Page 3 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)
Luke
I t’s going to be a long day. I sip my black coffee from my to-go cup that touts the name of my shop, The Brew, while I watch Derek, my best friend and the groom of today’s proceedings, pace inside the B&B cottage off the main house.
I’ve seen this look before. He’s like a caged tiger, and I slide his coffee, which is all jacked up with extra espresso and a dash of whiskey, behind a knick-knack. Out of sight.
Derek’s voice grows louder with agitation as he speaks into his phone, “…not much time. If we want the investment… That’s better.” He checks his expensive watch. “I’ve got about an hour. Call me back.”
He clicks off and looks in the mirror, straightening his bowtie.
We were college roommates, and although our lives have taken different paths, we remain connected through our friendship and my coffee shop, where Derek was the principal investor.
It helps that he was born with a Bentley in his daddy’s six-car garage.
“I told you Delia wouldn’t sell.” I lean against the four-poster bed.
“That’s not the only game in town,” he counters.
“Take a day off,” I say. “You only get married once.”
“That’s the plan,” Derek adds with a wolfish grin.
“Focus on your beautiful bride.” I block the image of her in her bathrobe and the feel of her in my arms. I didn’t bother telling Derek about that inconsequential incident. It didn’t mean anything.
“Libby’s a looker,” he agrees. “What did you think when you first met her?”
My throat tightens. “She doesn’t deserve you.”
He nods, then his gaze sharpens. “What does that mean?”
“You’re marrying up, my friend.” I clap him on the shoulder. "Well done."
Derek laughs. “She’s not doing too bad either. The potential is all around, Luke. Reach out and grab it while you can.”
I shake loose the tension in my hands. “I’ve got about all I can handle.”
Derek frowns. “Get over her.”
“Her?” I ask, knowing exactly who he means.
“It’s been years. Move along. Lib has a cute sister. And I’ve got a bunch of investors and business associates coming to the wedding. There will be plenty of women to choose from.”
I divert the conversation with, “Where’s Rob?”
“I sent him on an errand.”
I hope there won’t be more booze. Rob, the other groomsman, drank more than his share at the rehearsal dinner. My job as best man is to help the groom, get him dressed and ready on time, and avoid any obstacles that might trip him up or cause a debacle.
“Libby,” Derek explains, “insisted I have two groomsmen because of her two sisters. Her bridesmaids. Marriage is a compromise.”
“So they say.” I notice a pinching of Derek’s lips. “You okay?”
“This is what I want,” he says, shoving his fingers through his gelled hair.
“Convincing yourself or me?”
Derek searches his pockets. “You have the ring?”
“Not yet.”
“I gave it to you. Didn’t I? Or maybe I stuck it in your jacket last night.”
“Then it must be at my cabin,” I say, and before he can blow a gasket, I add, “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back with it.”
“You’re a good man, Luke.”
“I try.” I grab my keys and head out.
It’s one of those surprising spring days in the mountains. The sun shines brightly, the sky is a true blue, and the temperature is cool enough to be comfortable. It feels as if someone ordered the perfect weather for the wedding.
I round the corner of the B&B toward the parking lot when I hear, “Mike Peterson!” It's a woman's shrill voice. “That is not what I’m saying.”
It pulls me up short, and I look past several cars. I only glimpse part of a short woman in slacks and a heavy overcoat. She’s pointing her finger at the bride’s father.“Now Barbara Lee?—”
“I understand why you didn’t invite me to this wedding," the woman says. "It’s as plain as the nose on your face. You never told her, did you?”
“Today is not a good day to do this.”
“Can’t be any better or worse than any other day,” the woman says.
To avoid that messy situation, I redirect and hurry toward my truck.
But the sight of it stops me cold. It’s not the newest or fanciest truck, but it’s all mine.
I paid it off a few years ago after I graduated.
Now, it’s sporting balloons attached to the windshield wipers, painted hearts, “Just Married,” and “Last Chance to RUN” on the windows.
I stalk toward Rob, who kneels at the tailgate. “What are you doing?”
He grins. “What do you think?”
“This is my truck, Rob.”
“Okay.” But he doesn’t get it.
“The bride and groom are leaving in a limo.”
There’s a beat or two, then his eyes widen. “Oh!”
“Yeah.” I scan the windows, which could have more crude things written on them. But this shows a sweet, romantic side to our old fraternity brother. I clap him on the shoulder. “Nice job. I’ve got to run an errand.”
I hop into the driver’s seat and crank the engine. Time is getting away from me. I need to hurry. When I hit the highway, the tin cans dragging along behind the bumper create a roar.