Page 85 of Cherry Picked
And then we stepped through the foyer and into the assembly hall… and my breathing simply stopped.
The room no longer contained a motley collection of old, mismatched folding chairs from seventy years of potlucks and banners from centuries-old spelling bees. It had been transformed into a velvet-draped, candlelitballroomfilled with… Regency-era actors?
I blinked. This couldn’t be heatstroke, right? It was the middle of September and decidedly chilly. But I couldn’t come up with any other explanation for what I was seeing.
A woman in a coral-colored empire-waist dress with matching turban and feathers strolled by and gave me a polite curtsy, and I gasped. “Ms. Fortnum? What is happening right now?”
I stepped further into the room and turned in a circle. A woman in a deep blue dress and a sapphire necklace that set off her eyes—Jack’s eyes—winked at me. “Melanie?” I whispered. Across the room, a gaggle of girls in white dresses with artfully arranged curls smiled, and one of them waved with way too much energy. “Gracie?” A man in a top hat and long sideburns nodded at me. “Holy… Mr.Avery?”
Not actors, I realized. None of them were. This was my town—my friends and family—all dressed up in costumes like something out of…
Em grabbed my hand. She’d shucked her denim jacket, and now I could see that she, too, was dressed in costume. “Isn’t this amazing? The whole town came together… They love you, Hawk.”
Webb leaned in and whispered, “By the way, they already did the vote half an hour ago. It passed, thanks to you.”
That was great, and later tonight or maybe tomorrow, I’d care very much about that, but for the moment, the vote was the last thing on my mind. My neck twisted around like an owl’s, taking in the details of the room’s decorations, the orchestra music coming from one end of the room, the chaotic mess of modern-day Hollowans crowding the dance floor, trying to do the Boulanger.
I pressed a hand to my mouth to hold back my laughter even as my eyes filled with tears.
This was the Netherfield ballroom.
This wasPride and Prejudice.
This was… magic.
This was someone not caring that they were doing something a little foolish, as long as it made the person they loved smile.
And I knew exactly who had made it happen.
As I approached the dance floor, the music stopped, and a tall man with broad shoulders I would recognize anywhere, anytime, even when dressed in formal Regency attire, made his way through the dancing pairs.
Jack Wyatt was stunningalways, but dressed in a formal black tailcoat and buff-colored knee-breeches, with a crisp, white silk cravat tied in an elaborate knot at his throat and a dark beaver top hat over his sunshine hair, he made my knees turn to jelly.
He approached me formally, removed the hat, and made a deep bow. “Mr. Sunday,” he said, his gravelly voice loud in the sudden pin-drop silence of the room. “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
I stared at him, my throat thick with emotion. I swallowed and tried to ignore all of our friends and family watching us.
Jack Wyatt had done this for me. Given me the over-the-top romantic fairy tale I’d wanted for years.
“You’re tolerable, I suppose…” I sniffed, when I really wanted to scream, “Did you just quote Darcy at me?”
Jack’s breathtaking smile broke through his attempts at formality as if he knew exactly what I was thinking—because he probably did—and his blue eyes sparkled with adoration and mischief. My heart nearly hurled itself out of the cage of my body and into his own.
“You are too generous to trifle with me,” he whispered.
I stepped forward, reaching up to feel the intricate knot at his throat and the luxurious wool of his tailcoat lapels. “Baby,” I said, keeping my voice soft enough to stay between the two of us. “I can’t believe… You are…” I shook my head, unable to find the words to describe how happy he made me. HowunderstoodI felt when I was with him. “But you know you don’t need to prove anything to me, right? I don’t needthis… when every single minute with you is—”
“I know.” He brushed a finger over my forehead. “Of course I know. How could I not when you show me how much you love me every day? But I’m not always great with words.” He gave me a rueful half smile. “I’m never gonna be Mr. Darcy, with the longing looks and the poetic language. And I never want you to doubt how important you are to me. You make the bad days better and the good days amazing, and… and you’re my heart, Hawk Sunday,” he said simply.
Seriously, if the man were anybetterwith words, I’d melt into a puddle of goo right there on the floor.
I cupped his jaw. “I don’t need you to be Mr. Darcy for me,” I whispered. “I never did. I only ever needed you to be Jack.MyJack.”
“Always and forever. That’s a given.” He brushed his lips across mine and winked. “Dance with me, Bird?”
When we kissed, the crowd of friends and family around us whooped with joy—as well as a few semi-lewd puns. We joined the awkward dancers attempting a cross between square dancing, the waltz, and the Macarena.
The orchestra earned their keep for two straight hours, playing killer sets of the most danceable instrumental music in history. Refreshment tables were filled with pitchers of punch, platters of cold meats and finger sandwiches, and fruit-flavored ices for the kids.
