Her favorite classic book is To Kill A Mockingbird.
She’s originally from San Diego, but her parents moved to Phoenix when she was three. They still live in the area, and she’s close to them.
Her best friend is a divorcee who apparently did so well in her divorce settlement she’ll never have to work another day in her life. Ironically, she really wants to work, but she can’t figure out where her passion lies. I met her one day when she breezed in, wearing couture workout clothes that showed off every curve, with expertly applied makeup and looking like a million bucks.
Still, I preferred Clarke’s natural beauty any day of the week.
Best of all, while she was mildly skittish and held herself in reserve at times, Clarke actually gave me the benefit of the doubt in incremental doses as each day wore on, and this was evidenced by her trusting me enough to give me her address so I could pick her up.
Clarke lives in the historic neighborhood of Coronado in a small brick bungalow off 8th Street. I pull to the front of the curb and shut my truck off, enjoying the last moment of air conditioning before I step out in the dry summer heat that usually takes my breath away each time it slaps me in the face.
I exit my truck, round the front, and barely step onto the sidewalk when I see Clarke coming out her front door. She pulls it closed behind her, then locks it.
Waiting at the end of the pathway, I take a moment to check her out. It’s another summer wedding so she’s in pastel colors. This time, she’s in a white dress with large yellow and pink flowers that swishes around mid-calf. She has on a pair of gold sandals with a spiky heel that are actually really sexy.
But true to Clarke’s nature to sort of hide herself, she’s wearing little makeup, has her hair pulled up on top of her head, and has her glasses lodged on her nose like battle armor. When she turns to face me, she actually pushes them up with her index finger. I want to memorialize that moment forever because it’s when I realize Clarke will never be able to hide how gorgeous and sexy she is no matter how hard she tries.
I can’t help but tease her as she starts down the porch steps. “Not going to invite me in?”
My request startles her, and she stumbles a bit on the last step. I’m too far away to make a grab to steady her, but, luckily, she rights herself, once again pushing her glasses up her nose in a move I think is more from habit than anything else.
“What for?” she asks suspiciously.
“Um… because that’s sort of polite manners,” I say with a laugh. “At the very least, most women wait inside for their date to come up and escort them out.”
“I’m not most women,” she replies tartly.
“No, ma’am, you are not,” I agree wholeheartedly as she reaches me. I take her hand, tuck it into the crook of my elbow, and lead her back to my truck. “May I say you look incredibly lovely this fine evening?”
The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm glow all around us and making the bare skin on Clarke’s arms shimmer. I feel like instead of a wedding, we should be having a moonlit picnic by a lily-strewn pond while crickets chirp in the background.
Or some romantic shit like that, which is odd, as I’m the least romantic dude in the world. But, for whatever reason, Clarke sort of inspires those thoughts, which is something that freaks me out a bit. I’m way out of my comfort zone here, yet… I’m looking forward to the evening ahead.
When we reach my truck, Clarke looks at it with apprehension, as even with the running board, it’s quite the hike up.
“Your chariot awaits,” I advise with a sweep of my arm. Clarke snorts in return.
I open the door, then hold her hand as she delicately puts one sandaled foot on the running board and her other hand on the door. With one tiny bounce, she hoists herself into the seat, primly tucking her dress around her legs as I shut the door.
♦
The evening is turning out to be a lot of fun, and Clarke’s actually letting her hair down a bit, but only in the metaphorical sense. I would kill to actually see it down in its full glory, and I wonder how far it’ll hang down her back.
Most of the team also made this wedding as they did last week with Erik and Blue’s. In contrast to that one, Dax and Regan decided to have theirs in a small non-denominational church they attend sometimes.
They went traditional on everything, sparing no expense or detail. Some would think it strange, given they’d already been married for several months, but their marriage came about in the most unconventional of manners. Dax married Regan to provide her health insurance as she battles an extremely rare blood disorder. They fell in love after that and now, Dax is giving her the wedding she’d always dreamed about.
At least that’s what my best friend Tacker told me, who got it straight from his woman, Nora, who got it from Regan.
Regardless, she has the classic white wedding dress that makes her look like a fairy-tale princess. Dax is dapper in a tuxedo. They don’t have a huge contingent of people at their sides. Regan chose Dax’s sister, Willow, to be her maid of honor.
Or, rather, I guess it’s matron of honor as Willow eloped to Vegas with the team’s owner, Dominik Carlson, the day after the Vengeance won the Cup. They’ve since been on an extended honeymoon in the Maldives, having just made it back yesterday to attend this wedding.
Dax chose Legend Bay, our team’s goalie, to be his best man, which caused a good-natured argument among Bishop and Erik, who both felt they were equal candidates. They were still grumbling about it ten minutes ago when I went to get refills on drinks for Clarke and me.
The reception is at some ritzy country club Dax and Regan don’t belong to, but who will rent out their facilities to a Vengeance superstar with no qualms. They went over the top with a surf-and-turf dinner, open bar, and live band for us to dance away to all evening long.
The one similarity to Erik and Blue’s wedding is Dax and Regan also have the Cup at their wedding reception, which they filled with champagne and dipped glasses in for their first toast.
Clarke and I are seated at a table with Tacker, Nora, Bishop, and Brooke for the meal. Erik and Blue are not here as they’re still away on their honeymoon. Legend and Willow, along with their partners, sat at the bride and groom’s table.
Since the meal has concluded, most people mingle around in between band sets of the finest cover songs, switching up tables to sit and chat. The traditional bride-and-groom dance has been completed with Peter Frampton singing Baby, I Love Your Way.
Clarke is currently at our table beside Pepper and Willow, and she’s engaged in an animated discussion. Pepper is an author and writes children’s stories. Willow is a photojournalist. I figured they’d both get along with Clarke, and I see I’m correct.
It was cool this past week when I’d found one of Pepper’s books on the shelves in Clarke’s store while I was browsing, and she’d freaked out I knew the author. On the way to the wedding, Clarke asked me if she thought it would be tacky if she asked Pepper to do a signing at the store. I assured her it would not. I’m confident Pepper would be glad to do it.
The men have vacated the table, but we’re all standing in a cluster right beside it, reliving some of the Cup championship game, because yes… three weeks since the win and we’re still riding the high.
A slow song starts playing—one I frankly don’t recognize—but Tacker turns his back on me in midsentence, then pulls Nora up from the table, interrupting a conversation she was having with Brooke.