Page 300 of Wild Card 13
Her car sat near the curb beneath a streetlamp. The air smelled like warm pavement, rain that had missed us, and the faint sweetness of flowers from the planters Arlo kept near the entrance.
“We have to be normal tomorrow,” she said.
I glanced over. “Do we?”
Her mouth twitched. “Wedding normal.”
“That’s a different category.”
“It is. It includes schedules, photos, vows, emotional fathers, and at least one crisis Vivienne will pretend she saw coming.”
“Sounds manageable.”
“You say that because you are not a bridesmaid.”
“I am a groomsman. We have responsibilities.”
Lucy looked me up and down. “You have to stand where someone tells you and not lock your knees.”
“I’ve been training my whole life.”
She looked down, then back up at me.
The streetlamp caught the brown in her eyes and turned it soft. Her hair was still a mess. Her borrowed hoodie swallowed one wrist. She looked nothing like the polished woman who had walked into wedding week determined to keep every piece of herself contained.
She looked like Lucy.
My Lucy, some reckless part of me thought.
“Thank you for tonight,” she said.
“For the ice cat transport?”
“For not making it worse.”
I nodded slowly. “That bar is on the floor, Luce.”
Her eyes warmed at the name. “Maybe,” she said. “But you cleared it.”
I slipped my hands into my pockets so I would not reach for her. “I’ll see you in the morning,” I said.
She opened her car door, then paused. “Ty?”
My heart kicked once, hard. “Yeah?”
She looked at me over the top of the door. Whatever she was going to say lived there for a second. I saw it. The shape of it. The fear. The want. The almost. Then she took a breath and changed her mind. “Don’t be late.”
I smiled, even though my chest hurt. “I won’t.”
CHAPTER 38
LUCY
NOW
Buzz Burns was waiting outside the bridal suite with six coffees and the expression of a man who had either been given a very sacred mission or had robbed a small café.
I stopped in the corridor with my garment bag hooked over one arm, my makeup bag sliding down my wrist, and my emergency wedding binder tucked against my ribs because Vivienne Hart had told me she did not need backup but had greeted the sight of the binder with the manic gratitude of a woman who absolutely did.
