Page 4 of Chasing Clouds

The voice . . .

It’s him.

A flush burns in my cheeks as I absorb and memorize the details of his face for the first time. His lips tip up into a lopsided grin, and my eyes are drawn to how full and pink they are. I dreamed about these lips last night, and by the way his eyes smolder at me, he knows exactly what I’m thinking about . . . and he’s pleased.

“Ms. Whitley,” the minister calls out, and I force myself to look at him. “Are we going to have a wedding today?” he asks calmly. “And if so, with whom?”

I turn to Patrick, whose eyes are wild and frantic with fear. It’s not a fear of losing me—well, maybe a little—but I think it’s more a fear of this hurting his political dreams. I know marrying him is the safe choice, the choice that was made for me, and that’s the reason I’m wavering. We’ve known each other a long time. He’ll take care of me, provide for me, and I’m certain we’ll do great things together. I love Patrick, I do; I’m just not in love with him. Regardless of our relationship recently, I never want to hurt him, but is all this enough? I don’t know.

I turn to the man with the most alluring green eyes, and I see not only an escape, but also an opportunity—an escape from a life I’ve felt chained to for the last five years, and an opportunity for a different path . . . a life I’ve only dreamed of and never really thought was in reach. Maybe it was there all along. Maybe I just need to stand up for myself a little bit more, or maybe my whole life has been leading up to this moment.

Is it a risk? Yes.

Is it a gamble? Yes.

Am I okay with strapping enough scandal to our family name to last for generations? I don’t know.

Then, just past his shoulder, I see Clare standing in the aisle watching us. My heart rate slows, and I find comfort in just the sight of her. Without her even having to say the words, I know she’ll stand behind whatever decision I make, even if my decision is neither of the two men—but is that what I want, to walk out of here? Even if I did, I’m not sure I’d find myself in a different place. Patrick and my father would chase me down and demand a redo. Am I strong enough to stand up to them? I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I tried.

What I do know is that ten minutes ago I was suffocating, and now I can breathe. I’m certain that whatever I choose in the next minute or so, I’m forever cementing or changing the course of my life, and I’m surprisingly okay with it.

“Camille, have you decided?” the minister pushes, and I briefly close my eyes, gathering myself.

Taking a deep breath, I drop both their hands and turn to face him. A smile splits across my face and I stand a little taller as I answer.

“Yes.”

The day before

SLOWING DOWN, I pull up to the entrance of the plantation, glancing again at the navigation screen and Nate’s text to make sure I’m in the right place. In front of me is a sprawling wrought iron gate with the name Whitley scripted into it, and there’s a guard house just before manned by four police officers, two standing on each side.

As I roll down the window, a cool earthy breeze fills the inside of the car, reminding me I’m no longer in Tampa, and one of the officers approaches. He doesn’t smile or frown, his demeanor neutral, but there’s something about an officer walking toward you, no matter where you are or what you’re doing, that’s unsettling.

“Evening, sir, how can I help you?” He leans over to get a better view of me.

I look away from him and down the long oak-canopied driveway. For a split second, I wonder what the hell I’m doing here, and then remember I promised Nate, my younger brother, I would come see him.

“I’m here for the rehearsal dinner and the wedding,” I say, looking back at him and forcing myself not to stutter or shiver on the last word.

“Identification, please.” He holds out his hand.

Reaching into the center console, I grab my wallet and pull out my driver’s license. When he takes it from me, my fingers tighten around the steering wheel. Growing up where I did, it was never a good thing when cops were involved, and although this is a completely different situation, old memories stir up old feelings, and some things never change.

The radio of one of the officers crackles and a garbled voice comes through. I don’t understand what the person is saying, but it’s enough to make my already agitated nerves even more jumpy.

The thing is, in addition to hating cops, I also hate weddings. Just the word alone makes me want to turn around and drive the other way. I’ll never understand why people feel the need to legally attach themselves to someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I love relationships—the kind that are easygoing, free of expectations, and filled with hours of endless fun. Why anyone wants to give that up for a joint bank account and shared bills, I’ll never understand.

Watching the cop, I see his eyebrows rise in surprise and his eyes flicker back to me. He recognizes my name, and his gaze quickly travels over me and my car for confirmation before typing something on the iPad he’s holding. This is crazy. Where am I, and who are these people that they need this type of security?

Nate called three days ago to tell me he was flying from New York City to Savannah for a wedding. His friend apparently surprised him last minute with a plane ticket, so when he asked me if I would drive up and be his plus one, I didn’t hesitate in saying yes. Savannah is only five and a half hours from Tampa at the most, an easy drive, but what he didn’t tell me is that this friend who’s getting married appears to be some kind of Southern royalty.

Grabbing my phone, I shoot Nate a text, and he replies almost immediately.

Me: Meet me out front in 5, at the gate.

Nate: K

“All right, sir, you’re all set.” He hands me back my license. “If you’ll just follow the drive about a mile down, an attendant will be there to assist you with overnight parking.”