Page 46 of Building What's Meant to Be

“It was what you were wearing when we officially met.”

“And…?” I ask, baffled by his sudden seriousness.

“And I expect you to wear it on our honeymoon. I’m looking forward to a little before and after. That’s the before...”

A squawk a laugh so loud that if there were neighbors, I’d have woken them up.

“And the after is you, barefoot on the beach with your hair windblown and your face sun-kissed.”

“I don’t apply anything less than SPF75.”

“People change. Although I like you the way you are, as I said, before and after. I have a feeling you’re on your way to experiencing a classic Butterbury transformation.”

“And how about you?”

“Mine is inside out.”

“There’s nothing you need to change about theout,” I blurt while running my hand through the air from Aiden’s head to his toes.

His lips pooch with amusement. “Glad you appreciate what you see. The feeling is mutual.”

He leaves Toby without another word while I’m just standing here gaping and gawking and I don’t know what-ing other than not getting ready.

And the clock is ticking. This is day one of thirty. I take the fastest shower of my life, whip through my skincare routine, and am on a collision course with my suitcase when I realize I don’t know what to wear to Sweethearts. Ordinarily, I’d consult Sienna or one of my stylist “friends.” At the very least, if this were an event, I’d ask the internet.

But with half my time gone, I start to perspire as I rifle through my limited clothing selection, tossing skirts and blouses over my shoulder.

“Come on, Tinsley. Figure this out.”

Okay, if I were cast as a worker at a bakery, what would the costume designer select for my wardrobe? Something low-key but cute. I opt for a flirty, flowy, floral skirt with hidden shorts that hit mid-thigh and a fitted light pink shirt.

Now, for hair and makeup. I half my typical products and opt for a bright, dewy look before blowing out my hair and then adding a few playful curls.

Standing all the way on the other side of the trailer so I can see most of myself in the bathroom-ette mirror. From a distance, I pass for a cute, twenty-something star in a made-for-TV movie about a spunky girl whose meet-cute will happen at the bakery involving a bit of frosting on her lip and the bad boy biker who returned after years of absence to visit his sick mother. Naturally, he stops to pick up her favorite cupcakes and meets the future love of his life.

Classic love story. But what will mine be?

When I exit the trailer, Aiden casually leans against the Maybach, phone to his ear, voice indistinguishable.

While Toby is as good as it gets for tiny trailers, the door squeaks. Aiden turns slowly in my direction.

No, it’s more like slow motion. If he were the bad boy in the movie, returning home to the small town in hopes of redemption, he’d lower his sunglasses, his eyebrows would lift, and he’d let out a low whistle.

Then with a manly grunt of frustration, he hangs up on whoever he was talking to.

Suddenly nervous that I did something wrong, I gulp. “Is, did, I, uh—?”

He cocks his head. “Butterbury better buckle up. And so should we so you’re not late.”

I try to make sense of his comment as he reviews our meeting time for my second shift of my new workday at Bubba’s.

I’ve always had a “Fake it ‘til you make it” approach as I climb to the top. I just pretend I followed everything he said.

Aiden glances at the sky. My gaze follows to a high ceiling of clouds with sunlight peeking through. He gives a short nod as if making a silent agreement with an invisible weatherman and saunters over to the motorcycle.

“Ready?” he calls.

“Hmm. Not ready.”

---