Page 2 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“You should’ve installed scaffolding for those things,” says Jenner, eyeing Danielle’s chest with alarm.
Danielle shakes her double Ds and blows Jenner a kiss. “She tried, but the girls need to be free. I made her take all the boning out.”
Jenner looks disturbed. “Is this a wedding or a cabaret?”
“It’s not only a wedding—it’s the wedding,” says Ginny, dabbing on a last-minute dollop of lip gloss. She caps the tube and sets it on a side table, then turns to Jenner with a smile. “Everyone who’s anyone in San Francisco is here. I can’t wait to see the coverage in the press!”
I shudder. “The press. God, don’t remind me.”
“I know those jerks from the tabloids have been following you around, but the people Daddy hired to cover the wedding are totally legit. It’ll be great for your company, Kimber.” Ginny smooths a hand down the waist of her gown. “These dresses are gorgeous, and you look like a princess. Once the pictures come out, your obscure little dress shop will be famous.”
“Knock wood.”
“Please! Everyone, let’s move!” shouts a hyperventilating Miranda.
I take the bouquet from Jenner’s hands and inhale a deep breath to calm my screaming nerves. Not that it helps, but I have to try something. My antiperspirant is already failing, my stomach is in knots, and my hands are shaking so hard the callas look spastic.
Danielle and Ginny grab their bouquets and go ahead of us, then Jenner and I walk arm in arm from the room. “It’s showtime, darling,” Jenner murmurs as photographers swarm us and cameras start whirring. “Chin up. Back straight. Tits out.”
I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and try hard not to gulp air like a guppy. When we round the corner and enter the narthex through a pair of heavy wooden doors, the classical strains of Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” fill my ears. Miranda frantically motions us forward. Jenner squeezes my trembling hand. We take a few more steps and we’re in the nave.
It’s so beautiful, for a moment I’m overwhelmed. The flowers. The candles. The huge crowd of well-dressed guests, standing for my entrance.
And Brad, awaiting me at the altar, so tall and broad shouldered, wearing his tux with such ease it’s as if he were born in it.
When our eyes meet across the distance, my heart swells. All-American apple-pie perfection is what he is. The square jaw, the golden tan, the wavy blond hair gleaming under the lights. The proud bearing and ridiculous good looks.
My Prince Charming. He’s more beautiful than everything else put together, more perfect than my wildest dream.
Except for that look of abject terror on his face, which really clashes with his tux.
When my step falters, Jenner squeezes my hand again. “Steady, darling.”
We start our trek down the aisle at the glacial pace we’ve been browbeaten during rehearsals by Miranda to adopt. One step—pause. Another step—pause. It heightens the drama, she said. She was certainly right, because with every step I take closer to him, Brad’s face drains of blood until he could handily pass for a corpse.
Under my breastbone, my heart does a credible impersonation of a dying fish and flops wildly around, gasping.
Through his manufactured smile, Jenner quietly observes, “Your spoiled little frat boy looks even more douchey than usual.”
My own smile is so wide it feels as if my face might crack. Two photographers lurk at the end of the aisle, snapping pictures, so I try not to move my lips when I answer. “He looks like he’s facing a firing squad. Is that normal?”
“Maybe Satan got a drop of holy water on his skin, and he’s trying not to turn to ash in front of all Daddy’s constituents.”
I’ll kill Jenner later. Right now it’s taking all my concentration to keep my smile alive.
By the time we make it to the end of the aisle, I can clearly see the sweat streaming down Brad’s temples, the wild, trapped-animal panic in his eyes, and his deathly pallor. Beside him, his best man, Trent, grins like a fool as he ogles Danielle’s chest.
So loudly I flinch, the priest says, “Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”
“She gives herself,” replies Jenner smoothly, trashing his Miranda-approved answer of I do. Then he hands me off to Brad, who’s obviously struggling to remain conscious.
Stepping forward with a tremulous smile, I whisper, “Honey? Are you okay?”
Blinking like a baby bird, Brad swallows. He makes a froggy croaking noise that doesn’t sound anywhere close to a yes. I’ve seen victims of car crashes in better shape.
I shoot a desperate glance at his parents in the front row. Senator and Mrs. Wingate are dressed to the nines, like everyone else. Unlike everyone else, however, they appear almost as nervous as their son.
Something is terribly wrong.
