Page 68 of Rivals to Lovers
Mo’s dad humphed, then stepped on the butt of his cigarette. “I’ve heard of you. Did she invite you all the way out to Iowa?”
“No, sir, she did not.”
“Do you have useful skills?”
The question came out of nowhere, and Wes had to think that one through for a full minute. He didn’t know what Mo’s dad would consider useful or what Wes even considered useful. He didn’t think her father would care as much about Wes’s ability to do a lot of work on little sleep or remember most people’s names after seeing them once. Instead, he focused on the tangibles. “I’m a decent boxer, can do an oil change, and can cook.”
Mo’s dad nodded. “And you do them all dressed like James Bond, I assume?” He laughed. “This isn’t me getting in your way, by the way—I just want to know what skills my future grandkids might have.” Wes’s jaw must have dropped, because her father slapped him on the back, and he felthimself closing his mouth again. “I’m kidding, son. You think her bad sense of humor comes from anywhere but me?”
Wes laughed then, feeling better. If he could make it through this conversation, he could make it through the next. He hoped.
“She’s been in a funk the past few days. Are you responsible for that?”
“Partially. Yes.” Wes didn’t tell him the kind of funk he’d been in too.
“Well then, you better go fix it,” he said, giving Wes’s back a shove into the tent. “But if you do marry into the family, you know that you’re getting ribbed forever about this tux, right, son?”
Wes laughed under his breath, adjusted his sleeves, and stepped farther into the tent.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Mo
It was impossible to miss him. Well, Mo had been missing him in the heartsick way, but it was impossible to not see him come up through the center of the tent like a Men’s Wearhouse ad but rumpled. His curls were slightly deflated in the humidity, and his cheeks blushed pink above his beard line from exertion. Mo knew what that kind of exertion looked like close up but was trying not to think about it. From her position at the head table, where she was half done with dinner, it felt like he was coming before her like a peasant petitioning a queen. She put down her fork.
They might as well have been invisible to everyone else in the tent, all of them too busy chewing and joking, toasting, and listening to the music. Invisible to everyone except Mo’s sister. Seated beside Mo, wearing her floor-length, eyelet-lace-over-linen gown, Anna, the true queen at the table, saw him approach too. Her flower crown tilted slightly over one side of her face as she looked at Mo for confirmation. “Is that the sex god?”
Too nervous, too absurdly anxious and joyful to say anything, Mo nodded. She swallowed the bite of lamb chop in her mouth.
Anna nodded her chin at Wes as if to sayGo!And Mo did.
He was closer now, just a few feet away from the table, and she caught his expression as she climbed down the stairs onto the tent’s floor level. Mo didn’t know how to arrange her face, or her thoughts, to greet him. He’d hurt her by going behind her back to the editor, and if she was being honest, she was hurt to have yet another book to put in the drawer, probably never to see the light of day. She had poured her heart and soul into the adaptation ofP&L, and he’d played games behind her back with it. Mo was probably foolish to think they could have had a fair competition with all his connections, but shehadthought that. After reading his book, Mo realized how much she was rooting for him anyway. How she was ambitious for him, wished him good things, and wanted to be part of his world not only when his book was published but also generally. She wanted to teach him how to make casseroles and ride the Ferris wheel at Coney Island with him and make fun of bad TV with him. She wanted to dance with him. She wanted to introduce him to her friends and family—and hedgehog. She wanted to get to know him well enough to know what the look on his face meant, because he looked a little like he might throw up.
She guessed it might mirror some of the nervous expectation she felt too. Unlike the horror when Aaron had surprised her at work, this felt different. They were around other people, way more people than before, but he wasn’t here to be seen by them even though he’d dressed in a tux. He was here for Mo. The tux, which was ridiculously formal but adorable, was for her. When he offered Mo his hand, she took it. “Can we take a walk?”
Suddenly, once she got in front of him, all eyes turned toward the pair as if people were starting to piece the situation together. Older relatives couldn’t possibly figure out how Mo, a verifiable old maid by their standards at thirty-one, was talking with this handsome stranger. “Yes, but I have to get back for the toast,” she said.
They walked out of the tent near the DJ’s table, passing a table of relatives. Two aunts gave Wes the full up-and-down. Mo knew they had to get farther from the tent to get any kind of privacy. She led him through the yard and to the training barn, hoping the yips of puppies would cover the conversation. The sun was nearly set, and she noticed some of the event staff walking around the perimeter of the yard, lighting the torches. Everything looked orange with the magic-hour light on them.
“You look ridiculous in that tuxedo,” Mo said.
“Ridiculously handsome.”
Privately she agreed, but she waited for him to go on, her heart thudding in her chest like a bass drum.
His expression was serious, and with one hand, he loosened his tie, looking away. “I am not perfect,” he started.
She laughed. “Oh really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“I am, in fact, a disaster some of the time. Or maybe, more accurately, I am a construction zone and I’m not used to letting someone see the unfinished building.”
“I’m not perfect either,” she said. “I’ve been realizing that more and more these days. Nothing makes you come to your senses more than seeing your dream crash and burn.”
He grabbed her hands. “I needed to come tell you in person that I talked to Gary.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Her brain had stopped processing words and left only that one letter in an entire dictionary’s place.
“The adaptation is yours,” Wes said, squeezing her hands in his. “I’m not going to draw this out or joke about it or pretend otherwise. I couldn’t wait until the news could be official to tell you. And I know it’s selfish that I wanted to tell you myself, be the one here to be with you when you knew. I know it’s not a book deal yet, but—”
