Page 530 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
“I’m not going to be late,” I respond.
In my jacket pocket, my phone buzzes with the second alarm I’ve set to make sure we start on time.
Damn, I’m going to be late.
“It’s not a big deal,” Tyrone says, looking up at me, his deep brown eyes too bright.
“Yes, it is. We’ll wait.”
“Max, get down there,” Mac says. “Cynnie’ll be getting worried. I’ll send the kids out when Dakota gets here.”
I glance out of the huge lodge window, over a vista of pines, down a rolling hill to a sparkling lake. This is my first time in Katonah, this tiny town upstate that Logan’s friend Niall found. He’s building a compound,Katonah Kinksters Kabins. The name makes me chuckle. I’ve already bought one of the cabins, but they won’t be ready for at least a year.
Cynnie and I couldn’t wait a year.
I’m not sure how Emily found this place—a private retreat, fittingly called Bumblebee Lodge—on the edge of one of thearea’s many lakes. But the owner was delighted to let us have the lodge for the weekend, given that it’s off season. Then Cynnie let slip in the Littles Army chat that this was more than a weekend getaway and our numbers swelled to nearly thirty. Emily called the owner and the owner called the neighbors. They found everyone a place to stay around the lake.
We had an appointment two hours ago with the justice of the peace at the town hall in Bedford. After word of our elopement ran through the playgroup like wildfire, Miss Ginger offered to officiate. We canceled the appointment; the ceremony was relocated to the lodge. A buffet and a cake appeared like magic an hour ago. The back deck sprouted rows of chairs, split by a neat aisle leading out to an observatory platform that overlooks the lake.
Miss Ginger, wearing deep green, non-denominational robes, is already waiting on the platform. The wind singing through the pines, which will be our wedding march, ruffles her blue curls around her face. She looks up at the window, meets my eyes, and raises her eyebrows.
I’m late.
I grab Tyrone’s hand. He glances up from his phone, where Dakota’s been giving him updates on her travel from the City, delayed by a flat tire. “I need my seed-bearer and my ring-bearer. We’ll wait as long as it takes.”
He blinks rapidly. “I don’t want to mess up your wedding.”
“You’re not messing up anything. This day wouldn’t be happening without you. Can’t do this without my wingman.”
“She thinks she’s only ten minutes away.”
“Then I’ll see you two in ten minutes.” I squeeze his hand and when he pushes forward, give him a hug. Stepping back, I straighten his bow tie. Cynnie wanted everyone to pick their own outfits, whatever they were comfortable wearing. I just smiled to myself when Ty picked the suit I wore to Cynnie’s grandma’sgala, only in orange, with a black bow tie. “Dakota’s eyes are gonna pop out when she sees you, my man.”
He elbows me. “One look at me, Cynnie’s gonna wonder why she’s marrying a doofus like you.”
“Probably. My suit’s nowhere as sharp as yours.” Figuring that suit I wore for the gala would bring back bad memories, I’m wearing a slim-fit, midnight blue tuxedo. Cynnie keeps calling my Prince Harry look; I keep reminding her that Bond wore it inSkyfall. “A man doesn’t need to push others down to raise himself up, though.”
Ty gives me a teenaged eye roll. “Your hair’s lookin’ sharp. She might still marry you.”
I ruffle his sponge twists and dodge his retaliatory elbow. Then I give in to Logan’s tugging on my arm and follow him down through the main lodge, where our guests are milling around with drinks, carrying an entire zoo worth of stuffies as they wait. At the back door, Brenna, wearing a black leather pants suit and matching top hat, waits for us. She gives me a big grin as she holds open the door. In our wake, she hollers, “Everyone to their seats!”
I tap the brim of her hat as I pass.
Stepping out onto the wide porch, I smile at Ginger and take a deep breath. The air’s bracing, making my chest tighten even more than the emotion that’s been riding me since I woke this morning. It’s cold, but neither icy nor snowy, even though it’s January. Everyone’s got coats and there are blankets laid out on every row of seats. But I don’t think we’re going to need them. Or maybe it’s just me, running hot with nerves.
Logan tugs me across the deck’s wooden boards, down the short bridge, out onto the observation platform nestled between the tall pines. Ginger grins at me as we line up beside her.
“No wedding ever goes to plan,” she says, in a tone that I think is supposed to be reassuring.
It doesn’t reassure me. My head floods with everything else that could go wrong. The deck could collapse. Is it even rated for thirty plus people? As our friends begin making their way out of the back door of the lodge and to the rows of seats, every creak of the wood sends a spike of worry up my spine. The planks that felt solid under my shoes look rickety. The door swings closed behind Brenna; she makes her way to sit next to Emily. No kids. No Mac. No Cynnie. Cynnie could have changed her mind and be fleeing out of the front door right now ...
The back door opens and Cynnie walks out, holding Mac’s arm.
Okay, I guess she’s not fleeing. The deck could still collapse, though.
Seeing my bride settles the chaos in my head. I’ve seen her wedding dress several times—I helped her design it—but it still takes my breath away. It pays homage to her culture and to mine while being unmistakably fairy kei. A pink overskirt, patterned all over with cherry blossoms, trails to the ground. The overskirt splits over a fluffy petticoat that stops above her knees, revealing her white stockings and platform Mary Janes. Her legs look insanely long, even though she barely comes up to Mac’s shoulder. A rose-red silk jacket tops the dress, cropped to just below the swell of her breasts; the hem and long sleeves are embroidered with more cherry blossoms. A few tiny, dizzy bees circle among the flowers. Instead of a bouquet, she’s carrying one of her smiling, black and gold striped bumbles. Her face is covered by a hot pink veil, but the veil isn’t fastened to a headband. It’s fluffed over the brim of a black top hat, the same top hat Brenna and most of our little guests are wearing.
Logan bumps his shoulder into mine. “Drool’s not the look you want on the wedding photos.”
