Page 9 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Luke

W hat was I thinking? First, agreeing to help Libby. Second, agreeing to help Derek.

No way is this going to end well.

It’s a cool and breezy morning when I pick up Libby from my folks’ house. Considering all she’s been through, she appears all bright and cheery. She’s wearing a Band Perry T-shirt that belonged to Sophie, and I ignore how snug it fits. I shrug into my jean jacket and pull my baseball cap low.

I offer a hand to help her into my truck. She’s unencumbered as she was yesterday and hops up as if showing she doesn’t need my help.

Her eyes light up when I offer her a travel cup of coffee that I made myself. “You’re speaking my language. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, cranking the engine.

From the corner of my eye, I notice her inhaling the coffee’s aroma as if trying to dissect the hints of pecan and nutmeg infused in the coffee beans.

“I didn’t know how you like your coffee,” I say, “so I brought you our most popular order.”

“Anything is fine. I usually make instant.”

My foot hits the brakes, and I glance over at her. “You’re kidding.”

“Why would I joke about that? Instant is fast. And I’m always in a hurry.” She takes a sip, gazing at me over the rim, batting her eyes, which causes me to do a double take. Maybe I imagined that.

I concentrate on the road. Traffic, which is never heavy in Storybrook, is relatively light. But I give it my complete focus.

“The Brew,” she reads on the travel cup, turning it to examine all sides. “Cute name. Is it from The Tempest ?”

“Good guess,” I say. “But it references a line from Silas LaRoux’s novel, A Sky Full of Hunger. ” I quote from the novel, “ Some hearts don’t break—they brew. Slow and strong. Bittersweet.”

“Interesting. And this—” she raises the to-go cup in a salute— “is nice.”

I keep my eyes trained on the road. “Something wrong with it?”

“No, it’s… good.”

I notice a slight hesitation and glance at her. “You said nice. Nice usually means…”

But I lose my train of thought as she kisses the edge of the cup and drinks deeply. She’s a major distraction. Giving myself a shake, I drag my gaze to the road and the non-existent traffic.

From my peripheral vision, I see her smile at me. It feels like she’s toying with me somehow. My hands tighten on the steering wheel. It steadies me. But I feel off, like I’m drifting out of my lane.

She’s Derek’s ex. Therefore, she’s off-limits.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asks, which sounds more like ‘what are you doing later?’

“No, it’s uh… fine.”

She sips again, then licks a dollop of foam off her lip.

Get a grip, Maine! A flash of red forces my gaze to the braking lights ahead of me. Pay attention.

“I’m not picky about coffee,” she continues. “I want it hot and with more than the legal caffeine limit. Derek was lousy at making coffee.”

“Derek has other qualities,” I say, remembering my promise to him. But I also don’t elaborate.

“This is…” She pauses, drawing me in like a moth, then says, “It’s lovely.”

I flex my hands and then clench the steering wheel hard. For some reason, I care too much about what she thinks.

“But how hard can it be," she adds, "to make a good cuppa joe?” That tips me off kilter. “It’s only beans, not magic ones, and hot water, right?”

I hit the gas harder than I intended, and the truck lunges forward. Then an idea leaps to mind. “You’ll have to prove it.”

“Prove what exactly?”

“That making coffee is as easy as you say.”

“You want me to make you a cup of coffee?”

“Yeah,” I say, but clarify, “but not instant.” I toss the words down like a gauntlet.

“Sounds like a challenge,” she says with a confident smile. “I’ll figure out the best cup of coffee for you. But you’ll have to make one to knock my socks off.”

I reach out my hand. “Challenge accepted.”

She shakes my hand but touches my arm with her other hand. My bicep twitches in response. I pull my hand away and grip the steering wheel as if I’m driving on black ice. For some stupid reason, I imagine what it would feel like to have her touch my bare skin. Whoa, right there, Maine.

Shaking off the unnerving reaction, I clear my throat and shift gears. “Derek stopped by last night. To check on you.”

“Or to rail at me,” she suggests.

“He was very concerned about how you were holding up. Nice of him, considering.”

She drinks more coffee, which I take as a good sign. “What exactly did you tell him?”

“Nothing much. Just that you were, you know, tired, that’s all.”

“You didn’t tell him about yesterday? About our date?”

“Date?” A cold sensation flows over me and then melts into panic. Is that why she’s flirting with me? “You misunderstood, Libby. It wasn’t a date.”

She nurses the coffee, which boosts my confidence. She likes it; she just doesn't want to admit it. What game is she playing? I concentrate on my own task. “Don’t you want to know how Derek’s doing?”

She shrugs with indifference. “Oh, Derek. He’s a survivor. He’ll be fine. Probably finding a date on what would have been our honeymoon. He’s not the type to stay single long.”

“Well, actually,” I improvise for Derek’s benefit, “he’s upset and wants to talk to you. He wants to work things out.”

“That’s impossible.” She leans back, arching her neck, making me swallow hard. “If he’s so upset, why hasn’t he called?”

Good question. I tap my thumb against the steering wheel. “You don’t have your phone.”

“But he knows where I’m staying. Your folks have a phone, don’t they?”

She has me there. “But,” I counter, “he came by. Which is better than a phone call. More personable. Besides, it’s my fault,” I take the heat. “I told him you needed rest. I thought it might be better for him to wait. Let things cool down. I shouldn’t have interfered.”

Nor should I now. But I promised Derek. We have a long history, and our friendship includes a business partnership as well. Did I have a choice?

“Oh, it’s all right,” she chirps. “I do need space. That was a good suggestion. I need to explore…” Her swooping glance shades her eyes with long eyelashes. “…other possibilities.”

Other possibilities? Suddenly, my jacket feels like it’s made of burlap. I stare at her a second too long, then my gaze jerks toward the road and a semi braking. I stomp on the brake, and we both fall forward, then back.

While we stare out the windshield, past the writing on the glass to the semi, and wait for it to move forward, I offer my phone to Libby. “If you want to call Derek, I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”

She waves it away with the flick of her wrist. “We need space. Besides, isn’t Derek on a flight to our exotic honeymoon destination this morning?”

“Imagine how hard that must be.” I attempt to conjure sympathy for him.

“He’s probably flirting with the flight attendant,” she says without an ounce of bitterness. “Besides,” she adds, “he’ll feel much better after he secures the deal.”

What was Derek thinking? Why take your bride to a business deal? Libby deserves a romantic honeymoon destination and undivided attention.

A car horn blasts the Wedding March tune. Here comes the …HONK.

I lift my hand in a conciliatory wave to the trucker, but I notice Libby shaking her head.

“Go along to get along?” she asks.

“Seems easier,” I answer. “Not like I can explain why my truck is all decorated. We’ll get it cleaned this afternoon.”

“Think we could pick up my stuff at the B&B then? I am missing my iPad, something fierce. And, of course, my phone.”

“Sure, no problem.”

I park in front of The Brew, which has large plate glass windows beneath a red and white striped awning.

“I like it,” she says. “Very inviting.”

I check to see if she’s being sarcastic, but I read sincerity in her expression. “It’s a work in progress. Derek told me you have a good eye for decorating and such. Maybe you can give me a few pointers.”

Maude, the owner of Cinderella’s Stockings, exits the shop and blows me a kiss.

“Looks like you’re doing fine,” Libby says. “But I’m happy to help.”

I open the truck’s door for Libby and remember my promise to Derek to ‘talk him up.’ “Derek helped me finance the shop when we graduated from UGA.”

Something in her expression changes, like a shuttering of a window. “Trust funds are handy to have, aren’t they?”

Detecting full-scale sarcasm, I toss back, “He could have financed anyone, but he was a good friend. I’ll be grateful forever.”

She looks up at me. “Do you feel like you owe Derek something?”

“No, I mean, well, I am paying him back. Every penny. With interest. We have a contract.”

“Derek loves starting businesses,” she adds as we move toward the entrance. “I'm not sure he has the stamina for a long-term commitment.”

It feels like we’re playing a game of chess. “Actually,” I say, “Derek wants to expand into a bookstore, soda fountain, even a pharmacy. That’s very forward-thinking. Rock solid commitment to our partnership and the community here.”

“Oh, Derek always has plans,” she says. “Hospital. Learning Center. Retirement home. Cemetery. Soon he’ll own the whole town. Then he’ll sell it all for a profit.”

With an I’ve-got-you-now kind of smile, I say, “He’s a visionary.”

“Or an oligarch,” she tosses out.

Which makes me falter.

“After all,” she continues, “why stop with a coffee shop when you can take over and own the whole town? Or county? Or even the entire state?”

I open the shop door. “And he will, you know. He’s very successful. He’s what my momma calls a ‘real catch.’”

“I’m not into fishing,” she says, looking up at me. “What about you, Luke? Don’t you want to rule the world?”

“Me? I’m just a simple guy.” I move toward her, and thankfully, she steps into The Brew. I follow with a sigh of relief.