Good Boy (WAGs #1)(10)

“I don’t know,” he muses. “I’m having fun.”

“You’ve been here for an hour folding napkins into swans. I’ve been here since the crack of dawn, dealing with a million teeny details. Trust me, it’s not fun.”

Dyson shrugs. “Well, if it helps, you’ve done a fab job, baby-cakes. No joke.” He waves an arm around the interior of the tent. “Everything looks terrif.”

That does help. Relief flutters through me as I take in the scene. The centerpieces turned out really beautifully. So did the flower arrangements. I guess the thirty-two hours I spent consulting with the florist paid off.

“Thank you,” I say gratefully, reaching for another napkin. “And thanks again for coming early. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”

“No problemo.” My date grins. “Even though you only invited me to make someone jealous.”

My jaw drops. “I did not! I told you, I just need a buffer.”

“Buffer, jealousy provoker, same diff. Can’t wait to see who it is. Don’t tell me, okay? I want to guess.” He brushes some napkin lint off his tie. “Hey, what do you think of this color? It was between this and the salmon. Did I choose wisely?”

Dyson holds out the end of his purple-and-silver-striped tie, which perfectly matches the purple bellflower on his lapel. His suit is slate gray, which I was happy to see. I was genuinely worried he might show up in pastels or something.

“Definitely the wiser choice,” I assure him.

“I know, right? As much as I love the salmon, it would have clashed horribly with your dress.” He gestures to my mauve shift. Then he frowns. “But I still think we could’ve made a bigger splash if we color-coordinated so we both wore salmon.”

“Would you please just call it pink? It’s pink! And let’s get real here, Dyse—you look terrible in pink. It washes out your complexion.”

Before he can object, a frazzled voice calls out from the tent’s entrance. “Jess! Mom’s asking about Nana.” My sister Tammy hurries over to our table. “Who’s getting her from the airport?”

“The best man,” I answer. “He texted ten minutes ago to say that her flight was slightly delayed. She’ll be landing any minute, though.”

Tammy looks relieved. “Okay, good. Mom was getting worried. Hey, Dyson—when’d you get here?”

“A bit ago.” His tone is vague as he studies Tammy’s face. “You doing okay, sweetie? You look tired.”

“I had a baby fourteen weeks ago. Of course I’m tired.”

For some reason, that doesn’t appease Dyson. He sets down his napkin and hops to his feet. Tammy takes a wary step back.

“You’re pale.” He grasps both her hands in his without asking. “Hands are ice-cold. Nails a tad brittle. Baby, are you taking care of yourself? You might be a wee bit anemic. You getting enough iron in your diet?”

“What diet?” Tammy sighs. “With Ty just toddling everywhere, and Lilac shrieking like a banshee all night with colic, I barely have time to breathe, let alone eat.”

I shoot to my feet, too. I knew that Tammy was exhausted, but my sister always plays it off like she’s a superhero. I’ve got it covered, she always tells us.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” I demand in concern. “You know we’d be at your place in a heartbeat to help you out.”

Tammy slowly removes her hands from Dyson’s grip. “It’s fine,” she insists. “I’m a mom of two—of course life is going to be exhausting.” She glances at Dyson. “But I’ll make a doctor’s appointment and get a blood test done, if that makes you feel better.”

He rolls his eyes, but his tone is gentle as he says, “It’s not about making me feel better, sweetie. It’s about making sure you’re strong and healthy for yourself and your children.”

“I’ll make the appointment,” she mumbles, and there’s a flicker of guilt in her eyes as she dashes off, the hemline of her pale yellow dress swirling around her knees.

“I can’t believe you just got her to agree to see a doctor.” I gape at Dyson. “Tammy never admits that anything is wrong.”

“I’m a nurse. That gives me magical powers.” Waggling his eyebrows, he flops back in his chair and goes back to swan construction.

I hesitate before sitting down again. I’ve been putting off this conversation for a while, but this feels like the ideal opening. It’s also one of the reasons I asked Dyson to attend the wedding with me, instead of asking one of my other male friends.

“I have a question,” I start slowly.

He laughs. “And I have answers. Lots of them. For example, the answer to the question ‘should we have worn salmon?’ is obviously ‘hell yes.’”

I force a smile. “A more important question,” I admit. “And you have to promise to be one hundred percent honest with me, okay?”

The humor in his eyes dissolves into sincerity. “All right. Hit me.”

“Do you think…” I take a breath. “…I’d make a good nurse?”

There’s a second of silence, and that’s all it takes for me to back-pedal. Frantically. Like I’m in a kayak that just got too close to a waterfall.