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I grimace. “Abel says it will by five o’clock. In the meantime, I thought you could help Marianne with the decor and tables and . . . stuff.”
Lu scoffs, taking the bowl of eggs from me and pouring them into the pan. “You know that ‘stuff’ typically takes months to plan and execute, right?”
“We’ve got ten hours.” I put my hands on the counter on either side of Lu and melt my body against hers, my front to her back. Kiss the nape of her neck. “But lots of helping hands. We can do it, as long as we don’t get sidetracked.”
She tilts her head to the side, granting me access to her throat. “That will definitely happen if you don’t stop humping me like this and kissing my neck.”
“I’m not humping you,” I say, even as I press my growing erection into the cradle of her ass.
She stirs the eggs with one hand. Reaches back with the other to cup my face. “I’m supposed to hang with Goldie all day—get our hair and makeup done. I don’t want to just blow her off.”
“She’s apparently not feeling great. I’d give her a call and see what she says. I have a feeling she’ll be happy to lend you to me for the day if it means getting the wedding of her dreams.”
Lu scoffs again. “No pressure.”
My phone pings. Sighing, I step away from Lu to grab it.
“Oh boy.”
“What?”
“The preacher’s house flooded. He isn’t going to be able to make the ceremony.”
Lu goans. “That’s really not good.”
“I’ll think of something. Actually, I think Mrs. Underwood might’ve been a pastor in her former life. Let me call—”
“Who’s Mrs. Underwood?’
I grin. “The village’s resident romance writer.”
“Ah. Every town needs one of those. Small towns like their sex almost as much as they like their secrets.”
“You kidding?” I harrumph. “We like sex way, way better. It’s why we’re so good at it.”
She laughs. The buttery smell of scrambled eggs fills the kitchen. Mom picks up and tells me Mrs. Underwood is indeed an ordained minister.
The weather outside’s awful. But that don’t mean we can’t make magic happen.
That don’t mean I can’t enjoy Lu’s company for one more day.
Even if it is our last one together.
twenty-five
Lu
Oreos Make Everything Better
Goldie gives me her blessing to help Riley pull off the last-minute change of venue. But she still sounds absolutely miserable on the phone.
So after I help Riley clean up from breakfast, I have him drop me off at my grandparents’ house for an outfit change before I drive to the Maritime Market for groceries.
Then I head to Goldie and Coop’s rental house.
Thank God I have Julia, my sprightly new golf cart, because the weather is probably the worst I’ve ever seen it on the island. The rain comes down in sheets, a steady, constant downpour that floods the streets. It’s chilly, the temperature hovering right near sixty-five degrees, but somehow the air is clammy at the same time. My hair, already a mess thanks to Riley’s ministrations last night, immediately frizzes in the humidity.
My heart aches for Goldie and Coop. This wedding has been a bear from the start; they were disappointed to have to push the date up, largely because it meant so many of their friends and family weren’t able to make it. I’m sure they’re doubly disappointed now that the weather isn’t cooperating either. You’d never think of Goldie as a romantic, but the Jane Austen fan in her lurks just beneath the surface. She loved the idea of a sunset ceremony on the beach—a warm breeze, epic lighting, the background noise of waves crashing.
I’d be devastated too if I had to trade that for something significantly less sexy. Riley said Cooper told Goldie the new venue is a “big, beautiful new house.” What he didn’t tell her is that the house is not finished, and there’s not a stick of furniture or single light fixture to be found inside.
We certainly have our work cut out for us.
First, though, I need to check in on my friend.
“I come bearing gifts,” I singsong as I let myself into her house. “How’s everybody doing?”
It’s a little before eight, so the hair and makeup people haven’t arrived yet. Goldie is on the couch, remote in hand, a glazed-over look on her face as she stares at an episode of Below Deck: Mediterranean.
“Riley’s boat is so much cooler than the ones on this show.” She sniffles.
My chest twists. “Dolly’s the best. I’m sure Riley would let you take her to the Mediterranean for your honeymoon.”
“At least we have that,” she replies glumly.
I set down the grocery bags on the counter. Plucking a package of Double Stuf Oreos from the pile, I plop onto the couch beside her. “Feeling any better?”
“The nausea went away, so that’s good.” She lifts a shoulder and sighs. “Sorry. I know I’m being a drama queen, I’m just—yeah, so bummed about the weather and everything.”
