SIXTEEN

CLAIRE

It’s well past midnight when we finally roll out of bed and slip back into our clothes, but it’s hard to unsee what I’ve seen and my cheeks warm when I think of Jesse. His bare chest. Strong arms wrapped around me. He was not inexperienced—not that I was expecting him to be. I knew it was unlikely he’d made it through college a virgin. He was never a party or one-night-stand kind of guy, but there must have been a girl or two, maybe even serious ones.

My cheeks heat further when I remember what he said about loving me. And the thing is, with Jesse, I know they weren’t just words. I know he means what he says. Sean, on the other hand, always seemed to say what he thought I wanted to hear. I could never be completely sure if he was telling the truth, and when things between us started to unravel, I believed him less and less.

I have never not trusted Jesse.

I try to wrap my head around the fact that I’ve now slept with two members of the same family, brothers who were as different in bed as they were in real life. Sex with Sean was fun. An adventure. Not always spontaneous, but mostly. Especially when it happened in some random place. The backseat of his car after a game. In the bathroom at a friend’s party. The night we slipped away from a bonfire and into the woods. Sex with Jesse, in its own way, was just as magical. Passionate but tender. Slow but steady. Each moment building. He knew exactly where and how to touch me to elicit a response. Sean wasn’t nearly so sensual with his hands. Sex with Sean was having sex. Sex with Jesse was making love.

I understand the difference now.

I wanted to spend the night with him—wanted to fall asleep next to him and wake up with our bodies twined together, sunlight streaming through the window, me in his arms. I hated to tell him when it was time for me to head home.

“It feels like I’m trying to make curfew,” I say as he parks at the curb in front of my house and kills the headlights. “Eking out those last few minutes of freedom.”

Jesse studies the house, which appears to be sleeping, save the porch light and the faint glow around the curtain of the front living room.

“Your mom is probably watching us right now from some dark window,” he says.

“Under the auspices of reading, I’m sure,” I add, agreeing with him.

“She doesn’t like me,” he says.

“It has more to do with me than you,” I assure him. “She’s afraid I’m going to get hurt again.”

He turns to face me, his eyes burning with sincerity and conviction. “I would never hurt you, Claire. Or Nolan. Whatever is happening between us right now, you’re in the driver’s seat. I am not going to screw this up by demanding or expecting anything from you that you’re not ready for. If you want to slow down, I will slow down. If you want to speed up, I’ll speed up. Just say the word.”

“You’re nervous about us,” I say.

“I’ve waited forever for you, Claire, and now that I know what being with you feels like. . . . I really, really do not want to lose you.”

And what it seems like he means when he says this is “I don’t want to lose you, too,” and a spike of anxiety surges through my veins.

I can’t keep these secrets inside forever. I’m going to have to tell him the truth. At some point, he deserves to know what happened the morning his brother died. That we were fighting. That I was texting him. That he died responding to my messages. I’m the reason the accident happened. No, I wasn’t there, but I was the catalyst.

This could change everything.

I swallow back a riot of butterflies inching their way up my throat.

Not now, I decide.

Not tonight. Tonight was . . . perfect. I don’t want to ruin it. I will tell him, just not tonight.

“So . . . we’ll take it day by day,” I say, manufacturing a smile.

“That works for me,” he replies.

“In that case, what are you doing tomorrow?” I tease.

“Polishing off one massive pancake.”

“Do you want some help with that?”

“I would love some help,” he says.

“Tomorrow night, then? Same time, same place?”

A slow smile curves his lips, and we share a final kiss before I step back into the warm midnight air. I shut the car door as quietly as possible and give him a tiny wave as soon as I’m on the porch and the front door is unlocked—letting him know everything is fine—just before disappearing inside.

I’m biting back a smile, teeth stinging my lower lip, as I pass the front living room where, yes, my mother is sitting in her chair pretending to read. I don’t say anything as I head for the stairs, but I can feel her frown following me the whole way.

* * *

“Where are we on the Taylor wedding?” Lynette asks.

I flip a few pages in my notebook. It’s our Tuesday morning meeting, where we’re coming off one wedding and gearing up for the next one: Mia Porter’s. We’re gathered in the conference room, Lynette and Jenn and I.

My cell phone chirps with a new text message, but I’m forced to ignore it.

“Final guest list is approved and I sent the numbers to the caterer. She finally sent me her first choice photographer, but he’s already booked that weekend. She was pretty pissed about that.”

“Who did she want?”

“Grant.“

“Jesus. He books twelve to eighteen months in advance!” Lynette says.

“That’s what I told her.”

“Why did she wait so long?”

“I have no idea. But thankfully Caroline was her second choice, and she is available.”

“Caroline is good,” Lynette says, seeming pleased.

My cell phone chirps again.

“Dress shopping went spectacularly. She’s already put in her order for the dress and jewelry. We’re finalizing the attendants’ dresses and should have those submitted in the next week or two.”

“Perfect. What else is going well?”

I flip through my pages. “Um, the DJ confirmed for the Smith wedding. The invitations for the Duke wedding are in. They will be proofed, stuffed, and stamped by the end of the week. The Baker ‘Save the Date’ cards went out last week. And the Washingtons have finalized rehearsal dinner plans. We’re meeting with the chef next week to discuss menu options.”

“Where are the fires?” she asks.

“Miranda Lowe wants to ban roses from all the arrangements at her daughter’s wedding. She says she’s allergic. Amber is not happy. Roses were her grandmother’s favorite and she was planning on at least one memorial arrangement. She thinks it has everything to do with a falling out between her mother and grandmother just before she passed. We may have to mediate.”

“Weddings do bring out the best in families,” Lynette says.

“And Reverend Thomas at St. Mary’s has decided not to perform the Oakley wedding. He fears Makaya and Joaquin are—quote—unequally yoked—unquote and are destined for divorce.”

“I think most reasonable people could agree with that. Counseling went that badly?” she asks.

“Apparently. And I’m trying to talk Dan Morris out of a cash bar for his daughter’s wedding. It’s not going well.”

She sighs. “For a millionaire, he’s such a tightwad. Okay, Jenn, you’re up.”

While Jenn begins the rundown of events on her docket, I steal a quick peek at my phone. Both text messages were from Jesse. One an “I miss you,” and the other a red heart.

I smile and type.

You’re not sick of me, yet?

Saturday night was decidedly reminiscent of Friday. I worked an early afternoon wedding and reception—no dinner—spent the evening with Nolan, and, as soon as he was asleep, drove to Jesse’s. It wasn’t as fresh as the day before, but we finished the last of the pancake and one thing led to another and. . . . Yesterday, he took Nolan and me to brunch and the park. Nolan was so worn out he crashed an hour early, so I went straight to Jesse’s. We agreed on a relaxing night in, so we ordered sandwiches and queued up a movie on his laptop, but we were apparently making up for lost time.

Three days in a row wasn’t so bad.

He replies almost immediately: Never.

I bite back a grin.

I miss you, too.

“Wow,” Lynette says. She is staring at me, a knowing smirk on her face.

A flash of heat sears my neck and moves into my face at having been caught not paying attention. “I’m sorry. I’m. . . .” I know I didn’t miss anything critical. I was half-listening. Jenn was discussing a maid of honor issue with the Reynolds wedding. But Lynette must have seen something in my eyes, or noticed the smile on my face because she shakes her head and says: “Tell Jesse I said hello.” As if, like my mother, she knew this would happen all along.

“I will,” I promise, but I shut off my phone and set it aside, determined to get through the remainder of this meeting without incident.

After lunch, I knock on her office door and poke my head inside. “I put my proposal on your desk this morning. I was wondering if you could take a look at it this week.”

Lynette sweeps aside papers, brochures, and packets and finally locates the white folder marked “Bryant Hall.”

“I have it right here. When do you need it by?”

“End of the week. It’s due Monday. I know Friday and Saturday will be a bit chaotic with the Porter wedding, but I’ve blocked off some time to do any final tweaks on Sunday.”

She scribbles something on a Post-it note and sticks it on the folder. “Then I will have this back to you no later than Thursday.”

* * *

On Friday I arrive at Jessie’s just before ten with a tray of coffees for us both. The box truck from Deb’s supplier is already parked at the curb, the back door lifted.

The front door is open, so I let myself in and call Jesse’s name. He appears in the doorway that leads me from the kitchen to the dining room.

“Remind me to take down the For Sale sign before the end of the day. We can stick it in the back room until Sunday,” I tell him.

“Hey to you, too,” he says.

I hand him his cup of coffee. “Good morning.”

“Long day ahead?” he asks.

“You have no idea. I’ll be around most of the day supervising set-up, but I have to be out of here no later than three to get to the rehearsal dinner site. Then I have to meet the Porters at the church for rehearsal, make sure the dinner goes well, and try to get everyone home at a decent hour so they can get some sleep. Families always want to extend the dinner as long as possible.”

“So it’s safe to say I won’t be seeing you tonight,” he says, wrapping an arm around me and drawing me closer. I kiss him gently on the lips.

“Unfortunately, no,” I say, running my fingers through his hair before pulling away. “I will be lucky to be standing upright by the end of the night. And my parents will have Nolan, so I won’t get to see him, either.” I take a sip of coffee.

“What about tomorrow?”

“You’re coming to the wedding, right?” I ask.

“I am. I got my invitation and RSVP’ed and everything.”

“Look at you on top of everything,” I tease.

“Well, not everything,” he murmurs.

My cheeks burn and I’m trying hard not to smile when a man steps into the foyer and asks if Deb is around. “I’m expecting her any minute,” I tell him. “But if you want to go ahead and start unloading, we’re filling these three front rooms.”

I remove my phone from my pocket and text Deb.

Supplier is here and ready to go.

“I probably don’t even need to ask, but do you have everything under control here?”

“Absolutely.”

My phone dings. It’s Deb, texting me back.

Five minutes away.

“Deb is on her way right now,” I tell him.

“Okay. Because I have some errands to run. I won’t be too long, but if you need anything, call me.” He gives me another quick kiss and heads out, pulling his car away from the curb just as Deb is pulling up. I meet her at the street, wish her a good morning, and, as she starts doling out orders to the men unloading the materials that will make the Porter reception a success, yank the For Sale sign out of the lawn.