“So you do want me to come.”
I swallowed a big gulp of Mountain Dew. “Yes. But I want you to understand what you’re getting into.”
“I’ve been to weddings before. I have a tux.”
“God no. Don’t wear a tux.” Yep, a definite disaster. Gargantuan.
He laughed. “Okay. You seem stressed about this.”
“I am. Terrified actually.”
“Then I won’t go.”
I took a deep breath. Jumped off the cliff. “I think you should. I will be a basket case and everything that can possibly go wrong will, but I think you should come. Really.”
“I don’t want you to feel forced into this.”
Now I laughed. “I don’t want to force you into it.”
“Anything involving you I’ll never have to be forced into. Trust me on that.”
I was losing this battle, my caution not strong enough to fight the fall of my heart. “Okay.”
“When should I arrive? This invitation says the wedding’s next Saturday night.”
“Are you working that weekend?” He seemed to work every weekend, our trips often interspersed with his meetings or functions. I didn’t mind. It gave me some alone time, a chance to visit the spa or catch up on my reading. Or more recently, catch up with the girls on my new phone.
“Nothing I can’t get someone else to handle.”
“Then come Friday. You can stay with me.” I felt suddenly shy, like the assumption of his lodging was forward – even though we’d left the separate rooms arrangement back in Aruba.
“And what about this weekend? Can I steal you for a few days? The Caribbean weather is supposed to be perfect.”
I groaned. “I can’t. Chelsea has us all working overtime. Saturday night we’re having a sleepover at her house and assembling the favors. She’ll kill me if I flake out.” It was true. She literally would. She’d already described to me how she’d do it (strangle me with her garter belt), and where she’d put my body (in Lake Talquin, weighted down with the party favors I so carelessly skipped out on). Plus, forgetting the imminent threat of death, there was the fact that I missed my friends.
“A sleepover?”
I lost a little of my stress in the giggle at his response. “Yes, a sleepover. What, you and your friends don’t have sleepovers?”
“Are hair braiding and naked pillow fights involved?”
“Oh yes,” I teased, dropping my voice lower while simultaneously shaking out the popcorn into a bowl. What could I say? I was a good multitasker. Could pull off sexy seductress and gourmet dinner preparer, all at the same time. “Naked pillow fights are right before skinny dipping and whipped cream wrestling.”
“Fine.” He let out a troubled exhale. “It’ll be a long two weeks.”
I smiled. “For me too.”
“So … no tux?”
“No!” I said sharply. “Khakis and a button-up.” Granted, had it been up to Chelsea’s expensive Atlanta wedding planner, tuxes would have been standard. We’d had to remind her, several times over the last year, that ninety-nine percent of the attendees were country folk and not millionaires. “No tie.” I added. “And even in that, I can’t guarantee you won’t be called a city boy.”
“It’s okay. I kinda am a city boy.”
I smiled. And in that moment, despite everything stacked against us, I felt a glimmer of hope that we would survive the wedding weekend.