Page 18 of Up in Smoke

I think he shakes my hand. Maybe it was more of a squeeze.

“I know who you are,” he says.

My mouth drops open slightly—just enough to let a whisper of air into my lungs to keep the color in my face.

“Okay,” the lady who wanted us to stand by each other cuts in, “turn this way. And walk forward a few steps.”

My wedding-date-for-show bends his right arm and, in one smooth move, lifts it over my hand so that it can loop through. I curl my fingers around his bicep and laugh when he deliberately flexes. He’s not sly, and I think he knows it.

Savannah and Blythe look on with bright eyes. We step forward, and I grip his arm as if I need the added stability. I’m not wearing heels that would warrant such a firm clutch for balance, but it’s better for the wedding planner if she can get a realistic scene.

I do what I can to keep my focus ahead. Still, I don’t miss him flipping Warren off with his free hand as we walk past, which makes me smile.

The bearded one next to Blythe cocks an eyebrow. The big, quiet one half-chuckles, half-huffs from somewhere behind us. Warren looks worried for some reason, and I swallow hard.

“Absolutely stunning,” the lady states, exaggerating her words. She taps on the tablet in her hand for a moment before returning her attention to the future wedding party and one stand-in bridesmaid. “All good here. The only thing left is the final fitting for the best man, and then we’ll go over final reception details next week.”

“Thank you so much,” Blythe says, pulling her in for a swift hug and then turning toward Savannah. “The dresses are exactly what I envisioned. I could not be happier!”

She’s a bubbly bride-to-be. The rosy flush in her cheeks and the sparkle in her smile say it all—she can’t wait to get married.

I never understood the ones who get unreasonably upset or overly worked up while planning their big day. Weddings are ahappyoccasion, are they not? Some brides forget that. They have no idea how lucky they are.

Blythe and Savannah rave to each other about the successful fittings, and I try to listen in on their giddy conversation, but all I can focus on is the fact that the man currently trapping my hand between his arm and rib cage is looking at me.

At least . . . Ifeelhim looking at me. I haven’t chanced a peek yet to confirm.

All of a sudden, I’m hyper-aware of the tight dress clinging to my body. My weight shifts from one foot to the other, and I run my free hand over the fitted bodice.

“I’ve got to get out of this dress.”

Without turning my head completely, I peer over to see his lifted brow. Nope. Not going there.

Now seems like a good time to untangle the pretzel we’re in. Slowly, I drag my hand over his upper arm and pull it away from its cozy bicep bed. He pouts, and I almost laugh out loud. Hisplayfulness makes me wonder if he’s secretly much younger than I am.

“How old are you?” I ask.

His lips curve into a wistful grin. “Old enough to remember filling all the nasty cups with booze instead of water in beer pong.”

I’m getting a sense that he’s the type of guy who doesn’t play fair because he’s never had to. Giving indirect answers to make me laugh is damning evidence. Oddly enough, his cryptic response does land him in a specific age bracket.

“Elder millennial. Interesting. And what’s your name?”

“Tripp,” he answers quickly while rubbing the spot where my hand was.

I figured as much, but I had to double-check. Too bad he isn’t a standard Jarred or Jake. Something boring. Tripp is a downright cute name and it fits him well. I bet it rolls right off the tongue when girls scream it every night. He probably likes hearing it moaned in his ear?—

I shake my head and abruptly cut off my own thoughts when he not-so-subtly eyes me from head to toe.

“Don’t look at me like that . . .Tripp.”

He scoffs but stretches his mouth into a broader smile. “Like what?”

“Like you’re waiting for me to bat my eyelashes and ask for your help with the zipper on my dress or something.”

He crosses his arms and tilts his head. With no prior interactions to go off of, I’m unable totrulydiscern what’s on his mind, but I try. The way he patiently studies my expression makes me think he’s searching for a hint of flirtation.

Every few seconds, he casually chews the gum in his mouth. I wait for him to say something, but he remains silent. Uneasy pressure builds in my chest at the sudden thought of him taking what I said too seriously.

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