Beyond These Walls (The Walls Duet #2)(28)

“We’re fine, really.”

“Come on. Let’s go enjoy the evening,” Jude encouraged, throwing an arm around the both of us.

“Wait!” Grace came to a halt, and she turned. “You guys can’t just waltz in. You must be introduced. It’s tradition.”

We looked at each other and grinned, both realizing we needed to give Grace this moment.

“Okay. We’ll wait here then.” I said.

“Yes! I’ll let the band know. The lead singer will announce you, and then you can have your grand entrance as husband and wife. Very classy.”

She flitted off as both of us held our breath, trying to keep from bursting into laughter.

“She’s intense. Has she ever considered becoming an event organizer?” Jude asked, a chuckle escaping his throat.

“Or dictator. No one would even know they were being ruled because she’s so sweet.”

A deep voice came over the microphone, and we scooted closer to the ballroom just in time to hear the magic words. Grace opened the door, her face beaming, as a spotlight hit us square in our faces.

We held hands and made our way through the throng of people clapping and cheering. It was like being a celebrity for a night, and I suddenly realized why movie stars were all so thin. There was no time to eat.

Jude and I had spent a hefty amount of time picking out a beautiful place to have the reception. It needed to be classy enough for his mother’s guests and for us. Well, all we’d really cared about was the food. This location had class and great food. Their chef was amazing and managed to make food that was both divine and not overbearing.

But I hadn’t had a chance to eat any of it since arriving at our table. Every time I raised my fork to my mouth, someone would tap on my shoulder, ready to congratulate me or offer hugs and kisses. It was lovely and heartfelt, and I adored the attention, but if I didn’t get food in my belly soon, people were going to see what a bridezilla truly looked like.

“Miss?” a young waiter said at my side before correcting himself. “I mean, Mrs. Cavanaugh?” His hand covered his mouth as he cleared his throat and blushed, clearly nervous.

I took a moment to glance over at my new husband, who was giving him the evil eye.

“Lailah is fine,” I replied sweetly before giving Jude a look that told him to stand down.

“The chef has requested final approval on the cake,” he said, his eyes darting toward the kitchen and then back to me.

“Um . . . oh. I’m sure whatever he’s done is fine,” I said with a wave of my hand.

If there were an award for an easygoing bride, I would win, hands down. No meltdown bridezilla here.

He pulled at the neck of his collar before wiping his palms against his black slacks. “He was quite insistent.”

“Oh. Okay.” I sighed, not wanting to cause the poor thing any more discomfort.

“Do you want me to accompany you?” Jude offered, rising from his seat to take my hand.

“No, it’s all right. I’ll be right back. One of us should stay and eat. Save my plate?” I requested, kissing his cheek and he nodded.

I followed the waiter toward the back, waving and smiling as I quickly rushed by. He held the door for me, and I made my way into the kitchen. Quickly remembering the last time I’d been in an industrial kitchen like this, I smiled. Seeing the stainless steel workspaces, memories of pizza dough and marinara sauce flooded my mind. But they were quickly dashed when I saw a single place setting, complete with candles and a cloth napkin waiting for me.

“What is this?” I asked, turning toward the waiter.

“Dinner,” he answered. Then, he promptly took his leave through a swinging door, which led further into the depths of the kitchen.

I looked around, searching for answers, and then I found them.

Standing stoically in the corner, he wore his trademark smile and a designer black suit.

“Nice of you to join us,” I muttered.

“I’ve been here the entire time,” he answered. “In the background, where I belong . . . on a day such as this,” he added.

“You did this?” I asked, not bothering to hide the surprise in my tone.

“Well, we couldn’t have the bride fainting on her wedding day, could we?” Roman said, taking a step forward, as his hand slid across the cool steel of the table.

“And what about your brother?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest in defiance.

“Well, someone needs to entertain the masses.” His face curled into a wicked grin.

“Why, Roman?” I questioned, taking an angry step toward him. “Why be generous now? After all these months? Don’t you see what you’ve been putting your brother through?”

His features contorted—first with anger and then melting into something closer to pain. He studied the floor, never making eye contact, as he seemed to fight an internal battle for control.

It seemed to be ages before he spoke, “I’ve been to hundreds of these types of things.” Apparently, he decided to entirely skirt around my pointed questions.

“Weddings?” I asked.

“Weddings, fundraisers, galas—they’re all the same. Same boring people, same dull food.”

I glanced down at my second dinner. It was growing colder by the minute, and I pouted. It wasn’t dull. It was beautiful.