Page 138 of The Duke Who Saved Christmas
The tiniest of smiles teased the corner of her mouth, but it never quite got past that.
“Want a hug?” I asked, holding my hands out.
She looked at them, then swung her head from side to side.
“Needa hug?”
This time, she nodded, and I opened my arms fully. She slid off the ledge and trotted over to me, quickening her pace the closer she got until she threw herself against my body, knocking me slightly off-balance, and grabbed my shirt so tightly I momentarily feared the stitching might give way under her taut grip.
I wrapped her in my arms and tucked her head against my neck, resting my chin on the top of her head. She felt so small, so tired, so damndefeated.It wasn’t a vibe I was used to getting from Sylvie Harding. She was like the final boss in a videogame—it took a real strategy and some hardcore strength to beat her down.
Had this wedding really sucked so much life and joy out of her?
Was it possible she was really reaching a point of being broken just because of it?
“Do you want to let it all out?” I asked, sliding one hand up to cradle the back of her head.
She almost trembled. “If I start, I don’t think I’ll stop.”
“Then don’t stop.”
“What?” She pulled back, looking up at me.
I smiled down at her, lowering my face a little closer to hers. “Don’t stop. Let it all out, Sylvie. Every last bit of frustration. What good is it doing for you to hold it all in? Look at you. You’re exhausted. You don’t even seem like yourself.”
“You have better things to do than listen to me ramble on.”
“On the contrary, I can’t think of anything more important than making sure my girl is okay.”
Her eyebrows rose, and a hint of a challenge flashed in her eyes. “Your girl? Since when was I your girl?”
“Hmm, since we were about nine and I gave you this.” I kissed the small scar on the edge of her eyebrow. “If you’re being honest, I’ve been living rent free in your head since then.”
She pressed her lips together. “Let it be known that I did not agree to this.”
“Are you practicing for our wedding vows? How sweet.”
“You—” She clenched her fist at my side as if she was thinking of socking me one, then paused. She buried her face against my chest once more, took a deep breath, and slowly turned her face to the side. “All right, fine. I don’t want to go home because if I do, I might really throw my folder at Hazel’s head. Right now, I don’t even care if the wedding happens or not.”
Wow.
Those were fighting words.
“We both know that isn’t true,” I said, running my fingers through her hair. “You probably care more about your sister’s wedding than she does at this point.”
“That’s the whole damn problem!” She fisted my shirt even tighter. “I do care more than she does. Has she given me her first dance song yet? No. She’s had an entire year to think of one, yet she’s rejected every option Julian has given her. Every option I’ve given her. Her bridesmaids, even. She’s impossible, Thomas. Nothing is good enough for her. When I think we’ve got something sorted, she goes off on a fucking tangent and finds something else she wants. Do you know how many times she flipped the colour scheme between red and green for the bridesmaids? I nearly had a heart attack. I even made the girls pay their deposits early just to guilt her into sticking with green after the fourth change.
“She always wants something else, yet she forgets what’s already on the table. There are so many things that need to be done. I’m not even sure she sees this as a day that also belongs to Julian. She only thinks about herself. She’s so fucking selfish. Everyone else is here breaking their backs and running around like headless chickens on cocaine to getherday the way she wants it, yet she can’t even do something as simple asorder fucking decorations.That was it. That was her one job. To get the decorations for the trees that will give her the wedding of her dreams that she’s cried over, the one she’s got a three-thousand pin strong board on Pinterest for. Yet she’s more concerned about not drinking even the tiniest sip of alcohol.
“She even asked the doctor last week how to guarantee she isn’t on her period for the wedding. She hasn’t had a period in a year because of her contraception! And I’m not saying I don’t get it—changing would be a right bitch in a wedding dress, but do you think tampons were her concern? No. She was just worried she’d have spots in her wedding photos. Like Photoshop doesn’texist. Like they won’t be edited anyway. Like one measly pimple would be the end of the world when one of my brides’ sons was just recovering from chicken pox during her wedding and looks like a little pizza face in all of them. If a photographer can Photoshop one hundred pox off a tiny guy’s body, I’m sure her photographer can manageone pimple.
“She’s fussing over all the things she can’t control, and I get it, that’s a bride thing. Everyone worries about the weather. The traffic. Everything working out all right. But she’s so wrapped up in that shit she’s forgetting about what she can control. The things she has to control. Like her decorations and her bloody wedding song!”
She drew in a deep breath and sighed it out with vigour.
“Feel better now?”
“Little bit,” she murmured, her tone much softer than it was just moments ago. “I’m just… I’m so tired, Tom.”
