Page 37 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Libby

I n the pre-dawn hours, we gather in The Brew.

The minutes tick by faster and faster like a snowball rolling down a hill.

Luke makes us refreshing drinks with coconut water.

Elle carefully crafts her masterpiece. Charlie takes pictures of everything.

Roxie and I arrange a display of trays and baskets.

When Luke ducks into his office to change into a suit, Charlie leans in close to me. “What’s going on with you?”

My defenses rise. “What do you mean?”

“You and Luke. Are you two an item?”

“What’s happening?” Elle barges in. “You and Luke are?—”

“No. No, we’re not.”

Charlie props a hand on her hip. “Then why were you giving me the stink-eye when I was talking to him?”

“I wasn’t!”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

Elle beams. “I like it.”

“You like what?” I ask, irritated by their intrusion into my personal life.

Elle waves her hands toward the stunning four-tiered wedding cake. It’s a marvel of icing and bubble-tea-straw engineering. Sugared pearls adorn the white buttercream frosting. Purple orchids, pink roses, and white peonies cascade down and around the tiers.

Charlie and I are left speechless.

“Too simple?” Elle worries.

“It’s gorgeous,” I assure her. We needed a cake—flour, sugar, eggs, and frosting. But this is worthy of Buddy Valastro’s approval.

Luke enters, looking sharp in a dark suit, with the white shirt accentuating his natural tan. And he shaved. “Bride’s here.”

That galvanizes us to work.

At five thirty, the bride isolates herself in Luke’s office with her mother and maid of honor. The groom paces along the counter while Luke prepares him a drink.

“I call this the Dubliner. Totally off-menu.”

I catch a whiff of whiskey. That should calm him down.

At six, darkness blankets The Brew. Luke sets up a chalkboard sign outside the front door: closed for private event .

The florist arrives with bouquets, boutonnieres, and an arched trellis for the couple to exchange their vows.

Slowly but surely, enthusiastic guests start to gather.

The chilly spring air feels magical. Charlie snaps photos of the venue and the guests.

In the kitchen, Elle arranges quiches and scones on platters with sprigs of dried lavender, while I tick off items on my list.

Keeping an eye on the time, I help Andrea out the alley door with her mother and maid of honor. We circle the block and approach the front awning so she can make her big entrance.

At 6:22, the first rays of light breach the shops along Storyteller’s Lane. I nod to the DJ, and the Wedding March wafts out the door Luke holds open. Andrea’s father offers his arm to the bride, and they enter The Brew.

From my vantage point, the groom’s expression shifts as the moment overwhelms him. Suddenly, he blinks hard and fast. He swipes his face with the sleeve of his jacket. His best man leans forward and clasps his shoulder in an encouraging man hug.

Even from where I stand, I can hear Taylor say, “I’m the luckiest man alive.”

The click of Charlie’s camera captures this moment for a lifetime. It will make a wonderful keepsake.

When the bride and groom take their places under the decorated archway, I step outside and shift gears. I open my iPad to check my lists for the reception, but I’m struggling to breathe.

“You okay?” Luke surprises me by standing so close. The door has closed, and the wedding continues without our help.

I manage a watery smile. “I think so.”

“Having regrets? About your wedding?”

I shake my head. “No, I, uh… Not at all.”

He touches my cheek, wiping away a tear. “Then what is it?”

“The way Taylor was looking at Andrea—that’s love. Pure and simple.”

Luke gazes through the glass window at the bride and groom exchanging vows. “They’ll be happy.”

“You should go in,” I say. “They’re your friends.”

“I’m where I want to be.”

My gaze slips upward to meet his. “Do you know why I have no regrets about my wedding?”

He shakes his head.

“Because Derek never looked at me that way. Not once. Not even when he saw me in my wedding dress. But that look? Not even close.”

Luke wraps his arms around me, and I lean into him, grateful for his solid shoulder.

Yet, my mind drifts in an entirely different direction.

I find my hands encircling his waist, and I step back.

“Sorry.” I smooth a hand down his suit jacket, his chest solid and reassuring beneath. “I’m just tired. As we all are.”

“It’s okay to long for someone to love you.”

“Is it?”

“You deserve love, Libby, and you deserve for someone to look at you the way Taylor looks at Andrea.”