Page 43 of Wedding or Not

He’s wearing the sweater-vest he wore for our first appointment in DC with jeans and a T-shirt since it’s important he looks casual too.

He looks good.

I definitely notice that.

I’m relieved to see there are a number of visitors admiring the roses since they’ve recently started blooming for the season. I catch in my peripheral vision that a few guests covertly snap photos of us with their phones, but I pretend not to see.

For several minutes, Wes and I go tfhrough our routine of fictionally inventorying the roses. I try to take it seriously, inspecting each rose plant and sharing its condition with Wes, who takes notes as we go through.

I actually do discover one of the plants is in bad health, something Jake needs to know.

“Is it time?” Wes asks in a low voice after a while.

“I don’t know. It seems kind of soon.”

“Why is it soon? Now is as good as any.”

“What’s the hurry?” We’re having this conversation softly enough that no one around us can hear.

“The hurry is I’d like to get this show on the road.”

“You think I don’t? But if we rush through it, all this will be wasted.”

His lip curls up in a faint snarl.

“You don’t have to look so disgusted. You agreed to this plan just like I did.”

“I know I did.”

“Then what’s your problem?” His clear reluctance has momentarily distracted me from anything else. Because it hurts. That he so wants to be done with this thing. That he’s acting like I’m somehow responsible for getting him into it.

When he agreed to The Plan even before me.

“I don’t have a problem. I just want to get the romantic shit over with.”

I gasp, genuinely outraged by his choice of words. “And you think I’m excited to get all snuggly with you?”

“I never said that.”

“Whatever. We can’t have this stupid argument right now.”

“I’m not the one who wanted the argument.”

“Yes, you damn well are.” I snap out the words in all earnestness. Then realize that it will work for the last word of our snippy argument.

So I shake my head and turn away from him, taking several strides before I stop, like I’m pretending to inspect another rose plant but mostly just want to get away from him.

It feels real at the moment. The man can be infuriating.

A minute passes before I sense motion behind me. I feel him. Smell him. Hear his footsteps and then his voice as he says huskily, “Ella, don’t be mad.”

I turn around and don’t have to pretend anything because something in his expression dumbfounds me.

It might be real.

In my dreams, it could be real.

That deep, yearning ardor.