Do You Take This Man (2)
Suddenly, I was hurtling toward the sidewalk, not sure whether I should try to save myself, my bag, or the notes. I clutched the binder to my chest as I hit the concrete, scraping my leg, my palm stinging with the impact. The clothes I’d hurriedly shoved in my bag after changing fluttered around me, and I took in the large form who’d been blocking the sidewalk.
In a movie, this would be the start of a how-we-met story. The tall guy, his features obscured by the sun at his back, would lean down and help me up. Our eyes would meet. He’d apologize, I’d note something like the depth of his voice or the tickle of the hair on his forearms, and we’d be off. That might have happened for other people, but though our eyes met, I was not in the market for cute, and now I was about to arrive late and bruised to perform this couple’s wedding rehearsal.
Chapter 2
Lear
I STEPPED OUT of my car and stood looking up at the wedding venue as if I was standing on some great precipice. My phone buzzed again and, against my better judgment, I looked at the screen.
Sarah: I just need to know you’re okay.
She hadn’t texted for a while. Someone must have told her I’d gone home. I’d never planned to return to Asheville, North Carolina, and yet there I was, living in my cousin’s basement after doing my best impression of someone trying to self-destruct for the better part of a year.
I tapped the delete icon with more force than it needed. I imagined the sympathetic face she’d probably made while typing the text, with her lower lip out, eyes soft. When I didn’t respond, she’d sigh in exasperation. She told me once that nothing drove her crazier than when someone didn’t respond to texts, and I made it a point from then on to never leave her hanging. One of the many things I did to make sure I was everything she wanted, something I’d done with everyone since I was a teenager.
Done with her sympathy. Done with her. Done with being a nice guy. My phone buzzed again, but this time it was my cousin.
Penny: Did you go back to LA or something? Can you still cover this?
Lear: Got held up. There in a sec.
Penny: You’re killing me.
I shoved my phone into my pocket, clearing my head so I could take on my first task as Penny’s assistant wedding planner. The title required a second deep breath, because my old job, planning events for a professional football team—my dream job—was across the country, and it wasn’t mine anymore. With Sarah’s text fresh on my mind as a reminder that falling in love was the first step off a cliff, I headed into my first day as a wedding professional. I’d helped my cousin with setup earlier in the day, but now my only task was to woo a prospective client and her mother. I sucked in a breath. Here goes my new life.
A fast-moving body stopped my progress when it rammed into me, the voice of its owner high pitched as she cried “Motherf—” but hit the ground before completing the expletive.
The woman was sprawled on the pavement, the contents of what looked to be her entire life strewn around her. Her shocked expression quickly shifted, lips pursed and brow furrowed.
“Dammit,” I muttered.
She was dressed professionally, but the grass near her thigh was littered with a few tampons, a balled-up shirt, a stick of deodorant, a small bottle of maple syrup, and nine rolls of butter rum Life Savers. I lost focus on her haughty expression and tried to figure out why a person would have these things just with her. If she hadn’t still been muttering curse words under her breath, I would have really taken a moment to appreciate the randomness of the maple syrup and the audacity of that many Life Savers.
She looked up at me like I owed her something, eyes narrowed and expression incredulous, and I lost interest in the contents of her bag. I didn’t have time for this, but I tried to sand the edge from my voice. “You should watch where you’re going,” I said in what I hoped was a playful tone, holding out a hand only to be met with a deeper scowl.
“Speak for yourself,” she said in a huff, pushing away my hand and scrambling for balance. Her face was pinched, annoyed, and she turned in a flash to collect her things. “And manners. Have you heard of them?”
“You ran into me.”
“Because you were standing in the middle of the sidewalk, not moving.”
I still held out my hand to help her. Ten years in LA hadn’t completely robbed me of my Southern home training, but this random angry little woman was pissing me off. I reminded myself that I left the nice-guy thing back in California, along with everything else. I shook my outstretched hand at her, letting any veil of politeness slip. “Will you take my damn hand so we can both get going?”
She scowled again, and the entitlement running off her petite frame in this brief exchange hit me in waves, even from a few feet away. “This is not what I needed today.” As she pushed herself to her feet, she ignored my outstretched hand, and I stepped back.
Her hands flew frantically over her clothes and swiped at her hips. She muttered to herself as she tried to pick everything up, swatting my hand away when I tried to help. “Assholes just standing in the middle of the sidewalk,” she muttered to herself. “The last damn thing I needed today . . .”
I’d never heard that combination of whisper-quiet cursing. My instinct was to offer help again, to apologize again, and to smile until she walked away, but if the last several months had taught me anything, it was that my instincts weren’t all that great.