Page 68 of The Wedding Run
“If the cakes burn,” Elle says, “we’ll have to start over and push the wedding to sunset.”
“Carry on,” I say.
After dumping her paper plate in the trash, Elle washes her hands for the fiftieth time.
Bailey sits politely, looking to each of us for bites of crust, which we happily feed him.
“Time for round two,” Elle declares as the clock speeds past ten o’clock.
The rest of us begin to slow down, feeling the effects of the race we’re in. Elle pulls rounds out of the oven, testing each layer to ensure they are done in the middle. Soon, cake sections cool in every conceivable place around the kitchen.
I’m in charge of cooking bacon. Luke chops leeks, mushrooms, and spinach for the baby quiches. Roxie prepares frosting for the scones. Charlie slices strawberries, cantaloupe, and pineapples for the fruit trays. Bailey sprawls across the floor, his paws twitching in his sleep, and we step over him.
Wade loiters near me and the sizzling bacon. “Smells good.”
“Come on, you,” Stacy drags him away. “It’s past your bedtime.”
Luke sends Roxie home, assuring her that we will take good care of the muffins and scones.
“You’re doing this because you think I’m old,” Roxie complains.
“Not at all,” Luke reassures her. “We’re all going to be exhausted and need someone to think clearly during the wedding. And that’s you.”
She grunts in disapproval but hugs us all before heading home.
It’s nearing midnight as Luke, Charlie, and I load the covered fruit trays into the bed of his truck.
“We shall return,” I assure my sisters.
Charlie offers me a lackluster salute. “I’ll stay here and help Elle.”
Elle doesn’t look up from leveling cake layers with the precision of an architect. “You just want samples of cake.”
“If you insist!” Charlie snatches a sliver that Elle shaved off.
“Hey!” Elle admonishes.
CHAPTER 35
Libby
Downtown Storybrook appears sleepy-eyed, with shutters and blinds closed over store windows. It’s dark, except for the occasional streetlamp, each one surrounded by a gothic haze that adds a mysterious allure to the town. Luke drives as slowly as molasses in February, ensuring he doesn’t jostle the trays in the pickup’s bed.
It’s still awkward between us. I glance at him, studying his profile in the cab’s shadows, the line of his brow, straight nose, and firm but grizzled jaw.
He catches me looking, so I refocus on the road. “Yellow light,” I say, as we approach the intersection. “Aren’t you going to stop?”
“It stays yellow at night,” he explains. “As a cautionary tale.”
“I wish I had more of those in my life.”
He glances at me once more. “What would you have avoided?”
“I don’t know,” I hedge and think about that kiss we shared. But I wouldn’t have wanted to miss it. “On one hand,” I say, “wasting time and money on a wedding that wasn’t meant to be. But would I have given up knowing Derek? Or you?”
The question lingers between us.
“Then you might find yourself crawling into bed on a Friday night and getting eight hours of sleep instead of staying up all night prepping for a sunrise wedding.” Luke grins.
