Page 4 of Best Part of Me

“Are we clear?”

Instead of answering, Chris leans into me and presses a kiss on my cheek. “I’ll give you two a minute and then I’ll see you back inside?” he says it like a question. Almost as if he’s afraid I’m gonna call this entire engagement off right now.

And maybe I would if I had a big enough reason to.

As soon as the door closes behind Chris, I turn to face Maverick. “Please don’t go. I want you here. Ineedyou here,” the words rush out of me, desperate and deprived. Tears begin to work their way into my eyes.

“You don’t need me, Sunshine. Not anymore. You’ve got Chris.”

“It’s not the same.” I sniff.

“Nah, I don’t suppose so. Maybe that’s good. I don’t want someone taking my place in your life. But it should be different. Chris is right about one thing; he’s going to be your husband. He’s the one you should be joking with and whose shoulder you should be crying on. And you need to let him.”

Maverick wraps his arms around me but doesn’t hold me long. Before I can even inhale his scent, he’s pulling away and walking backward.

I’m losing him. I feel it deep in my bones. Deep in my heart.

And so I don’t have any regrets, I lay all of my cards out on the table. “In six months, I’ll be walking down that aisle. You sure you’re okay with that?”

For a moment, he looks like he might change his mind. All I need is a hint of a chance. A possibility.

But he simply nods, like the decision is easy. “Save me a seat on the bride’s side, Sunshine.”

And then he’s gone.

Gone from the restaurant. And gone from my life.

CHAPTER1

Camille

TWO YEARS LATER

The thing about running out on your own wedding is that everyone will think you’re a Bitch. With a capital B.

I have no delusion that I’ll not only be forgiven but loved by millions of people like Rachel was onFriends. Nor do I think a handsome reporter is going to ride into town to write an article about me, and we’ll fall madly in love like onRunaway Bride. I don’t have a charismatic personality or trademark smile like Julia Roberts.

I’m just Camille Martin, a seriously confused twenty-five-year-old woman, about to make the biggest decision of my life—one way or another.

In the Bride room of the exquisite vineyard just outside Denver, Colorado, I stare at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. My eyes are tired, and my blonde hair has been pinned up with so many bobby pins I’m afraid I won’t find them all. The white wedding dress is too poufy. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking ten months ago when I picked it out. Sure, the tight and low-cut bodice looks great on my rack, but the rest is fucking atrocious.

This is one example of why you should never pick out your wedding dress more than six months in advance. Styles change. Your taste may change. Hell, maybe you were on your period when you went dress shopping and, like an idiot, got sentimental when your grandma said it’s the dress your deceased mother would’ve loved.

The woman staring back at me now isn’t me. It’s a shell of some version of me I don’t recognize anymore. Somewhere between losing Mom eighteen months ago and putting the wedding plans on hold, I lost myself in the process. The truth is, I haven’t seen my true self in that reflection for a long time.

My maid of honor, Rosalie Milano, stands next to me with her hands on her hips. Even in the heels, she’s still a few inches shorter than me.

“Okay, Cams, take a deep breath and rip off the fucking Band-Aid.”

I’m really not sure how I would’ve gotten this far in life without Rosie, my pint-sized, feisty best friend. Our grandmas have been friends forever and introduced us when we were kids. After her parents died in a car accident when she was only six, she was raised by her grandma, Gigi.

Rosie and I have been inseparable ever since.

We make eye contact in the mirror’s reflection.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whine.

“You can. And you will.”

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