Page 17 of Take Me (Cherry Blossom Lake #5)

Mason

“ S o with all of that said, let’s hear it for Maxine and Samantha.

” Peter, my sister’s fiancé, lifts his champagne flute in the air.

“I’m not losing a sister; I’m gaining a sister.

” With a wink for my sister, he straightens his tie.

“Given how great my first sister is, I’m honored to welcome Max to the family. ”

The crowd bursts into applause, and there’s the usual clinking of glasses. Somebody else gets up for another toast as I touch my champagne flute to Erika’s.

“Cheers.” She takes a healthy sip of her rosé.

“Back atcha,” I murmur, conscious of how much booze is now flowing through my bloodstream. “I think I need food.”

“Me too.” She sways as she stands, and I grab hold of her elbow.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Her smile seems a little bit tipsy. “Not used to this much bubbly.”

“It’s good stuff, huh?” We weave between bistro tables dressed up in orange and white tablecloths. The crowd flows around us, everyone smiling and wildflowers spilling from mason jars. “Don’t you think I should get royalties for having a jar named after me?”

“Huh?” Erika grabs my hand to tug me toward the buffet. “Come on, drunk guy. Let’s get some food in you.”

I start to argue that I’m not that drunk, but she’s got a point. I do need food. We kick through the hay, making our way to the food as the mic changes hands and someone starts telling a story about Sam castrating a goat.

The smell of fresh herbs and roasted meat fills the air as Erika and I find our way to the source of it. I survey the spread, then notice something strange.

“Is it just me,” I murmur, “or do half the things on this buffet table look yonic?”

Erika tilts her head. “What’s yonic?”

“The female equivalent of phallic.” I tickle my brain to locate the info I learned for the last Big One’s last trivia night. “‘Related to or resembling a yoni, a representation of the external female genitals as a symbol of Shakti or female genital power.’”

“You are a huge dork, Mason.” Looking more curious than scandalized, Erika surveys the food. “Holy crap, you’re right. Look at the pasta salad.”

I peer at the curiously curved tortellini. Oh yeah, that’s… something. Shrugging, I help myself to a spoonful. “Gives new meaning to the phrase, ‘stuffed pasta.’”

“Shhh.” Erika whacks me in the chest, her eyes still sweeping the buffet. “Did they really need to slice all the strawberries in half like that?”

“Yes,” I say wisely. “Yes, they did.” That’s not the only fruit looking more than a little bit feminine. I scoop up some berries as I survey the rest of the offerings. “They were also required to place them beside the artfully arranged display of dried pears. Oh—and apricots.”

Wincing, she surveys the fruit. “I can’t unsee all these bajingoes.” Her gaze zeroes in on a section of baked goods. “How about the Georgia O’Keeffe-inspired bread loves down there?”

I look where she’s pointing and yep. “Definitely very vulvular.” Is that even a word? My drunk brain decides that it is. “Did they have to park it next to a sign that says ‘pain rustique’? It’s making my crotch hurt.”

Erika snorts and grabs a stuffed chicken breast. “It’s not pronounced pain —it’s French.” She wrinkles her nose as she thinks. “More like pon , if I’m remembering right. I only took one term of French.”

“Didn’t you get kicked out for complimenting the teacher’s butt?”

“Not on purpose!” she insists. “My pronunciation sucked, so instead of saying merci beaucoup , I wound up saying merci beau cul —you had to be there, but trust me— thank you and nice ass sound similar in French.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” And I’m doing my best not to check out her ass. The jacket might cover the back of her dress, but it stops at her waist, revealing the generous curve of her backside.

Does Erika’s butt look this hot in jeans? I’ve never noticed before.

I jerk my gaze back to her face. “Whatever you do, don’t look at the mini pepper halves.”

Naturally, she looks. “Oh, God. Is it wrong that I still want to eat them?” She doesn’t wait for a response. Just piles two on her plate, popping a third one in her mouth. “Doesn’t matter. This herbed cheese filling is to die for.”

“It’s really quite the beautiful spread.” I snort so hard I choke on a mouthful of strawberry. “I swear I didn’t hear that until the words came out of my mouth.”

Erika snickers as somebody clangs the cast iron triangle thingy again. I search for the source of the sound, spotting a woman just inside the wide-open barn doors. Rain spatters the ground behind her, but she keeps right on clanging as the wind whips her dress around her ankles.

A microphone screeches as Sam steps forward to take it.

“Thank you for joining us, everybody. We’re so glad you could be here for our special day.

” She holds Maxine’s hand with a smile so broad I feel it in my belly.

“One of the rituals we’d hoped to enjoy today is the symbolic planting of a tree on our property. ”

Maxine’s laughing as she takes the mic from Sam.

“It’s Oregon, of course, so Mother Nature has the final say.

” She sweeps an arm toward the view out the barn doors where the rain’s coming down in big buckets.

“We considered skipping the tree thing, but Sam and I have just pledged, ‘for better or worse.’ So what’s a more fitting way to usher in our marriage than hiking up our wedding dresses and getting a little bit dirty together? ”

There’s chuckling all around as Erika and I crowd toward the open barn doors. We find a spot just inside with a high-top table where we set down our plates and our flutes of rosé.

“I love that they’ve got a sense of humor about this,” Erika says.

“Right?” We watch as Max pulls on a poncho over her bridal gown, then helps her new wife with a bright-yellow raincoat.

Peter swoops in with a massive, rainbow-striped umbrella. The three of them troop out into the rain, skirting big puddles of muddy water. They march to the spot where somebody’s dug a big hole for the root ball.

“Thank God someone had the sense to do that beforehand,” I murmur.

“I dunno,” Erika muses. “I might have liked to see two beautiful brides digging a pit together.”

The women laugh as they wrestle the tree through the mud.

There’s some splashing and grunting as they guide the sapling into its spot, then pick up two spades with handles adorned in pink and gray ribbons.

Working together, they pile gloppy mud on the root ball.

Peter watches, holding the umbrella over the pair.

He stands close enough to shield them, so close his shiny black wingtips get spattered with mud.

Maybe a little too close.

I watch Max step back, the heel of her boot connecting with Peter’s slick shoe. Her arms start to windmill, and she yelps. Sam makes a grab for her wife as Maxine splats down in the mud.

“Oh, shit.” Max’s pristine white dress spatters with sludgy brown water. Her jaw hinges open, somewhere between laughing and crying.

“Oh, honey.” Sam tries to help her, but the toe of her boot hits a slick spot of mud. Down she goes, knocking the sapling sideways as she falls. Her dress flies up, flipping over her head as she knocks her new bride back into the mud. “Oof.”

There’s a gasp from the crowd, then a roar of stunned silence. Nobody’s sure what to do. Peter’s trying to help, but two seconds later, he’s planted ass-first in a puddle.

My sister gasps somewhere in the crowd. I stand rooted in place, not sure what to do. Should we rush out to help them, or spare everyone’s pride by pretending we haven’t just seen Sam’s pink underthings?

Erika grips my arm. “Do something,” she hisses.

I look into those sea-pebble eyes. “Me?”

It’s not like I’m close with the brides. We’re friendly, sure, but I’m not a best friend or a family member like Peter. He’s gamely struggling to get to his feet, clawing fistfuls of mud as he tries to reclaim the umbrella. Rain pummels the ground as Peter tries grabbing his sister’s slick hand.

Their palms slip apart, and Sam flops back in the mud like a fish. Maxine finally makes it to her feet, but she’s covered in muck with her sopping red hair streaming down her arms. Somehow all three of them make it back on their feet, but then they just stand there, stunned and bedraggled.

Fuck it.

Maybe it isn’t my place, but I know what to do. I set down my glass and stride forward, snatching the mic from its stand. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I say in my best MC voice. “I’d like to now invite everyone to join the brides for their first dance.”

I catch Erika’s eye, and she sprints to the DJ’s table. She whispers something, and he nods, hitting buttons on his console as Peter, Sam, and Maxine stand staring in mud-soaked silence.

Seconds later, there’s a burst of synth music, followed by the ring of female vocals. Raising my hands in the air, I dance out the barn door and into the storm. I’m drenched in an instant, but thrusting my hips to the thump of Lady Gaga and Ariana Grande singing, “Rain On Me.”

Erika laughs as she joins me, waving her arms and singing along.

We bop to the music as we spin through the downpour.

The brides watch for only a second. Then they’re shrieking and whirling beside us with mud puddles sucking their boots.

They’re howling with laughter, clutching each other as they twirl.

Jake and Cassidy move next, ducking out the barn door to join us in the downpour. They’re followed by Zoe and Cal, then Kaleb and Brooke and a few dozen others I don’t even know. We’re stomping through slop, whooping and laughing and belting out lyrics as the rain pours around us.

My sister bounds over and grabs Peter’s hand, pulling him into a waltz. He twirls her around, dipping her back so the tip of her hair skims a puddle. Her face fills with joy as he swoops her back up and kisses her rain-spattered face.