Page 12 of I Almost Do

I look down at our hands twined together, then stiffen my spine. “What’s that?”

“I was nervous as hell too.”

Damn it.Is he seriously trying to comfort me by showing me his vulnerable side?How am I supposed to keep my heart hardened against that?

Then the photographer and his assistant are climbing in with us, and he's telling us how to sit and where to look. And I don't have to answer James.

The photographer, Rafe, is an energetic man with a shaved head. He is enthusiastic as hell and just as obnoxious.

He tried to get photos of the girls and me jumping on the hotel bed, to which I'd simply given him the Marcus Harcourt stare.

He'd backed off a bit after that. But he and his assistant were waving wand lights around and "orchestrating moments" every minute.

Then he intruded on my time with Dad. At which point, again, I'd channeled a little of my father, pointed an imperious finger, and demanded, "Wait outside." Which he did, all the while muttering anxiously about his "shot list."

Under different circumstances, the photographer would have amused me. Under different circumstances, I'd have welcomed his obsessive attempt to mold a vision of this day as the fun and happy young heiress marries her dream man. But these are not “differentcircumstances.”

The planner gushed over Rafe. Apparently, he's world famous in wedding photography circles. He's won all kinds of prestigious awards, and they flew him in just for our wedding.

"Congratulations, you two! You did it," Rafe says in his New Zealand accent, a big grin on his face.

The less we smile, the harder he smiles back at us, as if he's willing us to respond in kind. His expression has become something of an unmoving rictus on his face.

I try to fake a polite expression, but I can't quite manage "happy."

When we arrive at the location the planner selected, he says, "Okay, guys, just stand right here. There you go. Now, hubby, just reach your arms around your new wife. No, not her waist, up here—"

He touches James and attempts to move his arm up around my collarbone area.

I can't see James's expression, but the photographer jumps back as if he's seen a snake, then starts bobbing his head. "Right. No touching. Bad habit," he says. From a distance, he starts to mime the motion instead. "Bring your face right in."

James slides in close. Tension is vibrating from him. Or maybe that's me.

It's chilly out here, but James's body is warm around me, and he smells delicious. I want to turn around, burrow into his arms, and hide there. Let Rafe get shots of nothing but this poofy skirt and the top of my head.

"Excellent." Rafe is moving around, snapping shots. "Sweetheart, turn your face toward the sky and close your eyes. Gorgeous."

Sweet baby Jesus, this is awkward.

"Now, sweetheart, we're going to do the piggyback pose. James, can you lift her on your back without help?”

I whip my head toward the photographer in horror.That dumbass Pinterest board.That’s where he’s been getting his “shot list.” The memory of some of the poses fifteen-year-old me had pinned… pure cringe.

James and I both speak in tandem and say one word. "No."

"Cool. Cool. Maybe the planner showed me the wrong Pinterest board."

She did not show him the wrong Pinterest board, but I nod furiously. “I think she must have,” I say brightly.

Yes, I’m throwing the planner under the bus. She lost my loyalty when she said we were "lucky the groom cheated" regarding the wedding Rafe was originally scheduled to shoot this week.

Let the planner and Rafe hash it out between them.

James looks down at me, and whatever he sees on my face has him turning to Rafe and saying, “We’re very private people.”

I nod in agreement. “Veryprivate.”

“You’ll appreciate having these memories later,” Rafe argues.

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