Page 35 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Libby

D owntown Storybrook appears sleepy-eyed, with shutters and blinds closed over store windows.

It’s dark, except for the occasional streetlamp, each one surrounded by a gothic haze that adds a mysterious allure to the town.

Luke drives as slowly as molasses in February, ensuring he doesn’t jostle the trays in the pickup’s bed.

It’s still awkward between us. I glance at him, studying his profile in the cab’s shadows, the line of his brow, straight nose, and firm but grizzled jaw.

He catches me looking, so I refocus on the road. “Yellow light,” I say, as we approach the intersection. “Aren’t you going to stop?”

“It stays yellow at night,” he explains. “As a cautionary tale.”

“I wish I had more of those in my life.”

He glances at me once more. “What would you have avoided?”

“I don’t know,” I hedge and think about that kiss we shared. But I wouldn’t have wanted to miss it. “On one hand,” I say, “wasting time and money on a wedding that wasn’t meant to be. But would I have given up knowing Derek? Or you?”

The question lingers between us.

“Then you might find yourself crawling into bed on a Friday night and getting eight hours of sleep instead of staying up all night prepping for a sunrise wedding.” Luke grins.

“How boring would that be?” I smile as my phone begins to buzz.

“Andrea?” he asks.

It’s Derek. Again. But I keep that to myself.

“Or is it the dreaded 'Scam Likely'?”

I laugh. “Something like that.”

He turns off Storyteller’s Lane, loops behind the buildings, and pulls into the alley behind the store.

“Closer to the kitchen,” he explains.

A neat row of porta-potties stands lined up. These aren’t the typical blue construction site potties; these are high-end.

“You ordered these?” Luke asks.

“You mentioned that the sewage sometimes backs up. I didn’t want that to happen during the wedding.”

“You think of everything.”

“It’s my job.”

I meet him at the tailgate as he lowers it. While I gather a tray in my arms, he jiggles the lock and presses his shoulder against the door. We carry the fruit trays inside and place them in the storage refrigerator.

“Let’s make lattes for everyone,” Luke suggests. “We could all use a boost.”

“Great idea.”

“Your sisters are pretty amazing.” He holds the door open for me to step into the main shop. “They came at the drop of a hat.”

“Their schedules were clear. I’m sure they hoped to rest after my wedding disaster. But you’re right. They’re amazing.”

“I don’t view your wedding as a disaster.”

“How do you see it?” I ask. “As a success?”

He pulls out four to-go cups. “A redirection.”

I lean against the counter and watch him prepare his equipment, grinding beans and pressing grounds for the espresso. “Which drinks are you making?”

“Do you have a preference?” he asks.

A smile emerges as I remember our challenge, and I shake my head.

“Thought I’d make one that isn’t on the board,” Luke says, placing two metal cups beneath the spouts to catch the espresso.

“A secret menu?”

“I offer it on occasion.” He smiles, his eyes brightening. “But it’s available any day. You have to know to ask for it.”

“Ah, the secret to life.”

He laughs.

“What’s it called?” I ask. “This not-on-the-menu item?”

“The Plot Twist.”

“Sounds potent. And like my life.”

“It might keep us awake into next week.” He prepares more grounds. “Or at least through frosting the cake.”

“Excellent. Is this your favorite?” I probe.

“If I were to answer yes or no, that might help you win our contest.”

“We have never figured out how to determine the winner.”

He smiles. “I think we’ll know.”

“In other words,” I say, “there’s no criteria? No real finish line?”

“Nope. No list. Can you handle it?”

I prop my hand on my hip. “We’ll rely on our hearts or some such ooey-gooey, wishy-washy methodology?”

“Sounds good to me.” His grin widens, making me uneasy because he has a devastating smile.

I focus on his stash of magic beans, reading the labels: Crème Brulee, Cinnamon Hazelnut, Colombian, Ethiopian, French, Brown Sugar, and Midnight Moonshine. “How do you know which coffee to use?”

“It depends on what I’m making. But the freshest roast is always the best.”

“All that machinery looks a bit intimidating."

“The most important thing is the grinder,” he says.

The machine whirs, and heady odors of molasses, toffee, and tobacco awaken my senses. I already have a coffee buzz before I’ve taken a sip.

“I should have told you. Charlie doesn’t drink coffee.”

Luke merely raises one eyebrow as he continues pouring and steaming. “Does she drink tea?”

“She does. Very much like our mom. But nothing caffeinated. It makes her jittery.”

“Then we’ll fix her a decaf London Fog. I have a good one from Jazz.” He shifts toward another contraption and starts the water to boil.

I get in Luke’s way, but he directs me toward the small fridge to grab milk as he brews tea for Charlie. Soon, we have four to-go cups in a cardboard carrier.

“What do you think?” he asks, waiting for me to try one.

“Is this your contest entry?” I tease.

“If you declare it a winner.”

I frown. “Why would I do that?”

“Competitive, are we?” he teases.

“Of course. We need to nail down the rules.”

“Brace yourself, Libby. There are no rules.”

“All’s fair in love and—” My gaze crashes into his. What did I just say?

I grab a cup and take a gulp. The heat burns my tongue, and I sputter and cough.

“You okay?” Luke’s brow crinkles with concern. “Obviously, this isn’t a winner.”

I lick my lips and place the cup in the carrier. “My fault. I drank too fast.”

“Was it nice?” He studies my expression.

Another name for it might be ‘The Arnold.’

“As in Palmer? That name’s already taken.”

I shake my head. “Schwarzenegger.”

He laughs. “Hasta la vista, baby.”

He guides us toward the back door. It’s dark in the alleyway.

I turn on my phone’s flashlight and tuck it into my front pocket, aiming the beam at the lock.

Then, I take the coffee carrier from him.

He inserts the key into the lock, but it won’t turn.

He struggles with it until his arm bumps into me.

With both hands gripping the coffee carrier, I sway on the top step.

He grabs my waist and pulls me toward him. We’re only a breath apart.

“You good?” he asks, his voice husky.

I nod.

We stare into each other’s eyes. Our relieved smiles evaporate under the heat shimmering between us. He pulls me closer. I angle my chin, leaning in and anticipating his lips on mine.

Then my phone vibrates.

“'Scam Likely,'” I whisper.

“You never answered my question,” he says.

“What question?” I can’t peel my gaze away from his mouth, the curve of his lower lip.

“If you regret meeting me.”

When did he ask me that? “No, Luke, I don’t regret meeting you. You’ve been the best part of this crazy week.”

His hand cups my jaw gently but firmly, and then I feel his thumb wipe the corner of my lower lip. “You had foam, just there.”

Then he releases me, turns back to lock the door.

I sway like my knees might buckle. That’s it? No kiss? No nothing?

“Luke?”

“Yeah?” He faces me.

“I, uh…” What am I saying? I want you? I need you? Instead, I blurt out, “I’m sorry about your sister.”

As soon as the words are out, I know it wasn’t the right time. But it’s too late. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His shoulder lifts in a slight shrug. “Difficult to talk about, I guess. Besides, you had enough going on this week.”

I want to place my hand against his chest and pull him toward me, but my hands are occupied with the coffee carrier. “I understand. I’m truly sorry. I know that doesn’t help but…”

He clears his throat. “Thank you.”

Then he steps back, taking the coffee carrier from me and leaving me on the step.

When he reaches the truck, he opens the passenger door for me. “You coming?”

I fumble with my phone and switch off the flashlight, plunging us into darkness.