Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(22)

But the text never came.

So here I am.

Outside her quaint, stone, hobbit-cottage of a house—which was the servants’ quarters back when this property was owned by the first mayor of Lakeside—wearing my gray suit and burgundy tie, to pick her up for Dean and Lainey’s big day. The sound of my truck door closing bounces off the lake beside her house and echoes in the air. I straighten my jacket and rub my palms on the sides of my pants. Because . . . I’m nervous.

And I don’t get nervous. I don’t really know why I am now. It’s just a wedding, like Violet said—just two coworkers and semi-friends going together for the sake of convenience and seating arrangements. It shouldn’t be a big deal.

But it feels like it is.

Or that it has the potential to be.

Halfway up the cobblestone walk to her house, the wooden front door opens and Violet steps out onto the front stoop.

I stop and stare—a dazed, automatic whisper slipping from my mouth.

“Even better than the bunny scrubs.”

Her hair is down and finally seeing it in the flesh puts my imagination to shame. It frames her face in glossy, russet waves that fall over her shoulders and down to the middle of her back. Her bangs gently brush her eyebrows, highlighting her delicate features—big innocent eyes, her dainty nose, her pert chin, and perfectly rosy, high cheekbones.

A simple, strapless merlot-colored dress molds perfectly to her body—putting the swell of full breasts, her slim waist, the rounded curve of her hips that would be fucking perfect to hold onto, and the toned length of her endless legs—on naked display. A single, round diamond hanging from a thin silver chain rests below her clavicle, just inches above a teasing crease of cleavage.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.” I swallow roughly. “You look . . . ”

I search for a word that fits. Exquisite? Stunning? Edible? They all fall short.

“. . . almost too good to be true.”

Vi’s eyes dance and her lips curve into a bright, immediate smile.

“Thank you.” She scans me over, taking in my thick combed hair, then trailing down my torso and thighs before coming to rest on my shined dress shoes. I’ve been checked out by enough women in my life to know that Violet likes what she sees.

That knowledge melts away my nerves—and my heart pounds a little faster, my lungs squeeze a little tighter, with the pleasant zing of anticipation.

“You look pretty unbelievable too.” Her dark eyes alight on my tie. “We match.”

I glance down, picking up the silk fabric.

“We do.”

She lifts a pair of maroon, open-toed sandals with beading on the front and about three-inch heels. “I figured it was safer to put these on once we’re there. Didn’t want to risk busting an ankle or a kneecap before we even make it through the door.”

“Way to think ahead.” I move up the walk, watching how the light catches in her hair, making it shimmer like sunlit ripples on the surface of the lake.

Vi glances beyond my shoulder. “Are your boys coming to the wedding?”

“They are. Aaron is taking his own car—picking up his girlfriend—so Spence and Brayden wanted to ride with him. He’s a lot cooler than I am.”

“Right,” she laughs. “So it’ll just be us on the drive over?”

I nod. And I can’t stop looking at her.

“Just us.”

I hold out my arm, to be sure she doesn’t trip on the way to the truck and because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, and . . . because I want to be closer to her.

“Ready?”

Violet takes a breath, then exhales slowly. I catch the scent of strawberry—the mouthwatering, addictive kind—like sweet, sugary bubble gum that never loses flavor.

And she slides her arm into mine.

“Ready.”


*

I like to think I’m a sensitive guy.

I’m in touch with my feelings, I go to group therapy—I vacuum on a regular basis. Being married for a decade and a half trained me to notice things like a new hairstyle, a change of curtains, the difference between a comforter and a duvet.

But I’m still a guy.

Unless it’s a cool Indy stripe on a classic muscle car or a set of sweet new rims—floofy, purely decorative touches don’t really impress me.

Until now.

Dean wasn’t kidding when he said Lainey practiced modern-day witchcraft—because when Violet and I walk into their backyard, it’s been transformed into a magical wedding wonderland—and I’m damn impressed.

Every surface and corner are accented with bunches of pale-pink roses, swirling silver ribbons and tall glass-encased white candles. The pristine lake is a stunning backdrop for a long, rose-petal-strewn path, with a dozen rows of white wooden chairs on each side, each with an elegant pink seat cushion and a gossamer bow tied in back. The aisle ends at the mahogany-stained dock with a tall wooden wedding trellis laden with soft pink roses and twining green ivy.

A section of violin, harp, and cello players—that I know is comprised of students from the high school orchestra—warm up their instruments on the emerald grass to the right of the dock. Closer to the house is a huge open-sided white tent with a square oak dance floor in the center. Surrounding the dance floor are round light-pink cloth-covered tables with tall rose-filled silver vase centerpieces, shiny silver place settings, and a long buffet table of chafing dishes that extends across the entire back. Strings of clear bulbs hang overhead and unlit, wrought-iron tiki torches and firepit basins frame in the whole area.