I want to tell them that Braxton already has dropped panties. I’m a terrible secret keeper, and it’s clawing at the back of my throat like a bad allergy. But I keep that dirty little nugget to myself for the time being. Especially when our shameless staring attracts the attention of the staree, who glances over his shoulder and locks eyes with us.
“Oh shit.” I grab my blueprint and start tracing lines with my pen. “We’ve been spotted. Look busy.”
Thom grabs his Margaret Atwood novel and cracks it open. We’re both intently looking intent when my paper goes dark with a familiar shadow.
“Susie Posy.” Braxton’s voice is caramel smooth and just as tasty. There’s an ever-elusive hint of a smile on his lips. “We have to stop meeting like this. People will talk.”
“Oh, well, you know.” I flick my pen between my fingers. “It’s not that strange, actually. We’re all going to the same place, so.”
“I haven’t a damn single clue what we’re going to find at Ray’s family home,” he starts. Braxton’s hand clutches the back of my seat, making him incredibly close. “Do you?”
“You know. Just the best South Carolina has to offer. Old-school farmhouse…from what he’s told me, it’s supposed to be insanely cute.”
“Right.” Braxton’s eyes flicker over to Thom, and he extends a hand. “Braxton West. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“We haven’t. Thom Eaton.”
“And Marlee!”
“Are you Susie’s plus one, then?” Braxton doesn’t let go of Thom’s hand. Instead, his eyes glint like a freshly sharpened blade. Is he…possessive?
“Not quite.” Thom smiles. “I’m her—”
“Assistant,” I blurt out quickly before he can call me his babysitter. “Thom and Marlee are my assistants.”
Thom shoots me a death glare for the demotion. I apologize with pleading eyes. Just let me have this one.
Immediately, Braxton softens. He withdraws the guns, releasing Thom’s grip, and his smile warms. “Glad to have you. This wedding is going to be a train wreck. I imagine Susie can use all the help she can get.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Thom says, his voice sickly sweet. “Whatever my buttercup Susie needs.”
“Has she told you yet that I plan to sabotage the wedding?” Braxton is as blunt and forward as a mallet to the face, and it catches me off guard. Worse, he smiles as he says it, wearing a deceptively charming wolf-in-the-woods grin.
“We were just getting to that,” I say brusquely.
“In that case, you, Mr. West, have your work cut out for you,” Thom says. “We can design a postcard wedding in our sleep.”
“So—hey,” I add. “I think first class is calling. All grumpy butts please return to your seats.”
Thom adds, “Please adjust the stick in your ass to the upright position.”
“Is this your version of trash-talking?” Braxton asks. “It’s adorable.”
I cover my mouth with my hand and mimic the crackling of the captain’s radio. “This is your captain speaking. Be aware that we will be offering complimentary disparaging comments that no one asked for.”
“With a side of entitled arrogance,” Thom adds.
“Let’s be clear.” Braxton drops his voice, and it’s as though a dark cloud has enveloped our little gathering. His eyes pin on mine, and I shiver at the chill that ripples through me. “I’m going to eat you alive, Posy. Then I’m going to use this one—” A nod to Thom. “—as a toothpick to clean my teeth when I’m finished with you.”
“What about me?” Marlee says.
“You, puppy, I’ll save for dessert.” He winks at her, and I’m pretty sure my blush has taken over not only my face, but also my neck and entire body.
“This was fun,” Braxton says, those steel blues on me again. He smiles and the cabin warms once more, as though he has the very mercury in the thermometer under his control. “Let’s do it again sometime.”
Braxton reenters first class. It occurs to me that he might actually be a psychopath.
“That’s right, run away!” Marlee pipes up. “And take your nice, tight butt with you!”
“Marlee, no. It’s over. Sit.” I gently push her shoulder, and she sits back down.
“He’s going to be a handful,” Thom huffs.
“Yes, well. I’ve got two hands,” I remind him. “He doesn’t scare me.”
“Wouldn’t mind getting my two hands on him…” Thom murmurs dreamily. “Are we sure he bats for your team?”
I flick on the cold air vent above us and point it directly at him.
While Thom cools his heels in a time-out and Marlee chitters behind us, I turn my attention back to the blue print of the Dalton estate. I already have a rustic wooden arbor planned out beside the farmhouse. I imagine that South Carolina sun steaming down on Cora as she flaunts a boho-chic wedding dress and a flower crown. My chest swells and my nerves decorate themselves with war paint. I’m not going to let anything, not even Braxton West, come between me and my perfect wedding.
6
Notes From the Dalton/West File
Venue: The Dalton Family Ranch
History: the ranch has been in the family since 1912, when Ray’s great-grandfather, Herbert Dolton, purchased it. It was part of a working farm for fifty years, and keeping the ranch alive through those trying times was a huge point of pride for Ray’s family.
Notes:
Venue is NOT changeable. Very important to Dalton family.
Wants to keep farm “elements” to honor history: think, wheelbarrow drinks, hale-bales in photoshoots, etc.
Might need some minor (?) upkeep
Has hayloft = can be used for storage
The location contains a main house (where the Dalton family lives) and a barn (mostly used for storage)
Main house is available for set up and barn is ready for ceremony.
Think: rustic vibes, cowboy and his city-girl runaway. Let’s do this!
7
Susie
As it turns out, Braxton West is the least of my problems.
There is nothing rustic about the Dalton family ranch. Sometimes, old things are priceless antiques. And other times, they’re just really, really old.
This place is in the really old category. And nowhere near wedding-ready.
The two-story farmhouse is made entirely of wood panels with a turquoise paneled roof. There are bits of the house that are nice—the open screened patio addition, the brick chimney, the indigo-blue mountains in the backdrop. Then there are parts of the house that are not-so-nice, like the exploding tufts of spruce bushes, the broken panels, and the “Beware of the Dog” sign. Worse, the ground is barren, dry, and dusty—not a sprout of grass in sight. We might as well host the wedding in the parking lot of a monster truck convention.
“This is our rustic farmhouse?” Thom asks, his expression falling. “Are you sure we didn’t make a wrong turn?”