I turn back to find Hattie gazing up at me with a look that makes my heart somersault. She tugs me toward her, and I don’t resist. Of course, I don’t resist. When it comes to her, I have no idea how.
The kiss is hard, quick, but potent, despite the gasps and exclamations. And when she releases me, all I can do is grin stupidly and jog back through the nave, cutting in front of several offended, middle-aged and older people who—I soon learn—are Hattie’s parents, grandparents, and those of her future brother-in-law.
The organist is already playing “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” when I take my seat, and an old crone who has got to be Hattie’s Grandma Eloise gives me a scowl as she comes up the aisle on a groomsman’s arm.
Shrugging back into my jacket, I give her my best smile.
Oh, well.
From what Hattie has shared about her, she was bound to find a reason to sneer at me. Considering what I’ve just done to her granddaughter’s undergarments, it’s worth it.
Minutes later, Hattie walks down the aisle on the arm of a guy I swear must be a bodybuilder. But she doesn’t even glance up at him.
She’s beaming.
At me.
Gorgeous. Glorious. Head held high.
Her eyes on me the whole time.
And as they pass my pew, Hattie, loud enough for the words to echo through the whole damn cathedral, says to me:
“You’re my hero, Beck Olivier.”
Maybe five hundred people stare at me.
And, yeah, worth it.
Chapter Eighteen
HATTIE
I’m of the firm belief that Beck kept me from ruining Margaret’s wedding, but no one else seems to appreciate the fact that his sharp knife and even sharper wits forestalled disaster.
During the third time I try to tell the story—when both the Mercier and Milton families are up in front of the altar, taking post-ceremony pictures—Mom pinches the back of my arm like I’m six.
“No more talk of bras,” she scolds. “Smile for the camera.”
“But—”
“Honestly, Randall. You should take care.” Grandma Eloise’s voice cuts through mine. “What kind of young man brings a knife to a wedding, anyway?”
Dad murmurs something while I lock eyes with Beck, who’s standing a few pews behind the photographer, waiting for me.
The way his brow arches, I know he’s heard her.
CRANKY OLD TWAT, I mouth silently to him.
But a second arm pinch indicates I haven’t been totally silent.
When church pictures are finally done, I rush down the aisle to Beck, and he catches me in a tight hug.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs against my ear. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you up there.”
I squeeze him back just as tight. God, he feels amazing. And the suit?
Knee-dissolving.
