Saturday Morning
“Smile, beautiful,” Bruce said to Amy, William’s beautiful bride. “Pretend William is perfect.”
Amy laughed. “He is.”
Bingo.
Click, click, click.
The breeze rustled through the trees, and Bruce snapped a few more as Amy brushed her veil away.
So far everything came up great. Bruce thanked her, and Amy ran back inside the bed and breakfast, her bridesmaids trailing after her, carrying the dress’s train so it wasn’t soiled in the grass.
“Hey Amy,” Bruce called.
She paused. “Yeah?”
“You sure you want to do this? You’ll be missing out on a great guy.” He winked.
Amy laughed. “I think I’m good.”
“Oh, ouch.” Bruce covered his heart. The bridesmaids laughed as they headed back inside.
As he followed, he checked out the venue, picking up his camera to snap a few more pre-wedding pictures. Pan. Click. Pan. Click. Pan…
There was the wedding planner, Stephanie, Roark’s buddy since—what—the crib or something? She had her hand in her ear, talking on her bluetooth. She paused at a table, where Roark helped the flower lady arrange the centerpieces.
Bruce raised his camera.
Ahh, blackmail. He’d post this one all over Facebook—Roark Turner, arranging flowers.
Click. Click. Click.
But what’s this? Stephanie put her hand on Roark’s arm. Bruce had wondered about their relationship from afar, wondering what was really between them.
Click. Click. Click.
He glanced at his display, at one of the shots. Cozy. Stephanie’s hand on his arm, Roark touching her face.
Interesting.
As he headed inside, he saw Jason.
“Hey man.”
Jason stopped, shifting the weight of the large pot in his arms. “Hey.” The aroma of smoky barbecue poured off the guy.
“You ready to feed two hundred people?” Bruce asked him.
“Working on it. Ribs have been smoking for hours.”
Bruce’s stomach growled. “What kind today?”
“Award winning.” Jason grinned. “Bourbon.”
“Dude, you’re making me hungry,” Bruce said with a grin. He loved Jason’s ribs. They truly were to die for. Though Bruce would have to remember to change before eating—couldn’t ruin his good suit.
“Good.” Jason walked away, toting his pot of sauce that left Bruce wishing he’d had more than a 5-Hour Energy shot this morning.
Inside the bed and breakfast, Bruce snapped more pictures in case he needed them. Rarely did Bruce not have some camera with him. He never knew when—
Well, hello there…
A red-haired beauty walked past him—straight black skirt and mammoth hair falling around her. Angelina Jolie had nothing on this gal.
He opened his mouth to speak when his cell phone went off. Immediately, all the attention on the redhead disappeared and he hoped it was Greta.
He’d texted her to make sure she was okay. He’d had a few last night, but he didn’t think he’d said anything horrible. But never can tell with girls.
Damn. Not her.
Instead it was an email from S.S. Gears, the local steampunk community, announcing their latest get-together. Bruce pulled up his calendar on his phone—yep, he’d be there, steampunk mode and camera at the ready. He’d even rigged up an old vintage camera with one of his real ones inside to take pictures.
Still, he couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t heard from Greta.
He half wondered if he should be worried. And then again, should he be more concerned that he was worried. Because, face it, he was.
He talked to her every day. Several times a day. Since they’d started talking, it had moved to a point where going more than twenty-four hours without hearing from her was odd. Even a single line of text would have eased his concerns.
Something.
“I must have pissed her off.” Bruce typed another quick text—the last one for the day—to Greta.
Did I upset you? I’m sorry. Forgive me, okay? I can’t be held accountable for drunk texts. - Bruce
“Oh no!” Lilly moaned.
Cupid’s minions.
“How does he do it?” Lilly muttered as the minions in their cute little cherub diapers and shockingly accurate little archery sets zoomed about the wedding, giggling and grinning.
Humans, since time began, have mistaken the little minions for Cupid himself—which was far from Cupid’s appearance. Tall, sinewy and coiled—like he could pounce at any second—the God of Love certainly could seduce anyone and everyone he wanted to—and usually did.
Probably why he had that pompous swagger of his. He let his minions run amuck, their favorite pastime, shooting those horrid, freewill-bending arrows into celebrities.
K-Stew’s infidelity? Totally Cupid’s doing. A team of godmothers were still working on that one.
Lilly thanked her lucky stars she hadn’t gotten the assignment.
Oh wait, where had her charge gone?
Lilly dashed off to find him, though it didn’t take long—the cherub minions giggled and Lilly zoomed.
Not her charge!
“No you don’t.” She blasted the two minions with gold sparkles, and they both disappeared, though not before one stuck his tongue out at her.
She wasn’t going to be able to leave Bruce alone for a second.