Page 13 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Luke

D exter, the owner of Whistle While You Wash, popped out of the office to see what was happening with all the screaming, laughter, and hullabaloo. Perhaps, just perhaps, he received a slight spray of water. A pure accident. And, of course, an apology quickly followed.

Needless to say, we didn’t stick around. Nor were we asked to.

We stumble through the back door of my folks’ house, dripping wet and still laughing.

Mom barely glances up as she kneads bread dough. The aroma of yeast fills the kitchen. “What have you two been up to?”

I haul in Libby’s oversized and hefty suitcase. “My truck is now clean.”

“Sort of,” Libby adds with a snort, and we snicker like schoolchildren, bumping shoulders.

Mom looks up then and studies us. “Looks like my floor is going to need mopping from all the water you’re dripping.”

“Sorry,” Libby says, her smile fading.

“At least I won’t keep getting congratulatory phone calls and questions about why folks weren’t invited to my son’s wedding.” Mom returns to kneading.

I lean over Mom’s shoulder. “What time is dinner?”

She elbows me in the gut. “The regular time.” Folding the dough, she tucks in the edges and places it in a greased bread pan. “Are you closing up the shop?”

“Yes, ma’am. First, we have a meeting with Andrea. Libby is helping with the wedding.”

“I heard,” Mom says, laying a cloth over the bread pan. “That’s nice of you.”

“We thought we should change first,” I add, looking at Libby’s wet hair.

“Good idea. Nothing happens in this town without it hitting the phone lines or social media.” Mom rinses off her hands in the sink and dries them. “Let me fetch you some clean towels.” Then she rolls a dish towel and pops it against my backside.

I yelp. “What was that for?”

She drops the dish towel. "Company’s coming,” she says, scooping it up. “I assumed you started the water fiasco."

“That would be me,” Libby confesses.

Her gaze flickers in my direction, and I feel heat spiral through me.

Shaking her head, Mom mutters, “Two peas in a pod.”

I haul Libby’s suitcase to Sophia’s bedroom, then hurry off to my childhood room.

After stripping off my soaked clothes, I rifle through T-shirts that no longer fit and find a pair of khakis in the closet.

But they’re from high school. No way those are working.

I grew five inches during my freshman year at UGA.

Wrapping a towel around my waist, I pad down the well-worn carpet to the laundry room and toss my clothes in the dryer.

“Everything okay, Luke?” Mom calls from the kitchen.

“Looking for a shirt.”

“And pants,” she says, taking in my state of undress. “Try under your bed.”

I jog toward my bedroom, eager to put some clothes on.