Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I think Wyatt got my message loud and clear until I get to the tent and see him rearranging the place cards at the bridal party table . . . putting us side by side.
“You can’t do that,” I growl, grabbing his elbow this time.
Wyatt holds his hands out wide, gesturing at the tablescape I know Avery spent hours selecting. “Already did.”
I want to argue, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Cara heading this way. I’ll let her handle the evisceration. “You’re gonna get it. Wedding Planner Drill Sergeant is on the warpath.”
Wyatt looks around and sees Cara too. “I can handle her.”
I gawk at him, trying to decide whether he’s truly that brave or actually that stupid. Deciding that I can figure that out later, I grab his hand. “C’mon. If you don’t have any self-preservation instincts, I guess it’ll fall to me to keep the bloodshed to a minimum. For Avery’s sake.”
I pull him into the crowd, disappearing among the throngs of people. For the next ten minutes, I feel like Wyatt and I are playing hide-and-go-seek with Cara, popping into groups and ducking behind decorations to avoid her wrath.
The whole time, Wyatt’s grin grows. “Whoopsie!” he whispers as he pirouettes gracefully around a waiter, snagging two flutes of champagne as he does. He hands me one, his smile wide as he pretends to check the pulse in his neck. “Here. To keep our hydration levels up.”
I gape at him in awe, considering checking his pulse myself . . . and choking the hell outa him in the process. “Is this a joke to you?” I snap. “She’s going to skin you alive!”
“She just . . . Here!” he whispers, grabbing my arm and pulling me behind a real tree that’s been brought into the tent in a big pot. He ducks down, guiding me to do the same so we’re not seen.
“Hmmph. Guess it’s a good thing this tree was here,” I say begrudgingly.
“Shrub. It’s an arborvitae.”
“Whatever. I’m just glad it’s big enough to hide us both. How’d they get this thing in here anyway? A forklift?”
Do I care about the tree—er, shrub—or how it got here? No, not at all. But I’m staring at the pot and greenery so I don’t have to look at Wyatt or risk Cara feeling my eyes on her. I get the feeling she has a sixth sense about those things.
“It’s fake. A good one, but fake, so lighter than a real one because it doesn’t need dirt,” Wyatt explains.
“Will you please shut up?” I growl. “This is all your fucking fault. All you had to do was play nice for one minute and walk Rachel down the aisle, but did you do that? Noooo, of course not. Because that would be too easy for a fucking Ford.”
“I—” he starts, but I’m in full-on rant mode.
“I’m a Ford,” I interrupt, dropping my voice into a deep tone that is the best imitation of Wyatt’s sexy rumble I can do. “I do whatever the hell I want and don’t care what anyone else feels about it. Hur hur hur.”
If I had my head on straight, I’d be embarrassed at my piss-poor impression of him, but I’m too mad to care right now.
I expect him to get mad at my mockery, but instead Wyatt touches my face, and the whirling tangent in my head stops instantly. “Hey, hey . . . it’s okay. The only people I care about are Winston and Avery . . . and you. And look . . .”
He turns my head, directing my eyes across the tent to where Avery and Winston are whispering to each other, their foreheads pressed together and big smiles on their faces. They look like they’re on a greeting card, they’re so adorable.
They’re happy, and Wyatt knows it.
“They don’t care,” he whispers to me. “So the only question is . . . do you?”
He doesn’t wait for my answer. Instead he steps out from behind the tree slowly, his eyes locked on mine. Whoever sees him . . . sees him.
And like clockwork, from somewhere in the crowd, I hear a voice say firmly, “Mr. Ford. Wyatt Ford, a word, please.”
Cara has found us.
But Wyatt shields me, turning to face Cara himself. “Yes, Ms. DeMornay.” Behind his back, he points to his right, telling me to get out of here, protecting me from Cara.
I should step up to help him, but like a coward, I follow his order and scoot out of the line of Cara’s fire. But as karma would have it, I get out of the fire and into the frying pan, nearly running smack into Rachel. And she’s pissed. And hurt.
“If you were already involved with Wyatt, why didn’t you just say so?”
“I’m not involved with him,” I argue.