“It’s for me?” Ian asked quietly, so damn hopeful that I felt a catch in my throat.
“Yep,” George replied easily, the way only a child could—one who was completely unaware of how he’d plowed through his uncle’s emotional walls.
“Let’s see what it says,” Ian said softly, placing the bracelet gently across his palm. “Uncle Ian,” he read.
“That’s you,” George told him simply. “We’re teammates, so you needed one, too.”
I bit the inside of my cheek hard, thinking back to my conversation with the boy during our fishing adventure.
Then I watched as Ian swallowed several times before clearing his throat. “This is the best. I’m going to put it on right now.”
He stretched the elastic around his thick wrist and ruffled his nephew’s hair. “Thanks, Georgie. I love it.”
“You’re welcome,” the kid called and then skipped out of the kitchen, leaving an emotionally disheveled Ian staring after him.
After a moment, Ian’s gaze drifted back to the bracelet circling his wrist. It remained there a beat before he smoothly got to his feet. When he turned, his gaze found mine, blue eyes bright.
He smiled wide, both dimples appearing. I was helpless to do anything but smile back.
Realistically, I knew that this man was an award-winning actor who had a tight grip on his expressions and could command them at will. But there had been something staggering about witnessing the raw honesty of George and Ian’s exchange. A child’s direct and open way, contrasted with an adult doing everything in his power to rein himself in. How deeply touched Ian had been and how he’d so obviously been dismantled by a seven-year-old who had—maybe—finally started to see how much Ian cared for him.
It felt like I’d witnessed a pivotal step in their relationship—a corememory for Ian on the terrifying journey of raising a child. I knew what receiving George’s bracelet had meant to him.
And I also knew that Ian was worthy of what that token represented. Trust and love. Hope and conviction. Promise and faith.
Teammates.
Ian’s smile didn’t dim for a long time, and mine didn’t either.
thirteen
IAN
The wedding was in three hours, and I didn’t think I’d ever been this nervous before in my life. Not even during my first stage performance in middle school or my first callback for a shampoo commercial.
It just felt like a lot of pressure. Candace and Mercer were getting married in front of all their family and friends. These vows would solidify their devotion and love. And I was the asshole reading the lines.
God, I was going to puke.
“Hey, look at this,” Brady said, holding up his phone. “You’re both famous. Do you know her? Lindy with the cooking videos.”
“What?” I could hear the strain in my voice as Brady showed me his screen.
“Her channel is called Not Your Aunt Linda’s Kitchen, and she takes regular, everyday food and puts a unique spin on it. Like mac and cheese but with Indian curry and other flavors. Or she makes alterations based on dietary restrictions.”
I watched as a woman, visible only from the elbows down, kneaded bread on a floured workbench. “Oh, so like substitutions for your lactose intolerance?”
“Yeah,” Brady answered, then cleared his throat. “Anyway, she’s great. I love her recipes. Mercer and Wenn turned me on to her channel.”
I’d known that Mercer liked to cook, as well as garden. He helped Amy Judd in the kitchen quite a bit. Georgie and I had been invited to Sunday dinner last week, and Mercer had made a salad from lettuce he’d grown himself. It was the best lettuce I’d ever had in my life. And the salad dressing I’d watched him create—honey lime cilantro—had been out of this world.
The other amateur chef in the mix was Wenn Hawthorn. He was a groomsman and Mercer’s friend from Asheville. I knew the pair had met through their shared photography hobby. Actually, Wenn might be a professional photographer. I wasn’t sure. The guy was quiet. He wasn’t unfriendly or anything, just not a sharer.
He sat alone on the sofa in the suite we’d been given by the event coordinator. His big body took up most of the small piece of furniture. I was a tall, muscular guy, but Wenn might actually be able to take me in an arm wrestling match. He was broader, where I was lean, and carried himself like he’d been in the military.
But so far, he’d mostly kept to himself.
“I’ll text you her handle.” Brady clasped me on the shoulder and lowered his voice. “Watch her latest one with bacon bourbon brownies. It might help you relax and take your mind off the ceremony.”
