Page 105 of Our Long Days
Blinking up at me, she asks, “What’s next?”
Her body rises with my deep exhale. “We’re telling Patrick.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
dexter
The erratic Maineweather holds it together. In an orchard just outside of town, there’s no need for extravagant decorations. Vast rolling fields and budding apple trees pose as the backdrop. Lush grass, sprinkled with white petals, marks the makeshift aisle. An oak archway, made by yours truly, has fresh eucalyptus and mayflowers twisted around the posts.
It’s the perfect day.
Patrick walks toward the altar first, arm in arm with Claire.
We’re all paired up, as planned.
Quinn and Graham.
Aly and Booth.
And then, it’s our turn.
Florence and Dex.
Me and her.
Since we arrived this morning, the wedding party separated, and it’s only now, minutes before the ceremony, that I’m gifted my first glimpse of Florence. Draped in sage green, she floats toward me as if riding a cloud, stunning, iridescent, and utterly mine.
Mine, mine, mine. Once a demand, now a claim.
Her slender arm loops through mine, plush lips glossy, white-blonde hair twisted into small braids. “You scrub up well, lumberjack,” she says. “You got flannel underwear on beneath this suit?”
“Fuck, Trouble. You’re killing me.” I drag a hand down my mouth. “This isn’t fair, not being able to kiss you.”
Her eyes sparkle. “You can make it up to me later.”
We both agreed today wasn’t the day to inform her brother of our relationship. The urge to claim her now, in front of everyone, is overwhelming, but Patrick deserves to hear it from me first. Knowing how meddlesome his family is, it won’t be long until they all know.
Someone taps the back of my thigh. We turn to find a grouchy Lottie frowning up at us. “Quit being mushy. You’re ruining my wedding.”
I bow. “Apologies, your highness.”
The wedding coordinator signals our turn.
Smiling at our friends and family, we join the wedding party and the officiant. My parents sit behind Claire, waving and gushing over us. Maybe one day, they’ll sit in the front row.
There isn’t a dry eye in the crowd when Lottie skips down the aisle, waving at each guest in a frilly princess dress. Harriet walks closely behind, completely unbothered about being outshined.
The music changes. Everyone stands. Then, the bride appears. Johanna walks down the aisle, beautiful in white, escorted by her father, gaze set on one person.
Patrick.
Emotion clogs my throat, knowing my two oldest friends are minutes away from tying the knot. I grip his shoulder, stopping my best friend from bolting toward her.
“There’s your girl,” I whisper.
He doesn’t turn, unable to look away. “That’s my girl.”
Johanna’s lips wobble, excitement and love radiating off her. “Hey, you.”
