Page 44 of The Wedding Situation Romance

“I’m Quinn,” she says, holding her free hand out to Cass.

“Drew told me all about you! I’m so happy Reid has finally found someone good for him,” she smiles back, and as much as I hate to admit it, she is a good match for Drew. She’s sweet, and if anyone deserves sweet, it’s Drew.

“I don’t know about good for him,” Quinn says, flashing me a look that is both sweet and salty.

“Okay. A woman who can handle him then,” Cass says, and both Drew and Quinn laugh. Even I crack a smile.

As we walk and talk and joke and banter, Quinn’s hand clasps mine even more tightly. And I almost forget that I am barefoot.

The ceremony is small for a man who knows hundreds of people. Less than fifty people stand in a circle around the couple as they say their vows. Ophelia’s dress is an off-white lace, off the shoulders, muddied around her bare feet. No veil. No makeup. Just a simple dress, her brown wavy hair, a bouquet I am convinced she picked from the mountain itself, and a smile on her face as she gazes up at Nick with tears in her eyes.

Quinn sniffs but makes no attempt to dry her cheeks, which are rivers of tears as she watches my friend and his now-wife say their vows. And I find it almost interesting how she can have so much emotion for the happiness of people she doesn’t even know.

After the vows and the paper signing, we all take seats at a long table brought in for every person to sit at. The seats, mind you, are log stumps. The table is lit with tea-light candles, floating in bowls of flowers and leaves. The food is charcuterie-style, with platters holding the entrees from the invite as well as dozens of other dishes. I don’t know what a single dish is aside from fruits and vegetables. But I will admit one thing…it all looks damn good.

“What is that?” I ask Quinn as she drags a crostini through a white paste and pops it into her mouth.

“Cheesespread,” she says.

“Why the emphasis on cheese?” I ask.

“Because cheese isn’t vegan,” she answers as her eyes graze the food in front of us.

“Then what is it?” I ask again.

“Probably cashew,” she says, and I narrow my eyes down at what literally looks like creamy goat cheese.

“Cashew?” I repeat.

“Yep. Try it,” she says. And while I am not convinced (I don’t see the point in eating something that mimics cheese instead of just eating cheese), I am also not a picky person. And I’m never easily intimidated.

So I take a crostino, dip it into thecheese, even top it with a marinated yellow pepper, and pop it into my mouth.

“Hmm,” I murmur as I chew.

“Hmm good? Or hmm, bad?” she asks.

I continue to chew but nod in approval. Because, believe it or not, it’s delicious. Creamy, nutty, rich.

“What did I tell you?” she asks with a contented smile. Then, as she takes a sip of her white wine, she crinkles her perfect nose at me, a gesture that is undeniably both flirty and cute.

After dinner and a cake that apparently was made without eggs, dairy or even refined sugar and yet is also, miraculously, delicious as well, we head back to the ceremony circle for dancing.

As Nick said, he, Ophelia, and their band are on the small makeshift stage, surrounded by fairy lights. It’s a simple setup. Just him with an acoustic guitar, her with a miracle of sorts, a banjo. It’s so simple that if it weren’t for the vows I just witnessed, I wouldn’t believe it was even a wedding.

“I want to dance,” Quinn says suddenly. But she doesn’t wait for me. She just takes off, twirling into the group of people all swaying and spinning to the music, barefoot in the mud. For a moment, all I can do is watch her. The hem of her dress is drenched in mud, just like the bride’s. Just like everyone else. And none of them care. None of them care about the bugs or the fact that the air is wet and their clothes are dirty. Or that everything smells like citronella because it wards off bugs without the harsh chemicals of aerosol bug sprays. And I’m not surprised that was forbidden too.

As Quinn dances, she doesn’t care about anything. Including the fact that her dress doesn’t know how to keep her breasts at bay. And I’m not the only one who seems to notice. Every man who isn’t wrapped around a hippy dress wearing girl on the dance floor, is staring at those breasts and her dress’s inability to retain them.

One even has the balls to say something about it.

“She has an ass that won’t quit, but that rack is going to shut this party down, whoever she is,” the stranger says. And with that, I close the space between her and me, trudging across the wet soil but ignoring the way it feels between my toes, until I am standing in front of her like a brick wall.

“Have you come to dance with me, Lawyer Reid?” she asks, still swaying.

“I came to take you away,” I tell her. “Whisk you off into the night,”

“How romantic,” she says, and her words smell like wine.