Page 133 of Jack

The air is scented with the subtle fragrance of roses, lilies, and anticipation. Brontë, standing gracefully in front of an ornate mirror, lifts the fabric of her gown—the same gown her mother wore decades ago, now altered to marry tradition with contemporary grace. The dress, a cascade of delicate lace and silk, whispers stories of the past as it rustles against the plush carpet of the dais.

She wears a pair of diamond earrings, a gift from her groom, Oaken. They sparkle under the soft glow of the chandelier, each facet catching light. Around her neck is clasped a pearl necklace, handed down from her grandmother. The pearls, each a testament to enduring beauty and strength, lie against her collarbone—a touchstone to the women who have shaped her.

Her bouquet rests on a nearby table. White and blue roses cluster tightly, their hues a perfect echo of the clear January sky. Concealed among the blooms is a love note, a ribbon-bound excerpt fromWuthering Heights: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” This quote now gains new meaning as she prepares to walk toward Oaken.

Okay, even in her head that sounded over the top. But probably appropriate.

And now, as Boo took a long breath, the words in Harper’s mind continued to pen the moment.

As the organ music slips in through the closed doors, building the anticipation of meeting her groom, Brontë steps fully dressed toward her reflection. She pauses, her heart a symphony of beats, her reflection a portrait of bridal beauty. The joy in her eyes mirrors the smiles of the women who surround her. Today, Brontë not only marries the man she loves but also steps into a new chapter of a love story that spans generations—her feet firmly planted in tradition, her heart soaring into the future.

Harper wanted to cry.

She wanted this. All of it. The tradition. The family. The groom.Herowngroom.

Jack.

“Don’t let him walk away unless you want him to.”

“Bee, you okay?” Boo’s gaze had fallen on her.

“Yeah. Great.” She forced a smile.

Boo shook her head. “It’ll all work out.”

Harper raised an eyebrow.

“Jack will take one look at you, and he’ll realize that he is crazy about you. Always has been. It’s just taken this long for it to be right.”

Yes.Maybe his walking away from her back then had been exactly the right thing. Had given her a chance to find herself—at least enough that she knew what she wanted. Who she wanted.

So no, she wasn’t letting him walk away.

“Hey, how’s the article going?” Boo asked.

“Good. They posted a couple excerpts on thePopMuseblog.”

“I can’t wait to read it. You always have a way of bringing out the magic.”

A knock came at the door. The photographer, a woman from Minneapolis armed with a camera around her neck, stuck her head in. “Five-minute warning.” She closed the door.

Boo inhaled, smiled, her gaze still on Harper. “I’ve learned that God has good things for those who trust His love for them.”

Maybe she was talking about Harper, maybe herself, but Harper nodded.

Megan stepped up to the dais. “Time for the veil.” She affixed the chapel-length veil with the embroidered edges and the tiny tiara on Boo’s head.

“Gorgeous,” Austen said.

“My sister is overjoyed that someone could wear it,” Penelope said softly.

Boo looked over at her. “Thank you. I love it.”

“She got it in Italy.” She pressed her lips together, nodded, her eyes bright.

Aw,so there went any lingering anger toward Penelope.

Boo stepped off the dais, letting the veil cascade along the pale-pink carpet. “How do I look?”

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