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“Look, you wanted our opinion, so there it is,” Lizzie said. “Don’t marry the man. He’s an asshole.”
“This shouldn’t be news to you, but that man checks out women while you’re right there. He’ll be the first to cheat on you and the last to feel bad about it. Don’t think you have to marry him because he threw some money around and was there when your mother passed. You don’t owe him anything.”
“He’s never cheated on me. If he had, we’d never be here. And, Michael was there during the hardest time of my life,” I said. “I owe him a lot.”
“You don’t owe no man shit,” Lizzie said. “That’s another way he’s changed ya. Got you hangin’ in there like a hair on a biscuit ‘cause he’s got you thinkin’ you owe him shit.”
“A hair on a biscuit? Are you for real?” Whitney asked.
“Welcome to Texas, sweet cheeks,” Lizzie said with a grin.
I knew they were right, but my mind was swirling too much to say anything. It was my rehearsal dinner the night before my wedding, and I was beyond nervous. I was getting cold feet. That was all this was. There was no way in hell I was making the wrong decision. Michael was a good man. Lizzie and Whitney meant well, but they didn’t know him like I did.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get back out there.”
“Told ya,” Lizzie said.
“Told you what?” I asked.
“I bet Whitney here twenty bucks you’d still go out there and get yourself married,” Lizzie said.
“Really, Whitney? Gambling’s illegal in the State of Texas,” I said.
“Glad to see that bar exam did you some good,” Whitney said with a smile. “But Lizzie was right. I figured us talking to you would snap some sense into that head of yours.”
“Can we just try to get through this?” I asked.
“You should never have to feel like you’re ‘getting through’ something like this,” Whitney said. “That tells me right there that this is a bad idea.”
“Quit the yappin’. She’s made up her mind,” Lizzie said.
I sighed as we left the bathroom and made our way back to the ballroom for dinner.
I headed back to my table, trying to ignore the people around me. The ballroom was beautifully decorated, but if I paid attention to it too much, I would start thinking about the brothers again.
When Michael proposed and expressed to me that we could move anywhere in the country I wanted, I was excited to go back home. Dallas, Texas would always hold my heart, especially since I didn’t blend in with the city like I thought I would. My muddy old cowboy boots and my cut-off jeans weren’t something people saw every day in New York City, and I had to quickly trade them for more professional clothing and toned-down colors. Yuck!
No thanks. I preferred my muddy boots just fine.
Though, Lizzie was right. The brothers had really accomplished a lot in my absence. The four of them owned a string of ranch resorts that fused the decadence of first-class with the warm, soothing feel of country life.
The O’Conner Ranch Resort had become a familiar name throughout the state, but it was quickly gaining ground all over the country. And when I started planning my wedding, I couldn't think of any other place I would rather be.
I spotted Michael, socializing with a group of his college friends and walked over. But as I sat down by him, my presence went unacknowledged. He continued talking to someone beside him and paid me no attention. He didn’t look over at me or address me in any way. He didn’t slip his hand onto my knee like he used to or wrap his arm around the back of my chair. It was like I was non-existent to him, even though this was our rehearsal dinner.
Even though I was about to be his wife.
Maybe I was expecting too much.
I sighed as I rested back into my chair, my eyes scanning the beautiful ballroom. The place had a country feel to it, with all the shiplap and the distressed beams that held up the high ceiling. The chandelier was covered in mason jars. It cast light in all different directions, illuminating even the darkest of corners. The blonde hardwood floors were a steep contrast to the dark-tinted shiplap, but all of it was fused together by one element: the beautiful view of a field from the windows that wrapped around the room.
“How’s your food, Michael?”
He stopped his conversation midway and slowly panned his gaze toward me.
“Hm?” he asked.
“Your food. How is it? Cooked the way you like? I made sure to talk to the chef for you,” I said.
