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Odd. Was that something that got autocorrected, or is there a story there?
Wow, Honey chimes in. If Art stays with you after this visit, your marriage will last forever.
The rest of my sisters’ texts are full of jokes at my expense.
I glance at Art. The crazy thing is, he actually seems to be okay with my parents. No. More than okay. I think he’s enjoying their company.
Not that it matters. Our marriage isn’t real.
The cab stops. That was fast. The traffic must’ve been unusually light.
The event organizer, an overly muscular guy, greets us near the garden entrance.
Wow. I know this guy. Being a good and supportive friend, I’ve watched all of Fabio’s porn, and this guy was in one of the scenes. Obviously, I’m too embarrassed to comment on this, so I just stay quiet as he leads us to the place where the reception is going to take place.
As we walk, my belly feels like the battleground for a ballet of swans. I’ve never been into wedding stuff—at least not as much as some women—but if I were to imagine a dream venue, this would be it. Art has nailed everything from the classic white tablecloths on Scandinavian-style tables to the gorgeous plants and tasteful decorations.
“So, truth time,” the organizer says. “Do you think the tents are hideous?”
I study the clean white gazebos set up over each table. They provide both shade—important for my sun-avoiding sister, Olive—and protection from possible rain. “I think they’re pretty.”
The organizer looks at me like I’m insane. “Pretty? Those?”
Art rests a hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Relax, Festus. They’re perfect.”
Festus? In the video, he was Daddy.
Festus gapes at the hand on his shoulder, looking like he’s about to faint. Or explode in an orgasmic sort of way. “If you think so.”
“We do,” I say. “You can go now.” As silly as it is, the only shoulder I want Art to be touching is mine.
Mine.
Art pulls his hand away. Festus looks disappointed but regroups swiftly, peering at me in confusion. “You’re really okay with this?”
Did he expect a Bridezilla?
I nod, and Art grins.
“The reception is still happening?” Festus asks, sounding vaguely disbelieving.
“It is,” I say.
“Great.” Festus exhales a big breath. “Let me go tell the Botanical Garden folks.” He rushes away, no doubt afraid we’ll change our minds.
“Thank you,” I tell Art, gesturing at the tables around us. “This is going to be an amazing reception.”
Too bad it’s not real.
Art’s gaze is so warm it’s like a hug. Stepping toward me, he clasps my hands and squeezes lightly. “I’m glad you like everything.”
I moisten my suddenly dry lips. “‘Like’ is too mild a word for what I feel.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and his voice turns husky. “You know… people will expect us to kiss tomorrow.”
He lifts his eyes to mine, and I feel like a piece of nougat caught in melted chocolate. My words come out breathless. “Are you worried it will look fake?”
“It’s… a concern.”
The swans in my belly thrash rabidly. “Do you want to rehearse?”
He cradles my face with his large hands. “It’s only prudent.”
“Prudent is my middle name,” I breathe—and Art crushes his lips against mine.
