She hesitated, wanting to be sure. Wanting to know she was safe. She tugged at one of his suspenders.
“I’m not safe.” He whispered the words, low, close to her lips. “But you know what? You’re not, either. We’ll probably hurt each other again. There are never any real guarantees.”
That truth sank in hard and deep. She tightened her grip on the suspender strap. He was right. But how could she keep risking her heart over and over?
His voice deepened an octave as his grip around her waist tightened. “One thing I can guarantee. I love you.”
She looked at him. “You were wrong about one thing.”
He eased back, concern spreading across his face. “What’s that?”
“You most definitely can’t rock a bow tie.”
“Hey now—”
She cut off his indignant protest with a kiss, one that lifted her to her tiptoes and quickened his heartbeat beneath her hand.
She pulled back for a breath. “And by the way . . .”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I love you too.”
She reached over, snagged the icing-covered cake remains from the cart, and smashed them straight into his face.
Then she kissed him.
He tasted like buttercream.
Love Arrives in Pieces
All’s Fair in Love and Cupcakes
A February Bride: A Year of Weddings Novella
Betsy St. Amant lives in Louisiana with her young daughter and has a heart for sharing the amazing news of God’s grace through her novels. A freelance journalist, Betsy is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers. When she’s not reading, writing, or singing along to a Disney soundtrack with her daughter, Betsy enjoys inspirational speaking and teaching on the craft of writing.
VISIT HER WEBSITE AT WWW.BETSYSTAMANT.COM
FACEBOOK: BETSYST.AMANT
TWITTER: @BETSYSTAMANT
For Mom.
You listened raptly to my little-girl stories. It gave me courage to write the bigger ones.
“Get off the sidelines, Amelia.”
I’d heard this approximately 624 times in the past twelve years. Once a week, from the lips of my best friend, Rachel. We were an unlikely pair—Rachel and I. About as opposite as two people could be. If not for sharing a small dorm room on the tenth floor of Witte Hall in Madison, Wisconsin, our freshman year, I’m confident our paths never would have crossed. Or if they had, we wouldn’t have given each other a second look. I’m also confident I wouldn’t have lasted a single semester at such a big college without her. But we did share a room, and our unlikely friendship tethered me to Madison when homesickness yanked mercilessly at my heartstrings.
According to Rachel, I lived timid.
“It’s time to get in the game already,” she liked to say. “Enough watching. Start experiencing!”
As I took a left-hand turn onto Mulberry Avenue, I couldn’t help but wonder what Rachel would say about this. Nothing good, I’m sure. In my defense, when the man you thought you’d marry—the only man you’d ever dated—weds another woman in a town not more than thirty minutes away, it’s only natural to spy. I had planned to drive by the church as inconspicuously as possible to see what I could see, then drive back to my quirky hometown of Mayfair, Wisconsin, where nobody would be the wiser. I should have known by then that life—at least for me—rarely went as planned.
My sweat-slicked palms grew sweatier as the steeple arose over a row of maple trees, their green leaves giving way to the faintest hints of yellow and orange. White, puffy clouds rolled across blue sky, forcing the sun into a game of peek-a-boo. I slowed to a stop at a streetlight, praying nobody would recognize me.
Thanks to Rachel’s friendship and my decision to stay in Madison, I ended up meeting Matt in my second semester Poli Sci class freshman year. We dated for four years, which meant his family knew me. And then there was the matter of my stepsisters—both bridesmaids—to consider. If either caught me spying, I’d never hear the end of it. They would assume I still loved Matt, which wasn’t true. Our relationship had ended years ago. My broken heart had long since mended. I was simply curious.