Page 8 of The Wedding Run
“That’s the plan,” Derek adds with a wolfish grin.
“Focus on your beautiful bride.” I block the image of her in her bathrobe and the feel of her in my arms. I didn’t bother telling Derek about that inconsequential incident. It didn’t mean anything.
“Libby’s a looker,” he agrees. “What did you think when you first met her?”
My throat tightens. “She doesn’t deserve you.”
He nods, then his gaze sharpens. “What does that mean?”
“You’re marrying up, my friend.” I clap him on the shoulder. "Well done."
Derek laughs. “She’s not doing too bad either. The potential is all around, Luke. Reach out and grab it while you can.”
I shake loose the tension in my hands. “I’ve got about all I can handle.”
Derek frowns. “Get over her.”
“Her?” I ask, knowing exactly who he means.
“It’s been years. Move along. Lib has a cute sister. And I’ve got a bunch of investors and business associates coming to the wedding. There will be plenty of women to choose from.”
I divert the conversation with, “Where’s Rob?”
“I sent him on an errand.”
I hope there won’t be more booze. Rob, the other groomsman, drank more than his share at the rehearsal dinner. My job as best man is to help the groom, get him dressed and ready on time, and avoid any obstacles that might trip him up or cause a debacle.
“Libby,” Derek explains, “insisted I have two groomsmen because of her two sisters. Her bridesmaids. Marriage is a compromise.”
“So they say.” I notice a pinching of Derek’s lips. “You okay?”
“This is what I want,” he says, shoving his fingers through his gelled hair.
“Convincing yourself or me?”
Derek searches his pockets. “You have the ring?”
“Not yet.”
“I gave it to you. Didn’t I? Or maybe I stuck it in your jacket last night.”
“Then it must be at my cabin,” I say, and before he can blow a gasket, I add, “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back with it.”
“You’re a good man, Luke.”
“I try.” I grab my keys and head out.
It’s one of those surprising spring days in the mountains. The sun shines brightly, the sky is a true blue, and the temperature is cool enough to be comfortable. It feels as if someone ordered the perfect weather for the wedding.
I round the corner of the B&B toward the parking lot when I hear, “Mike Peterson!” It's a woman's shrill voice. “That is not what I’m saying.”
It pulls me up short, and I look past several cars. I only glimpse part of a short woman in slacks and a heavy overcoat. She’s pointing her finger at the bride’s father.“Now Barbara Lee?—”
“I understand why you didn’t invite me to this wedding," the woman says. "It’s as plain as the nose on your face. You never told her, did you?”
“Today is not a good day to do this.”
“Can’t be any better or worse than any other day,” the woman says.
