Page 43 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)

MESA

“Oh, come on . Seriously?” I huff as the side of my dress gets caught in the door of my car.

Music is already playing from the ceremony and I’ve barely just parked. Rather than yanking it and ripping the fabric, I open the door and pull my dress out of the way before slamming it closed again.

Heels and clutch in hand, I quickly make my way across the parking area. Once I hit grass, I take a deep breath and force myself to walk at a normal pace.

Past the bunkhouse is a small group of white chairs, neatly arranged in rows over a patch of sloping green grass. There are about fifty guests in attendance, and I’m the last one to arrive.

I pass by the guest sign-in table and laugh at an aluminum stock tank filled with ice, Southern Comfort shooters, and Pbr cans. The temptation to grab one is strong, but I’m already running low on time.

If it weren’t for the random hair stylist showing up at my house about two hours ago, I’d have been early. Hattie Jo saw my lazy up-do over FaceTime this morning and was not having it. Now I’m swiping strands of a bombshell blow-out away from my glossy lips every two seconds.

The dress, I’m totally on board with. It’s a summery sage green color, and not too short or low-cut. Just tight and revealing enough to trick me into thinking I may have missed my calling as a centerfold.

I smile at the old tree leaning to the side with a perfect cascading branch hanging directly above the altar.

The altar itself is made of simple wood and streams of cream-colored fabric that gently billow in the breeze.

There’s no telling how long it took the guys to clean this place up after the storm last weekend.

With the incredible view in the distance and the minimal decor, the space is breathtaking.

When I’m almost to the seating area, the back door to the bunkhouse opens. Gage steps out, and I avert my gaze to pick up speed. I hop from one foot to the other while trying to speed-walk and slip my heels on at the same time.

After spotting an empty chair at the end of the third row, I duck past a photographer with her camera aimed at the bunkhouse and take a seat. It’s on the groom’s side and that almost makes me get up and move.

Do I belong with the bride’s guests? Probably, since I’m technically not Tripp’s plus one.

From where I’m at now, he’s going to be right in front of me on full display.

I barely rise from my seat to move across the aisle when the song coming through two large speakers on either side of the ceremony switches. Guests turn their heads, and I’m forced to sit back down.

Heston leads the groomsmen down the aisle.

At first, I give him a fleeting glance. Then I do a double take.

Did they have to hold him down to get his beard trimmed like that?

His bulky frame fills out his tailored suit, his boots look new, and the hat on his head is neither sweat-stained nor slightly dented on the crown like usual.

I have to tilt my head almost all the way to continue gawking at him as he passes me. He’s nothing short of imposing, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we found out one day he was carved from the side of a mountain.

It’d be tacky if I took a video and sent it to Hattie later. She’d also throw my phone into the nearest body of water, so I forget the idea altogether.

As he reaches the altar and turns to take his spot, Tripp’s back invades my line of sight. He’s leaner compared to Heston. His gait is less relaxed than usual. Even his suit can’t hide the muscles that are coiled tight underneath.

Warren and Gage walk in next. They clasp hands, lean in, and slap each other on the back once before turning to the crowd.

It makes me smile, and I try to hold onto the expression, but my grin fades quickly to reveal the painful uncertainty that I can’t seem to hide.

With the men all in place, the song switches again.

I almost gasp as the bridesmaids float by.

The bouquets in their hands are nothing like the understated ceremony decorations.

They’re positively lavish and overflowing with fluffed-out peony blooms.

Savannah subtly winks at me as she and Keanna stand on the opposite side of the altar from the men.

I force a quick, closed-lip smile and fiddle with the clutch in my lap to avoid looking over at Tripp again.

Once the flower girl and ring bearer prance down the aisle, the music switches again, and the crowd stands.

I fix my eyes on Gage. His hands are folded casually in front of him.

It’s obvious the moment he sees her, but I don’t turn my head.

He doesn’t smile because he’s biting the inside of his cheek.

His eyes shine, and he shakes his head like he can’t believe what twist of fate led him to this moment in his life.

If I ever get married, no matter how long we’ve been together, I hope my husband’s face burns with a blush and adoration like that when he sees me.

I let out a slow sigh. I’ve tried to lock her up, but the hopeless romantic in me is still very much alive.

I don’t let her speak without my permission anymore. But she’s there.

She wants very much for me to swoon over this dreamy wedding and picture myself having one just like it someday.

My eyes move an inch to the right when Gage looks down and covers his eyes with one palm. I should have grabbed a damn tissue. Warren places a brotherly hand on his shoulder. My sight is pulled another inch to the right when Tripp’s hand reaches up to swipe over his brow.

Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit .

His jaw flexes twice, the music builds, and my chest aches.

My grip tightens on the small clutch in my hands. My heart ticks like a stopwatch against my ribs, like it’s counting down the seconds until I pull my eyes away.

“Please have a seat.”

In unison, each guest lowers themselves to their chairs at the request of the officiant. My locked knees aren’t cooperating for some reason, and I’m left standing. The little girl seated next to me with her family grips her tiny fist in the skirt of my dress and tugs.

I shake my thoughts, scoop an arm beneath my thighs, and drop to my seat. I’m grateful for her quick interference, so I turn to her, and we exchange smiles. Hers is black around the edges, and I eye the half-eaten Oreo cookie in her hand.

“Do you want one?” she whispers in a sweet, earnest voice only little kids have.

“No, thank you. I love your bracelet.”

She proudly holds up her wrist to show off the string of mismatched beads.

I lean down and pretend to inspect it with wide eyes as if it’s the most stunning piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen.

Her dad, who sits on the other side of her, pats her leg with a gentle, shushing sound.

We hunch our shoulders, cover our mouths, and silently giggle.

When I look back up, Tripp is staring right at us. His brows are slanted in a way that isn’t angry or pained. I think it’s longing I see. The officiant’s words sound distorted and distant while I hold his gaze. But I can’t stand it for long.

Once his throat bobs and I feel like I might cry, I sniff and tear my eyes away. We must have been looking at each other for much longer than I realized because, after finally turning my attention to the altar, the vows are over.

“I now pronounce you man and wife.”

Gage bends to hook his hands under Blythe’s behind and lift her into the air before the officiant is even done with his sentence.

“You may now kiss the?—”

They’re already kissing. The officiant laughs with a shake of his head.

A series of cheers erupt from the small crowd as she loops one arm around his neck and throws the other, holding her bouquet straight up in the air.

I clap and smile, devoting every ounce of my energy to not looking over at Tripp.

I feel him still watching me. But I pretend I don’t.

The bride and groom are full-on making out by the time a twangy and upbeat guitar riff floods the outdoor space. Warren pulls a flask from the inside of his jacket, winces after taking a shot, and then passes it down to Tripp.

I can’t help but watch their exchange, despite promising myself I wouldn’t look over at him again. He smiles but shakes his head. My brows pinch together, while Heston reaches over to take the flask instead.

Johnny and June play on—singing something about a big-mouth woman and a long-legged man. The maid of honor dramatically checks the time on a watch that she isn’t even wearing before throwing her arms out and picking up the skirt of her dress.

Warren shrugs and steps around Gage and Blythe, who are still kissing. By now, all the guests are in a fit of laughter. Rather than taking his arm and walking down the aisle, Keanna gives Warren a high-five. He holds his hand out past her, Savannah takes it, and he whisks her to him.

I laugh through my nose when he lifts her off her feet to take her back to the bunkhouse in a bridal carry. Keanna waits for Tripp to step up next, jukes him, and ends up walking out, smirking on Heston’s arm.

Tripp laughs like he and the maid of honor have a history of this sort of teasing—which is completely fine. He lifts his black cowboy hat, runs a hand through his hair, and bows with an arm over his abdomen in front of the flower girl.

She’s about four or maybe five years old and throws a handful of white petals directly in his face with a grin. He reacts as if it were a pail of water, which makes her jump up and down in a fit of squealing giggles. I think he did that just to make her laugh.

She finally grips his forearm, and he escorts her down the aisle. I watch them with glassy eyes and a strand of hair twisting furiously between my fingers.

“That concludes the ceremony,” the officiant in a humble suit and straw hat says as the music momentarily dies down. “We invite you to the barn just over yonder for the reception.”

The guests remain in their spots as Gage and Blythe continue to ignore their surroundings.

The officiant clears his throat. “I said that concludes the ceremony.”

Gage pulls away with heavy breaths and turns his face toward the crowd with smudges of pink lipstick around his smile.

A short time later, the sun has settled into a dark orange glow beneath the horizon. Music from a live band filters out of the barn as I make my way to the party.

I look down to my nude heels that slightly wobble every few steps over the gravel. Once I’m on solid ground in the barn, I take a deep breath and search for the bar.

“Got you,” Savannah says as she slides up next to me with a glass of champagne.

“Keep ‘em coming,” I tease before taking a sip. “You were so beautiful up there. All you girls were.”

“I was just about to say you look so freaking good.”

We laugh, and I smooth a hand over my waist. I don’t bother trying to hide the smile on my lips that lingers once our laughter dies down.

“Did everything go okay today?”

“Oh, yeah.” She waves off my question and takes a drink. “It was chill and smooth sailing.”

I continue to smile, even though I was hoping she might go into a little more detail or slip in a word about a certain groomsman’s mood.

“Good. That’s great.”

“Oh, I’d better see what that’s about.”

I look toward the band, where Keanna is waving Savannah over.

“I’ll catch up with you here in a bit.” She squeezes me in a hug. “Live it up a little, okay? I want you to have fun.”

“I’ll try,” I respond with a laugh while shooing her away.

A line of guests forms behind a buffet table against the far wall, and the smell of food works its way to my nostrils. I blow out a breath, finish my glass of champagne, and go in search of a seat.

The table near the dance floor that I choose appears to be unoccupied, but the minute I sit down, a deep male voice sounds from behind me.

“That’s my chair.”

I spin in my seat to see a broad-shouldered man staring down at me. His light brown hair is long enough to pull back in a hair tie. The button-down shirt he’s wearing looks like it might burst at the seams from straining against the size of his arms.

I squint at his face. He’s conventionally handsome, in a sort of brutish way. But there’s something all wrong about it. Could be the mustache. Are mustaches still a thing? I never got on board with those.

“I’m sorry,” I finally reply while gathering my clutch from the table. “I didn’t realize?—”

“I’m just kidding with you.” He laughs like he pulled off the world’s funniest prank. He didn’t quite nail the delivery, if you ask me. But whatever.

“Okay . . .” I ease back down to my seat with a raised eyebrow.

He spins the chair next to mine so that he can sit the wrong way and lean forward against the back of it. It creaks under his weight. “Name’s Dax.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say flatly.

“I’m not really one for parties.”

“Good to know, Dax.”

“If I’m stuck on my own, that is.” He chuckles and gestures toward the dance floor. “Do you like to dance?”

I think about it while worrying my lip. Sure, I dance sometimes when I’m feeling spontaneous in my flower garden or in the kitchen making desserts—at home where I can play my favorite songs.

I might even enjoy the occasional back road slow-dance in the beam of headlights, but that only happens in vivid dreams just before my alarm goes off.

I shrug. “I guess so.” Nothing prompts me to return the question.

“Well, I’m not very good. But how about a dance with me, then?”

My lips part as I study the casual indifference in his voice. There’s no edge to it. Nothing to elicit tingles on my skin.

My eyes linger over the evidence of age on his face. He’s older than me by at least eight years if I had to guess. Maybe ten. In a distinguished way, though. A way that I think most girls would find irresistible or alluring.

The band switches to a slow song, and Dax rises from his chair with an outstretched hand. Has he even asked my name?

My eyes dart to my surroundings, but they’re nothing but a blur of dim lights and faceless people eating, drinking, or dancing.

“Why not,” I say with a shrug.

I place my hand in his, but his palm has an odd thickness to it that prevents it from feeling like he’s truly wrapping his fingers around mine.

A functional touch lacking all signs of connection.

I don’t like the way it feels, and a pit of regret settles in my stomach as he leads me around the table and toward the dance floor.

“Dax. Thank you for the offer, but?—”

He’s pulling me into his arms and starts swaying back and forth before I even finish my sentence or know where to put my hands. They eventually land on his biceps. God, what the hell has this man been eating? Raw eggs and steak bites dipped in protein shake gravy?

I’m faking a smile, and he’s no sooner smoothed a palm up my spine before someone reaches from behind me and taps him on the shoulder.