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“She’s already ridden in my car, and she didn’t mind.”
“Ooh, really? I want to hear all about it!” She takes my arm and pulls me toward the kitchen. “But for now, you need to get going. You said you’re supposed to be there at six thirty. Don’t want to be late.” Rob tosses a keyless fob, and she catches it one-handed, then presses it into my palm. “Take the Escalade. Even if Nica’s okay with your Subaru, the other guests won’t be. I don’t usually care what people think, but sometimes it’s good to fit in.”
“But my jacket is in my car.”
She pushes the door to the garage open and nudges me through. “Grab it on your way out, silly.” She pushes a button on the wall, and the big door rolls silently up.
I look at the big black vehicle. It’s definitely a classier car than Subie Doo. And I know Gloria well enough to know she won’t take no for an answer. “Thanks.” I lean down to kiss her cheek. “See you over there.”
“Save a polka for me.” She winks as she turns away.
I climb into the luxurious car and press the button to start the engine. The big vehicle rolls onto the driveway in what feels like silent splendor—this thing has much better sound proofing than poor Subie. I stop by the little green car to grab my jacket from the hanger. Tossing it across the passenger seat, I climb back in and drive to the chapel.
When I arrive, a line of high-end vehicles blocks the entrance to the parking lot. Half a dozen men and women with big cameras stand behind a rope to one side of the building, a Ranch police officer watching them. At the front of the chapel, uniformed valets open doors and take keys. I wait in line until I get into the lot, then cut between the orange cones to park in the back corner. I don’t want to hand my friend’s expensive car over to a teen in a red vest. As I walk toward the building, Riker Silver—the Rotheberg High School quarterback, whose dad owns a car dealership—revs the engine of a bright red Lamborghini and grins at me as he squeals away from the curb. I give myself a mental pat on the back. Excellent decision.
I slip through the open doors into the lobby which stretches the width of the building. The double doors to the chapel are open, and well-dressed guests stream through, taking seats on both sides of the main aisle. I move to the side, watching the rich and famous greet each other. Their voices fill the stone-floored lobby, but picking out individual conversations is almost impossible.
“See anyone you recognize?” Nica’s voice murmurs, soft in my ear.
I start and turn. “You snuck up on me. And you look…amazing.”
She smiles and does a little twirl. A navy blue sheath clings to her figure. A wide band sets off her slender neck, while the halter-style top leaves her shoulders and arms bare. She wears impossibly high heels, and a slit reveals her right leg to just above the knee. Not exactly the usual wedding wear for Rotheberg, but perfect for this assembly.
Her eyes travel over me, and heat rises in my chest. “There’s something about a guy in a tux.” She bites her lip and fans herself.
I laugh and take a little bow. “Thank you. Don’t tell anyone I had to get help with my tie.”
She tucks her hand around my bicep and nods at the crowd. Her faint floral fragrance wraps around me, leaving my knees weak. “See anyone you want to meet?”
I wrack my brains for a Hollywood A-lister’s name. The only one I can think of right now is standing next to me. Finally, I hit on her newly announced co-star. “Is Ryan Davis here? He seems like a nice guy.”
“Of course he’s nice. He’s Canadian.” She giggles. “I don’t think my dad knows him. Dad is old guard, and Ryan is… current. Now if you wanted to meet Frank Solari or Ed Bucholz, we’ve got you covered.” She nods at the well-dressed but mostly older people streaming through the entrance. “Or any one of a hundred different IP lawyers.”
“No, I’m good. Don’t feel you need to introduce me to people. I’m just a seat filler.”
Her brow wrinkles. “Don’t call yourself that. You’re here as my guest, not as a nameless body.”
A flood of warmth rushes through me at her easy words. Nica certainly knows how to make a guy feel like a celebrity. She tugs me toward the doors. “Come on, let’s get a seat.”
She nods to one of the ushers as we enter and takes a program, then pulls me to the right side of the room. The big windows behind the altar frame the mountains, and a nearly full moon hangs just above the Middle Sister. Light glimmers on the water hazard at the fifteenth hole, but the red cinder “sand” traps look like dark pits.
We stop near the fifth row in the little chapel. It holds ninety people comfortably with a maximum capacity of 120. Or so the Ranch wedding planner told Blake when we visited on Monday. It’s nearly half-full already. “Don’t you have an assigned seat?”
“Nope.” She slides onto a bench, leaving me a space at the end.
“But you’re the daughter of the groom.” I wave at the front pews that have been roped off with garlands and ribbon.
“I’m the elder daughter of the groom.” She chuckles, and the sound feels like champagne bubbles in my throat. “What bride wants to be reminded she’s now the stepmom to a thirty-year-old?” Her hand flies to her mouth.
“Thirty?” I raise my eyebrows with a smirk. “I thought you were twenty-eight.”
Her eyes widen, and she bites her lip again, then places a hand on my forearm. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
I give her a puzzled look. “No, of course not. Who would even care?”
“You’re kidding, right? Didn’t we just have a conversation about how old my dad wants people to think he is? Hollywood is brutal on aging.”
“That makes no sense. Everyone is getting older. Pretending you aren’t only perpetuates the idea that youth is required for success.” Something Rob mentioned one day while we were working on the bed comes back to me. “Although I guess it’s similar in the computer industry. I have a friend who’s only twenty-nine—for real—” I wink, then regret the action when she doesn’t smile. “He’s scrubbing his birth year from every public source for the same reason.”
