The Wrong Bridesmaid

Wyatt’s truck is right behind me as I make the last turn, the dirt of what passes as my driveway making a rumble beneath my tires. No going back now. Not that there really was after the way the grapevine was buzzing over the wedding.

Wyatt parks next to me, his truck huge next to Nessa. He gets out, looking at the outside of the house. “Nice.”

“Want to come in?” I ask, and Wyatt’s smile tells me the answer. My hand is remarkably steady as I open the front door, letting him in.

“Bawk! Welcome home, bitch!”

“The fuck?” Wyatt snarls in surprise as I snort laughter.

“Uh-oh.”

Wyatt’s still confused. “What the hell is that?”

I flip the light switch and Lester appears on his perch, squawking.

“Wyatt, this is Lester,” I explain. “Parrot and sailor all in one.”

“I see,” Wyatt says, eyeing Lester. “He’s a good home security system, I bet.”

“The best,” I assure him while crossing over to Lester. “Come on, buddy. It’s bedtime for birds.”

“Lester wanna watch!” Lester says, whistling a pretty decent “bow-chicka-wow-wow” that makes me blush and Wyatt chuckle. But when I hold out my arm, Lester flies over obediently, letting me tuck him in his cage and get his cover set up.

“Got your water . . . a midnight snack . . . your curtains,” I tell him as I get it all set. “You’re good to go. Good night, Lester.”

“Night-night!” he says before starting his fake-snoring routine.

I make sure his curtain’s set and turn around to see Wyatt looking around the rest of the living room.

“You have a nice place.”

“It belonged to my grandmother first,” I reply, wondering what Wyatt sees. “I know it’s nothing like your house, but my Gran loved it.”

Wyatt shakes his head, putting his hands in his pockets. “I would never compare the two. Your home looks warm and full of life.”

“And your family home?” I ask curiously, and Wyatt shrugs, though I can tell he’s thinking of an answer.

“Historical.”

It’s a telling no-tell, but I want to know more than just his personal issues with his family. Or maybe I want to know them in a different way. “What about your place in Newport?”

Wyatt shifts, looking uncomfortable, but answers, “It’s not like my family home at all. It’s more of a shack that’s attached to my workshop out on the edge of the woods.”

I laugh disbelievingly. “You make it sound rustic, but I bet it’s fancier than that.”

Wyatt shrugs. “It’s more about function. And the land was cheap.”

The honesty in his words makes me like him that much more. He’s different than I expect at every turn. “Then my thirty-year-old couch should be fine for you to make yourself comfortable while I take a quick shower,” I reply, taking a melodramatic sniff of myself. “I smell like fries, sweat, and pool chalk.”

Why did I say that? It’s true, but there’s no sense in highlighting the fact that I’ve been working all day and smell like a donkey’s ass end.

Wyatt looks at the couch and nods. “Sure, but one thing first . . .”

He takes my hand and pulls me into him, aligning our bodies. He lowers his mouth to my ear and growls, “Maybe I like the way you smell.” He places a soft kiss right below my ear, inhaling deeply. “The way you taste.” Another kiss to my neck. “The way you feel.”

He traces a fingertip along my collarbone, and a shiver runs down my spine. Thoughts flood my mind, and part of me wants to slow step Wyatt down the hall and into my bedroom, but I really do need a shower. And probably should shove some dirty clothes in the hamper before Wyatt’s in there or he’s going to think I’m a complete slob.

I groan, pulling away slightly. “I gotta shower . . . for real.”

He lets me go slowly, reluctantly. In response I press my palm to his chest, begging him to give me this moment. He steps back and lowers to the couch, his elbows on his knees and eyes burning. “I’ll be here.”

I walk backward down the hall and into my bedroom, where I quickly strip and throw my dirty clothes into the hamper along with the small pile that didn’t quite make it the previous couple of days. I’d do more, but a little bit of me still worries that Wyatt’s going to disappear while I’m back here.

Quickly, I hop in the shower and suds up. I’ve got the showerhead on massage, and the hot water works the knots out of my muscles, but along with it, my energy is equally sapped. Frankly, as much as I want Wyatt, I can barely keep my knees from giving out as I dry off.

Realizing my body has needs beyond the sexual, I pull on my favorite comfy pj’s, flannel pants and a long-sleeved shirt, which are soft but cute. I give my room one last look, wondering whether Wyatt is going to be able to see it in the state I’m in right now. I hope so . . . I don’t bring men home, ever. And despite my exhaustion, I want to spend as much time as possible with him. Whether that’s with a repeat of last night’s amazingness or simply lying down with his strong arms around me as we drift off.

As I make my way back to the living room, I see Wyatt still sitting on the couch, his eyes immediately finding me. But I get the feeling he’s been looking around, learning everything he can about me. I feel vulnerable, exposed, and move toward him slowly. “Find anything that has you running for the hills yet?”

“Well, those flannel check pants are about the only thing,” he teases lightly. “Thankfully, I’m pretty hard to scare.”

“I’m gonna try real hard to not take that as a challenge.” Bantering with him is perking me up a tiny bit.

Wyatt scoots over, patting the couch. “Come here.” Gratefully, I sit down next to him, and he brushes my hair over my shoulder. “Are you trying to scare me off?”

I shake my head, wanting to lean against him but instead sagging against the cushions. “Not exactly . . .”

“But?”

I look up at the ceiling, unwilling to meet his eyes for this confession. “But I’m reminding myself that you’re leaving soon,” I say honestly. I know I sound like one of those women who gets a little dick and becomes a stage-five clinger, something I am not. “It’s . . . difficult.”

Wyatt hums, still stroking my hair. “I haven’t made any plans one way or another.”

I don’t want to do this, don’t want him making promises he won’t keep. So I don’t ask for any. “Tell me about your life in Newport.”

Wyatt thinks for a moment, then lifts an arm, and I accept his invitation, leaning against him and relishing the comfort of his strength and warmth. “Like I said, I’ve got a place attached to my woodshop. It’s not much, but it’s got what I need—room to work, trails out the back where I can go into the actual woods to hike, pick up interesting chunks of wood from time to time for carving bits, and room to relax.”

I smile, liking the sound of it. “What do you do—like, for fun?”

“Wood,” he says, chuckling. “I can do a bit of everything, really. I’ve restored antiques, did a family’s stair banister, some in-home cabinetry work in the early days. But mostly what I do now are authentic traditional-method custom pieces, everything from furniture to antique reproduction millwork. I do an occasional art piece just for fun. That’s what I use the stuff I find in the woods for.”

I trace the length of his fingers, noting the rough calluses. There’re scars, too, the evidence of mistakes and lessons learned. “If I’d only seen you in your tux at the wedding, I never would’ve thought you . . .” I trail off, not sure how to explain without being rude.

Wyatt finishes for me. “You would’ve thought I was just like my family. Work with my mouth more than my hands?”

I nod, ashamed.

“It’s okay,” Wyatt assures me, capturing my fingers in his and holding them in his strong yet gentle grip. “I was like them for a long time. Being here, I realize that . . . I’ve changed. Or maybe I never was like them, and that’s why I left in the first place.”

I shift against him, leaning into him more. In response, I feel Wyatt twist, rearranging himself so that my back almost lies against his chest, his right leg pulled up on the couch to give me room. It’s intimate in a whole new way.

“Why did you leave?” I ask, laying my head against his shoulder.

Wyatt is quiet for a moment, and I think I’ve pushed too far. But his arms tighten around my shoulders, and I feel him inhale, his nose buried in my hair, and he answers. “I was in college. Young, stupid, having too much fun fucking off, like a lot of college kids. One long weekend, I came home for a visit. Jed took me out to lunch, said he wanted to hear about how things were going. It was fine at first. Hell, I was enjoying bragging about how well I was doing in classes, the friends I’d made, and the parties I was going to. And then he started talking about my future. He had it all planned out—my major, a list of people he wanted me to network with, how I was going to work for him after graduation. I laughed at him. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, but I was sure it had nothing to do with him. And then he explained that he’d gotten me into that college because my grades certainly hadn’t. It pissed me off, and then he revealed that he was paying for it, not my dad. He said he’d never had kids of his own, but he had me just the same, and he owned me. Not that I was family, not that I was like his kid. But that he owned me.”

I wince, turning my head to see the anger in his face. “That’s awful. What’d you do?”

“What I should have done was throw a punch right to his smug smirk, but I was so shocked, I waited, talked to Dad,” Wyatt says. “I thought he’d support me, but instead, he was annoyed. According to him, Jed was paying for school as a gift, and I shouldn’t be rude about his kind gesture. He told me I didn’t know what I wanted to do anyway, so what was the harm in getting the business degree Jed wanted me to get? ‘It’ll be good no matter what you do,’ he said. But that wasn’t the point. He didn’t get that Jed didn’t see us as family, but as things, servants . . . or worse.”

I shiver, and Wyatt squeezes me comfortingly, his arms around me warm and strong. He understands what he’s saying, and knows that it sucks . . . but that I want to hear it. “Dad just didn’t see it, didn’t believe that being beholden to Jed would be bad. He figured it was family, and family is everything. I think Dad truly thought Jed was doing it out of real generosity, like he cared about us the way Dad always did for him. I wanted to believe that, too, even though my gut was telling me something else entirely. So I went back to school, finished the semester, telling myself it’d be okay. But the next time I came home, Jed wanted to know what progress I’d made—not my grades but in the connections. I was such a dumbass. I told him I wasn’t going to be used like some trained monkey to do his bidding. We fought, and I fought with Dad. Hell, Dad and Jed fought, about the only time I’ve seen them actually fight. That was it for me. I dropped out of school, left home, left Cold Springs, and went to hide.” He goes quiet for a moment before I feel him shaking his head. “I was such a dumbass, thinking I was making some grand, rebellious gesture. I spent two years fucking about with wood simply because I liked woodshop in high school, and it was . . . it was pure. I could put everything aside and just meditate on the wood.”

“I get that.”

“I was still licking the wounds of my ego when Jed showed up, told me I would never amount to anything without him. After that, I got a job working for a carpenter who was willing to train me even though I had no idea what I was doing and was basically a spoiled brat. But I practiced and worked. I got better and better. I’ve got a successful business now.”

He sounds proud of himself, for making himself into something no one else thought he could. I’m proud for him. “Good for you. Double birds to Jed Ford, the asshole.”

I hold up my middle fingers to the ceiling, imagining it has Jed Ford’s face on it or, even better, that he’s actually right in front of me so I could tell him exactly what I think about him taking advantage of Wyatt. He was just a kid, with his whole future ahead of him, and Jed wanted to steal that.

Wyatt laughs quietly, and I feel his chest vibrate against my back, his arms tightening around my chest. “Yeah, that’d be cool. How about you, with Etta and your mom? You work with your family.”

I hum thoughtfully. “No, it’s a lot different for me. Truth is, I never considered anything else. I never planned to leave Cold Springs for college or dreamed I’d be something crazy like an astronaut. Even as a little girl, I’d sit right here on this couch and tell Gran that I was going to work at the restaurant and the bakery when I was old enough. She’d laugh and tell me I might have to pick one. But I started working for both of them as soon as I could, and here I am. We are family, but we treat each other right. There’s bitching and name-calling sometimes, and there’s Lester, of course. But I know they’d do anything for me. And vice versa.”

“Even Lester?” Wyatt teases softly, and I chuckle, nodding.

“He’s a trained home-protection attack parrot,” I assure Wyatt. “He’s got a black belt in bird-jitsu.”

Wyatt sighs wistfully. “You’re fortunate.”

“I am,” I admit. “I’m happy here, with my life. It might not be a lot to some people, but it’s enough for me.”

I look around my home, still filled with memories of Gran but equally mine now, with my own knickknacks and things. I work for Mom and Aunt Etta, jobs I got because of our relationships, but ones I keep because I’m damn good at them. I honestly enjoy my simple existence of work, pool, family, and friends.

Even Lester, though I won’t tell him that or he’d repeat it until the day I die. I can hear him now: “Bawk! You love me, you weally wuv me!”

A yawn I’ve been fighting back demands release, and Wyatt laughs as I cover my wide-stretched mouth with my hands. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Wyatt says. “You’re a very busy woman.”

“I’m not that tired,” I protest, but he kisses the top of my head.

“You need some rest, Miss Working Two Jobs,” Wyatt says. “It means you’re human.”

“Basically three,” I correct him. “I made as much playing pool a few nights ago as I did waiting tables all day. Hell of a lot more fun, too, but not nearly as important as helping Etta.”

I feel the thread of tension shoot through him and hate that my good relationship with my family only amplifies the bad one he has with his dad and uncle. “Three, then. Glad I didn’t play you for cash,” he says after a moment. “I should tuck you in.”

“Not getting off this couch unless you’re in bed with me,” I tell him firmly but quietly. “It’s too late to drive home.”

Talk about a piss-poor excuse. But the truth is, feeling Wyatt here with me, the way he’s holding me, strong but at the same time willing to be emotionally vulnerable and share himself with me . . . things have changed.

Last night, I could tell myself it was just lust, attraction, and the fantastical romance of a wedding. I mean, Wyatt is a gorgeous man. But this is something different now. Wyatt led a seemingly charmed life, but he’s got trust issues from a betrayal by the people who should never have wronged him. When a man doesn’t trust easily, it means something when he shares his baggage. I know that, and I want to be someone who doesn’t let him down. I’ll carry those heavy suitcases of drama on my strong shoulders with him, letting him take a break from them, if only for a little while.

“One promise,” Wyatt says in my ear. “We don’t need to . . .”

“I know,” I tell him.

He gives me a gentle push to help guide me up, and I lead him to my bedroom, where Wyatt strips down to his T-shirt and underwear. I let him pull back the covers, arranging myself best so that he can join me, tucking us both in as he spoons up against me.

It’s glorious. His warmth surrounds me, his chest pressed to my back and his hand splayed on the bare skin of my belly beneath my shirt. I wiggle my hips, arching my back to entice him.

“Hazel,” he says warningly.

I yawn, even as I place his hand on my breast encouragingly. “I am tired, but I . . .”

My voice falters. I don’t want to remind either of us that he’s going to leave, not after everything we shared tonight. But I also don’t want to waste this time with him.

He understands without me saying a word. Instead, his hand cups my breast as his lips find my neck, kissing and nibbling up to my ear. The hand trapped under my neck twists to reach down, stroking my nipples as his tongue licks my ear.

“Mmmm,” I whimper softly, pressing back against him. “Wyatt . . .”

“This isn’t for me,” he whispers. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I don’t think he realizes the layers of what he says, but it hits me hard. So when his free hand traces down my stomach, my knees part as he runs his fingers over my panties, stroking me through the slick nylon I put on after my shower.

“So soft,” he whispers, his fingers moving up and down over my lips so gently it makes electricity crackle through my nerves. “So beautiful.”

“Wyatt,” I whimper again, and he slides my panties aside to dip his fingers into my wet honey. There are no more words, nothing but the sound of his fingers slipping in and out of me as his thumb strokes my clit in slow, soft circles, his other hand pinching and tugging lightly on my nipples.

I can feel him bulging against my ass, but he never moves his hips, holding me secure in his arms as his thumb speeds up until my orgasm breaks and I freeze, gasping and crying out softly. I’m 100 percent safe in his arms, and he stops, holding me close as he lets me ride it out.

When it’s over I’m boneless, sagging in his arms. Slowly, Wyatt withdraws his fingers, lifting them to his mouth and licking them clean.

“What about you?” I ask, feeling him still hard against the cleft of my ass.

“Told you,” he says, humming happily even though I’m the one who came. “This was about you.”

I think I argue, but maybe not as I drift off to sleep.

The music’s soft, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The sunlight filters through the trees, illuminating me as I look down at my dress.

My wedding dress. It’s nothing fancy, nothing like what Avery wore, but that’s okay. If anything, it’s better, because it’s meant for me. The ceremony’s perfect for me too. There’s only a small group. Mom, of course, Aunt Etta with Lester on her shoulder, the minister, myself . . .

And Wyatt. Under the draping branches of the willow tree we’re gathered under, he holds my hands, his smile wide and happy.

“Everything about you was wrong—you were the wrong bridesmaid, you lived in the wrong town, and you had all these wrong assumptions about me. But somehow, you and I were meant to be together, today and forever, right here in our hometown. And that is right. I love you, Hazel Sullivan.”

I blink away the tears, speechless for once in my life. Finally, I find words, not the traditional vows, but ones from my heart . . .

“I was wrong. About everything. But most of all, about you. You’re more than I ever dreamed, and I’ve never been so happy to be wrong. Yeah, I’ll admit it . . . this one time, so listen close . . . I was wrong. I love you, William Wyatt Ford the third.”

I startle awake, the dark night still surrounding us. Wyatt is asleep but must sense my movement because he pulls me in, cuddling me. We’ve moved, and he’s on his back, but instinctively I curl into him, laying my head on his shoulder to stare at his profile in the moonlit darkness. He’s beautiful, inside and out.

My dream tickles at the edges of my brain, feeling surprisingly warm.

I’ve heard that dreams are the brain’s way of processing the minutiae of daily life, but it’s an imprecise process. Like the time I ate cotton candy at the zoo and dreamed of hippos dressed in fluffy pink candy tutus doing ballet through the water. Your brain takes the information of the day and doodles with it, making funky collages of the whole thing.

So it would make sense that getting closer to Wyatt on the tail of Avery’s wedding is probably what made my brain put that little movie-style love scene together. I shouldn’t read more into it. It doesn’t mean anything.

Even so, as I fall asleep, I hope my brain cues up a sequel, or maybe an encore performance. Because if I remember right . . . Wyatt wasn’t wearing pants in my dream.