Page 3 of Chasing Clouds

Oh, who am I kidding . . . I can’t leave.

My eyes blur and with each passing heartbeat, I know my opportunity is slipping away, and Patrick is one step closer to succeeding in this. When I try to pull my hand from his, he just holds on tighter, sending pain shooting through my fingers. I stop breathing, waiting for the guillotine to fall, and he holds his breath with sweet anticipation.

“I do,” says a male voice, the words echoing from the back of the church.

What?

Shock reverberates through me like lightning striking, but it quickly dissipates as I exhale slowly, feeling nothing but relief.

Instant, all-consuming relief.

The noose around my neck unravels as my body experiences a visceral reaction to those two words, and I suck in new air, fresh air that tastes a lot like hope.

But wait!

Who?

A collective gasp from those in attendance zips around the sanctuary and seems to pull the air, along with my attention, toward them. Whispers and movements begin as people turn in different directions, looking for the speaker. It’s then that, from the back of the room, the man behind the voice steps out into the aisle.

Slowly, he begins to make his way toward us with his eyes locked on mine, and my breath catches. He’s incredibly handsome.

Patrick’s hand moves off mine and to my wrist as I face the beautiful stranger and watch him approach.

Do I know him? I don’t think so. He looks familiar, but it’s a vague recollection, as if I may know someone who looks like him but not this man specifically. He has olive skin, a shade on the darker side; dark hair, short on the sides but longer on top; and pale green eyes that make me feel certain I’ve never seen him before, because I would remember a gaze as striking as his.

“This has to be a joke,” Patrick spits out as the man comes to a stop at the bottom of the steps.

“I can assure you it’s not,” he says, the light color in his eyes darkening to an emerald hue as he continues to hold my gaze.

I don’t know where he came from or who he is, but right now I don’t care. Relief washes over me. I just know this is a sign, and I’m being given a second chance. My skin tingles as I jerk my arm out of Patrick’s grasp and start grinning.

“Sir, what objections do you have to this marriage?” the minister asks, looking confused, his gaze bouncing between the three of us. Neither Patrick nor I turn to acknowledge him. Instead, we both stay locked onto the unexpected guest. I don’t know him, and it doesn’t appear that Patrick does, either. So, who is he?

“You can’t marry him,” he says, his voice deep and confident, his regard intense. I don’t understand what is happening, even though I feel like I should.

I don’t respond—I don’t know how to. All I can do is return his stare.

“I love you. Marry me.”

A laugh bubbles out of me, and his eyes smile back with a mischievous glint at my obvious amusement.

This is absurd!

The murmurs through the crowd pick up in volume. Patrick says something to someone—presumably my father—but all I hear in my head is, I love you, and the more I repeat it, the more the voice sounds familiar. I’ve heard it before, but I can’t place where.

“Look, pal, I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but I think it’s best if you leave,” Patrick says as he moves to stand in front of me, shielding me from the mystery man’s view. I quickly step around him and move down two steps to put myself at eye level with the beautiful stranger.

That’s what he is—a beautiful stranger.

“Camille,” he whispers, reaching for my hands. His hands are warm, solid, dotted with calluses and coiled with a strength like I’ve never felt before. He looks down at our entwined fingers, and his thumb rubs across the white line where my engagement ring usually sits.

I nervously glance at Patrick then find my way back to eyes so green they warm me like the sun on a long summer day. This guy looks nothing like Patrick. Patrick is tall, lean, fair, and wearing a classic black tuxedo, whereas the beautiful stranger is taller, layered with thick muscles, and wearing a charcoal suit that looks expensive and perfect on him.

“Camille, this is insane. You can’t possibly be considering this!” Patrick stammers, pulling one hand back to him and clinging to it like a life vest.

When the stranger tugs on my other hand, my eyes return to him, and butterflies take flight within me. “It’s time to make that move,” he says, and a gasp slips through my lips as my eyes widen.

That phrase . . .