need something and can’t find me, you can go to them. Tell them to find me.”
What?
“Is this unsafe?” I ask, my heart racing for all the wrong reasons.
“I wouldn’t have brought you here if it were unsafe, Dara.”
Okay …
I force a swallow. “So, what’s with the whole security team spiel? Because you’re kind of freaking me out right now. Not gonna lie.”
His eyes flutter close for a second. “Any time you’re going to be with a mass of people who are unfamiliar to you, it behooves you to understand the situation and to know what to do in case something goes wrong.”
That makes sense. My mother always told me various forms of that over the years, and it is common sense. I’ve watched enough movies and the news to know just how badly things can go wrong if you’re oblivious.
“Have fun,” he says. “Just be cognizant of what’s going on around you. Promise me.”
My mouth opens to say something silly—to downplay his seriousness or make a joke to add some levity back into the conversation—but as I start to let whatever I’m about to say roll, I stop.
Something is different. Something has changed. He still has a shield up around him, but it’s … cracked, maybe. There’s a warmth, a slight vulnerability in his beautiful green eyes that softens my heart. It also settles a bit of the butterflies in my stomach.
“I promise,” I say.
He nods and rewards me with a half of a grin. I’ll take it.
“Are you ready then?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He starts to get out of the car when I stop him.
“Wade?”
He looks at me over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
I grin. “Don’t think our conversation is over.”
His forehead mars until he realizes what I’m talking about.
My breathing halts. My heart pounds. My stomach clenches so hard I think I might yelp out in pain.
But when he casts me an oh-so-slow, kill-me-now smirk, I forget about everything except committing that view to memory and not disintegrating into the seat.
“We’ll see about that,” he says and climbs out of the car.
Yes, Mr. Mason. Yes, we will.
TWENTY
DARA
Oh, wow.
Whatever I thought the Bartholomew Gardens was like, I was wrong.
So incredibly wrong.
I walk beside Wade through a set of stone pillars that look hundreds of years old. Moss is buried between the rocks like a natural concrete holding the stacks together. We pass beds of flowers, shallow pools with colorful fish, and fountains that trickle in the calmest way.
An old, stately brick building with a plaque reading Hardwig sets to the side. Each window holds an electric candle that flickers warmly. People filter in and out of the front with flowers, garment bags, and, most of all, wide smiles.
We pass through another set of pillars into an area tucked into the back of the property. The far wall of the enclave consists of thick, deep green vegetation. A white carpet leads to an arch filled with white and soft pink flowers. On either side of the carpet are rows of white chairs capped off on the end with oversized gold vessels overflowing with roses.
“This is … unbelievable,” I whisper to myself.
To the left of the setup is a giant glass greenhouse. The doors are held open by the same flower-filled vessels found beside the chairs. Lights glow from inside by what appears to be giant chandeliers and lights strung from one side of the venue to the other.
People move about—all dressed in their finest, chatting easily with one another. Couple that with the violinists playing to the right of the arch and the ambiance is absolute perfection.
I wish I had my camera.
“What do you think?” Wade asks.
I look up at his handsome face. “I’m … I’m in awe. It’s so beautiful.”
Before he can respond, an older man wearing a suit and a newsboy hat ambles up to us.
“Wade, I still hate that you aren’t standing up for your brother,” the man says.
He grabs Wade’s elbow to steady himself. It’s only when he catches his breath does he notice me.
“Well, hello, darlin’. Who might you be?” he asks.
Wade clamps a hand on top of the man’s knuckles as if to give him more support.
“Gramps, this is Dara Alden,” Wade says. “Dara, this is my grandfather. He doesn’t have a name. Just Gramps.”
For a reason unbeknownst to me, this tickles Gramps. He laughs. The sound is full of joy, and it makes me laugh too.
“It’s nice to meet you, Gramps,” I say.
Gramps puts his hand against the side of his mouth between him and Wade.
“I’m hoping that he introduced me that way because that means he’s finally come around and will get married before I kick the bucket,” he pretends to whisper.
I giggle as Wade’s jaw sets. Still, he doesn’t look as annoyed as usual. Just more uncomfortable.
“I’m here as a guest of Holt,” I say.
Gramps’s eyes go wide. “Oh.”
“Not like that,” Wade says.
Gramps chuckles. “With these boys, you never know.”
“Well, that bodes well for them,” I say, eyeing Wade’s reaction.
He refuses to look at me.
“Not this one.” Gramps sticks a bony elbow into Wade’s stomach. “This one is as straight as an arrow. The best one of the bunch when it comes to matters like that.”
Wade struggles so hard not to smile that it must pain him.
“Wade, excuse me,” a woman says, coming up to us. She’s wearing a pretty blush-colored dress with her hair in a fancy updo. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but Holt would like to see you before the ceremony starts. I stopped by to check on Walker and got lassoed into finding you.”
“Where is Holt?” Wade asks.
“On the third floor of the Hardwig building with the groomsmen,” she says.
“Tell him that I’ll be right there, Sienna.”
She smiles at Wade, then at me, before disappearing into the crowd.
Wade blows out a breath. “That was Sienna Landry. Her … husband? Boyfriend? Is Blaire’s brother. Blaire, the bride …”
“Didn’t you say the security company was also Landry?” I ask.
“That’s her family’s business. It’s a small world.”
“Must be.”
Gramps sighs. “Well, help me get settled in a seat before you take off. I can’t stand around here all night.”
“Are there seating assignments?” Wade asks. “Or do we sit wherever we want?”
“Oh, who cares?” Gramps scoffs. “I’m eighty-five years old. What are they gonna do? Tell me I can’t sit where the hell I want?”
I laugh. Gramps’s eyes light up at my amusement.
“Second thought,” Gramps says, reaching for me. “Dara can help me while you go find Holt. Tell him I said not to cry. Crying is for girls.”
Wade helps transfer his grandfather to my arm.
“Are you okay with this?” Wade mouths over Gramps’s head.