Page 27 of The Snuggle Is Real

Whoops. That might be true.

"More like twenty minutes. And the lighting in there is deeply unflattering, so I had to overcompensate."

I tug the knot loose. He goes still.

I've done this a hundred times. At weddings, I fix ties on groomsmen and the occasional nervous ring bearer. It's muscle memory. Loosen, slide, cross, tuck, pull through. I can do a half-Windsor with my eyes closed while simultaneously telling a DJ that under no circumstances is he playing the Macarena.

So there is no reason my fingers should be clumsy right now.

But Malcolm’s throat is right there. Warm. His pulse is ticking against my knuckle when I straighten his collar, and he smells like cedar and soap and the particular brand of shaving cream he's used since junior year, and he's looking down at me with an expression I can't read.

I hate not being able to read Malcolm.

It's like opening a book I've read a dozen times and finding that someone has rewritten the last chapter.

"Green," I say, because I need to say something. "Bold choice."

"My mom bought it. She said navy makes me look like I'm about to foreclose on someone."

"She's not wrong." I slide the knot up snug and smooth the tie flat against his chest. My hand lingers there one beat too long. I can feel his heartbeat.

It's fast.

Mine is faster.

"There," I say, and step back. "Now you look like a man who has never once foreclosed on anyone."

"I haven’t, so where’s the lie?"

"You look like you've considered it."

"Emily! Malcolm! Aren’t you two the sweetest thing I've ever seen."

We both turn.

“Mom, we’re at MacKay and Faith’s rehearsal dinner. They have to be the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen. It’s the law.”

Malcolm's mother is standing three feet away with both hands clasped against her chest like she's watching the final scene of a Hallmark movie. She's a petite woman with a silver bob, pearl earrings, and eyes that are already suspiciously shiny.

“Of course they are. But so are you.”

"Mom," Malcolm says, in the tone of a man who knows he has lost before the fight has started.

"Don't 'Mom' me. I'm allowed to enjoy this." She wraps me in a hug. "Emily, honey, you look beautiful. Doesn't she look beautiful, Malcolm?"

I'm in a rust-colored wrap dress I bought in a panic at a boutique in Franklin between a cake tasting and a venue walkthrough. I'm wearing boots. I brought a cardigan because I'm always cold at events. Not my best outfit. But I appreciate the compliment from Mrs. Lennox.

I do not appreciate her putting Malcolm on the spot, forced to say something about my attractiveness. Not that she knows that.

"She does," Malcolm says. “Incredibly beautiful. Gorgeous, really.”

He doesn't say it the way you say something to appease your mother.

He says it like a fact.

I busy myself with the strap of my purse.

"There are place cards," his mother says, patting my arm before she sweeps away to greet more guests. "I kept you far away from the groomsmen."