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In the distance, a murmur swept over the gathered throng like the portent of a storm.
Jason cupped her face in his hands. His body was rigid, his expression distraught.
A hole opened up in her chest.
He kissed her softly. In apology. Not passion. “I’m so sorry, Cate. This is wrong. I’ve known it for a while, but I couldn’t seem to stop the momentum. You know it, too, I think. We both let ourselves get caught up in the excitement and the way our families were so delighted for us, but we’ve made a mistake.”
The hole grew bigger, sucking all the oxygen out of her body. Little yellow spots danced in front of her eyes. “Don’t do this to me,” she pleaded. “I’m begging you, Jason. Don’t do this. You can’t. I’ll never forgive you.”
He released her, his face dead white.
They were speaking in whispers, but any one of the wedding party could easily pick up the essence of the drama. In the enormous sanctuary, no one moved. No one coughed. No one made a sound. The candles and the flowers were a paltry hiding place.
He wiped his damp face with the back of his hand and cursed in soft agony. “We love each other, Cate, but we’re notinlove.”
Those ten words were a knife to the heart. Severing her last hope. This day was supposed to be a beginning. She had given up so much—Blossom Branch, her dream wedding. She had convinced herself that marriage was what she desperately needed and wanted. Theonlything she wanted. And Jason, of course.
If she didn’t have this, who was she? What was left?
Everything inside her shut down. Her body went into survival mode. For eighteen months she had done little more than to think and plan and orchestrate this day. It was the social event of the season. In a century when newspapers all over the country were disappearing, not one but two society-page journalists sat in the audience.
Garden & Gunmagazine, arguably the arbiter of all things hip and classy in the modern South, had sent several reporters and photographers to document the day for a future spread on quintessential Georgia weddings.
Terror filled her veins. She couldn’t cope with this. It was too terrible to contemplate.
Panic like the rushing force of a tsunami galvanized her. Pushing past her startled groom-to-be, she fled.
It wasn’t easy. Her dress hampered her movements. Adrenaline fueled her desperation.
She had been a member of this church since she was twelve years old. Her parents had each served terms on the vestry. Cate had been an acolyte and had sung in the choir. She knew every narrow hallway and musty closet and crooked passage.
Which meant that in no time at all, she found herself outside.
The cobblestone driveway was oddly silent. Despite the tightly packed cars, everyone was inside. Cate was completely alone.
The sun beat down on her head. The silver comb of her pearl-studded tiara dug into her scalp.
She had no purse, no money, and no means of transportation. Hysteria threatened, but she shoved it away. No one was bleeding. This wasn’t a hurricane or an earthquake or any other natural disaster. She wasn’t going to die.
Was she?
A large, warm hand came down on her shoulder. “Steady, Catie-girl. It’s going to be okay.”
Without sunglasses, the afternoon light was punishing. She shaded her eyes with her free hand and blinked up at the large, tuxedo-clad man. “Harry?”
Everything inside her shriveled into a tiny ball of misery and embarrassment. On the long list of people she would rathernothave witnessed the absolute debacle that was her wedding day, Prescott Harrington III, better known in their social circle asHarry,was at the top.
“None other,” he said mildly. “You seem surprised. IdidRSVP.”
“But without a plus one.”
“No. Just me.” He slid an arm around her waist. “Are you sentimentally attached to those flowers, honey?”
She glanced down dumbly at her beautiful bouquet. “No.”
He was forced to peel her chilled fingers loose one at a time because she couldn’t seem to uncurl her hand on her own. When the task was accomplished, he tossed the poor undeserving roses on the hood of an ice-blue Lamborghini and steered Cate toward his own car, a sleek black roadster that was quietly sophisticated rather than flashy, much like Harry himself.
Opening the passenger door without fanfare, he tucked her in and fastened her seat belt, careful not to damage the acres of tulle and satin. Then he slammed the door, ran around to the driver’s side and hopped behind the wheel.
