for a happy ending.
With any luck, that happy ending might include discovering Nick really does have feelings for me, feelings I just have to convince him it would be stupid for us to ignore.
Chapter 8
Melody
The rest of Saturday passes in a blur of running errands—Ever After Catering is low on just about everything and a visit to the bulk store is no longer avoidable—and prepping five courses for the wedding we’re catering on Sunday.
In the past year, Ever After has seen an uptick in Sunday weddings, which is intensely annoying to Nana, who insists all three of her granddaughters should be in church on Sundays—or at the very least resting somewhere, peacefully contemplating the beauty of creation—not working.
We placate Nana, who claims she’s already on the verge of having a nervous breakdown because Lark and Mason are living together while they’re engaged, not bound in holy wedlock, by reminding her that a wedding is a holy event and attending the early service with her on days when we have to work later in the afternoon.
That means all the food prep has to be done by the end of the day on Saturday, since there won’t be time to do anything but load the van and drive to the venue after church.
By the time Lark, Aria, and I finish making ravioli, stuffing twice-baked potatoes, and icing everything that can be iced before the big day, it’s almost ten o’clock. After my sleepless night the night before, I have to fight to keep my eyes open on the way back to my apartment.
I tumble into bed and drift off almost immediately, not even my anxiety about seeing Nick tomorrow for the first time since our steamy make-out session enough to keep me awake.
The more I ponder what Aria said, the more sense it makes.
If Nick didn’t care about me, he wouldn’t have left the bar alone Friday night. He would have hit it and quit it. Right?
I hold tight to that little coal of a thought, letting it warm me as I sink into a deep, sexy-dream filled sleep, in which I do so many sinful things to Nick Geary it’s clear I probably need that early church service to help drag my brain out of the gutter.
Sunday dawns gray and drizzly, but by the time we get out of church—after absorbing a lovely sermon on the importance of loving each other that I take as a sign God doesn’t care if my mind is in the gutter, so long as I’m being loving about it—the sun is peeking through the clouds.
By the time we reach the botanical gardens just outside Atlanta, where the wedding and reception are being held, the day is nearly perfect. It’s a little muggy, but not nearly as bad as some of the humidity drenched events we worked earlier in the summer, and both of my sisters are in good spirits, laughing and teasing each other as we unload the van.
I, on the other hand, am a bundle of nerves, the last of my chill evaporating as the clock ticks closer to two, when the waiters—and Nick—will be arriving.
“Relax,” Aria murmurs when I nearly drop one of the wine glasses I’m removing from the carrying crate onto the concrete. “Just be cool and act like nothing happened.”
My forehead furrows. “But something did happen.”
“Yes, but now isn’t the time to discuss it. Just put him at ease today and delay your attack until you’re fully prepared.” Aria winks. “Better to make your move when his guard is down.”
My attack?
Am I attacking?
No sooner has the thought passed through my head than I spot Nick strutting through the rose garden toward the outdoor kitchen, looking so good in a motorcycle jacket it should be against the law for him to be within five hundred feet of a wedding in progress—it isn’t fair to test a bride’s resolve that way—and decide yes on that attack plan.
I will be attacking. When the time is right.
I pull in a breath, doing my best to keep it calm, cool, and collected—or at least fake it until I make it—and then Nick steps into the shade of the tent and looks my way. Our eyes catch and hold and something passes between us, not the familiar wave of attraction, though the sizzle of chemistry is definitely present.
This is more than chemistry. It feels like I’m seeing Nick for the first time, seeing past the dimpled grin and the swagger and the “couldn’t care less” persona