Page 21 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Libby

L uke carries the plastic-covered wedding dress, and I watch out to ensure it doesn’t drag along the concrete sidewalk.

“Congratulations!” says an elderly woman, who clutches the arm of what appears to be her husband of some fifty-odd years.

“Oh, we, uh…" I stutter.

“Thank you!” Luke replies before I can get the words out.

But they’ve moved on as some antique treasure grabs their attention.

“That keeps happening,” I lament.

“Probably because you’re either in a wedding dress or I’m carrying one.”

“Luke Maine!” a voice shouts and stops us cold.

A woman marches toward us, her hair bouncing around her shoulders with each purposeful stride. Her face is pinched into a scowl. Her hands are fisted at her sides.

“Who is she?” I say under my breath.

“Just a friend,” Luke says. “Bethany. How are you? This is?—”

“How am I?!” Her voice sounds shrill. Her gaze bounces between us and the dress. “I heard it. But I couldn’t believe it. But now! Now I see who she is.”

Luke looks flustered. “It’s not what you?—”

The slap comes so fast that Luke’s head snaps in my direction. Bethany winces and shakes her hand.

“So… there!” She pushes between us and storms off down the sidewalk.

Luke rubs his reddened cheek.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He works his jaw. “Guess I won’t be asking her out again.”

“Oh, Luke,” I grasp his arm. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“Don’t you apologize to him!” a woman, wearing a battered cowboy hat, demands.

A gentleman in overalls and a straw hat waggles his finger at Luke. “Shouldn’t be asking another woman out on the town with your woman standing beside you.”

“He been cheating on you?” asks a tatted-up teen like we’re in some kind of Emily Henry novel.

I glance around and realize we’ve garnered quite a crowd. Apparently, we’re more interesting than the bedpan vintage art.

An elderly man strikes his pipe against his boot heel, knocking out the old tobacco. “You best do right by your gal there. Kiss her! Declare to the world that she’s your woman and no other.”

“That’s not necessary,” I say, but everyone starts talking simultaneously.

Luke adds, “It’s not like?—”

“She don’t deserve you then,” the teen pipes in. “Dump his sorry?—”

“No, no,” I try to explain. “Luke’s a great guy. He’s not?—”

“Listen to her defending that rascal. A real man would do right by the lady,” someone else comments.

It’s beginning to feel claustrophobic with the nosy bystanders circling us like vultures.

And then, I get the giggles. I pinch my lips, suppressing a laugh at the ridiculousness of this whole situation.

“Is she crying? You've made her cry!”

“If you’re willing to marry the gal,” a man in overalls says, “then you should be willing to kiss her.”

“Stake your claim!” someone hollers.

The elderly gentleman shakes his head. “These young folks nowadays.”

“Yeah!” someone bellows. “Kiss her!”

Luke ducks his head, glances at me sideways. His brow furrows.

“This is what happens,” I tell him, “when you just wave and say thanks.”

He shoves his hair off his brow. “You’re no help.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” I tease, knowing it’s his fault we’re in this stupid situation. Okay, maybe I’m guilty, too. But I can’t help joshing him. “Just a little smackaroo.”

The crowd loves that, whooping and hollering.

Someone starts chanting, “Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her…”

The crowd joins in, the crescendo of voices building to a low roar.

Luke leans close and says so low only I can hear, “Derek would not understand.”

That puts starch in my spine. “Derek has no claim here.”