He grins, slow and easy. “Never.”
I help him lift a cooler to the bar. We finish the job in just a few minutes. Each time our hands touch, he looks me in the eye. There’s no smirk or swagger, just a steady look, like he’s trying to figure me out.
He starts repacking napkins, then says, “Willa tells me you’re a matchmaker.”
I nod, sorting straws. “It’s a job, like any other.”
“You like it?”
“I’m good at it,” I say, and it’s not bragging. I’ve set up thirteen marriages in the past two years. They’re all still together.
He’s quiet for a second. “Most people just hope other people figure it out.”
“In Denver, you wait for lightning. Sometimes you have to schedule a storm.”
He grins again. “And in Sagebrush?”
“In Sagebrush, you need to convince people storms even exist.”
He laughs, low and real, and I catch Sela’s voice echoing through the barn. The setup is already done, so I wipe my hands and head back inside.
The next hour rushes by in a blur: last-minute lint rolls, a burst of nerves when Beau nearly loses his boutonniere, and three more “emergency” calls for emotional support. When it’s finally time, I walk Willa to the barn entrance and squeeze her hand before taking my place at the front as maid of honor.
The wedding isn’t fancy, but every seat is full. In the doorway, I see men in pearl snap shirts and women in flowered dresses, and for a second, it almost feels like a homecoming. Willa holds back tears as her dad walks her down the aisle.
When Rhett stands next to Beau as best man, he notices me watching. For a moment, his eyes meet mine. It’s not a leer, just a steady, searching look, like he’s trying to guess which of us will cry first.
I almost do when Beau says, “I liked you before you liked me. And I loved you first, so you can’t ever catch up.” His voice is strong, never trembling. Willa’s reply is so earnest that it makes every single aunt dab her eyes in unison. Even Sela clears her throat.
Afterward, the barn erupts with music and the soft thunder of boots on the dance floor. Sela corrals me for a glass of cider, and I nurse it while watching the new couple move around their guests, radiant.
“See anything you like?” Sela asks, nudging me toward the crowd of single men by the beer keg.
“I see a lot of hats,” I say. “More hats than heads, maybe.”
“I won’t leave until you dance at least one song,” she says. “You promised.”
I flash a glare. “You’re more invested in my love life than your own.”
She shrugs, straightening her skirt. “You’re my only interesting friend at the moment.”
But she’s secretly surveying the crowd herself. I see her eyes rest on Cotton Mercer, who is leaning against the wall like a retired outlaw, nursing a spiked lemonade. He catches her looking, and she snaps her gaze away.
“He asked if I wanted to see his saddle collection,” she whispers. “Like, the actual saddles.”
“How many does a person need?”
“Eleven,” she replies. “He named them.”
I shudder. “Rural men are a different breed.”
Later, after another round, the music shifts and couples start filtering onto the floor. Rhett appears by my side, two glasses in hand.
“I heard you’re avoiding all the eligible bachelors,” he says. “That’s going to hurt Willa’s feelings. I think she wants someone to tempt you to stay.”
I take the drink. “I’m just here for the buffet.” Banter never comes easy to me.
He sips his own. “If you were matchmaking for yourself, what would you look for?”
