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I blink at him and let a slow smile turn up my lips.
“Holt, fighting was what got you two together.”
“That’s a fair point.” He smirks. “Still, we get in some knock-down-drag-outs sometimes. Not because that’s who we are, but because we’re human. Sometimes someone’s gonna be careless or forgetful, or they’ll say something the wrong way, or maybe they won’t understand something like the other person means it. Feelings get hurt, egos bruised, trying to talk about it goes wrong, and next thing you know you’re yelling and storming off to your separate corners to lick your wounds, wishing down hellfire on each other’s heads.”
I grimace. “This doesn’t sound like much of a pep talk.”
“It is, if you let me finish.” He punches my arm lightly. “Look, you can’t expect two people to spend their whole lives together and never have any friction. It’s not realistic, Alaska. What matters is what you do about it, each and every time. Me and Libby, we choose to love each other no matter the weather, storms or sunshine. We give each other time to cool off, we back off before we cut too deep, and then we come to the table as equals and remind each other we’re always on the same side. We try to never be afraid to say we’re sorry. That’s more important than striving for perfection. Perfect ain’t possible. Choosing each other every time things go a little sideways? That is.” He grins, wide and encouraging and surprisingly down to earth. “Our Miss Felicity chose you once. Somehow, I don’t think it’s gonna be that hard to get her to choose you again and again, no matter what happens after today.”
“And remember, Dad,” Eli pipes up from where he’s standing behind Holt, fidgeting with the box holding my cufflinks. “If you mess up with Fel, I’m gonna be real mad at you. So you’ve gotta make it right.”
I roll my eyes, then catch him by the back of the neck and drag him over to rough up the hair on the top of his head.
“You think you’re in charge of your old man around here, huh? Grown-up enough to hand out love advice because you keep sending love letters to a certain little someone in Seattle?”
“Hey, no!” Laughing, he bats at me, turning beet red. Then he darts a shy glance toward the door, where I catch a glimpse of a ruffled skirt. Yep, there’s a certain someone in the bridal half of the wedding party. “Dad! Cut it out! Not in front of Tara,” he whispers.
“Hmph, it is my wedding day, so I’ll let you have your dignity. Still leaving your hair a mess, though, polecat.” I ruffle his hair into a fluffy black thatch again, then thrust my wrists out. “Go ahead. Cuff me.”
Eli rolls his eyes and groans before dutifully slipping my gold cufflinks into the buttonholes of my shirt. He fastens them neatly and beams up at me.
“Mr. Holt’s right, Dad. It’s gonna be okay. Just sayin’.”
Well.
If Elijah thinks so, I’ve got to believe it, don’t I?
Gray Caldwell—Doc—sticks his head inside with a gentle knock, letting us know it’s almost time.
“Gentlemen, if you please,” he says, waving his arm with a dramatic flourish.
Here we go.
I lift my head as the sound of the slow wedding march starts, warming up the crowd and telling everyone it’s time.
Straightening up while Holt smiles on, I suck in the same kind of deep breath I’d take before diving and demo ops.
Zero hour.
I need to get over my jitters, get out there, and let my life get the Midas touch.
Just the thought of making Miss Felicity Randall into Mrs. Felicity Charter makes me feel like gold, all right.
I glance at myself in the mirror one more time.
Take one final lung-busting breath.
Holt gives me an encouraging clap on the shoulder before I step out into the hall and into the main saloon. It’s gorgeous inside, the walls draped in white flowering vines, rows and rows of chairs set out with a bolt of white silk down the middle for the aisle.
I hear skirts rustling as the bridal party goes skittering out the side door so they can come in through those big swinging double doors and walk down the aisle—and while I take my place up front, the guys head out to join them.
The air bristles, the excitement so palpable you’d think everyone was marrying Fliss. Not just me.
It can’t match the feeling building up in my chest like a caldera as the music soars louder, triumphant, and sways in my ears.
Then those massive doors swing open.
All of Fliss’ friends come marching through first, her bridesmaids in pretty pale-lilac dresses, their hair piled up with flowers. Every last one of them hangs on the arm of her husband, my groomsmen in their tuxes.
