Page 100 of One Bride for Three Single Dads

It’s the sound of these purple skirts crinkling that brings me back to reality.

“Oh, wow,” I pant. “We have to go! Like right now!”

“Guys, the music is starting!” Boone exclaims.

Suddenly panicked, I leap off of Ambrose and stand up, fighting with my skirts to get them back where they are supposed to go. Harrison slaps at my flank, attempting to untangle a flower-shaped wrinkle that has formed itself behind my knee.

“You look like a purple pickle,” he chuckles.

“There is no time for this!” I hiss. “We have to go!, Like, now! How is my hair!”

Ambrose tucks himself back in and zips his trousers, smiling. Somehow, he is all put back together. Amazing. Gorgeous.

Just like the others.

“Your hair is beautiful,” he murmurs as he holds my face in his hands and kisses me, frustratingly slowly.

“All of you is beautiful,” Boone agrees.

“Ugh! Fine!!” I groan.

I appreciate the compliment, but do they not know what we’re supposed to be doing?

Harrison opens the door a crack and peeks out into the hallway. I hear the music get louder.

“Oh, there you are!” the wedding planner yelps.

“Yeah, we were looking for you. Where have you been?” Harrison shrugs theatrically.

“Get out here!” she huffs.

“The schedule is in shambles,” Harrison grimaces. “Let us know what we can do to help, okay? I don’t want this to affect your Yelp review or anything.”

Boone stifles a laugh, and I elbow him in the ribs for it. Well, I don’t really elbow him, because the bodice of this dress is so incredibly tight. But he knows I tried, and that is the important thing.

“Okay! Boys first!” the planner declares.

“We are men,” Harrison smiles as he takes his position in the hallway, snapping his lapels proudly.

“All three of you, I guess,” she says suspiciously.

Boone and Ambrose line up next to him.

She narrows her eyes at me and beckons me with a crooked finger.

“All right, now you… I guess. Do you want to just pick a man to walk with? I suppose?”

A few months ago, her judgy tone would have cut me deeply.

Now, I find, I can hardly care less.

“I’ll walk first,” I announce. “They all can follow me.”

“No, but—” she objects.

Harrison holds out his hand and bows slightly. “My lady,” he says graciously, indicating I should stand in front of them.

With my bouquet clutched firmly in my hands, I compel my purple-shrouded self to the front of our strange-but-wonderful wedding group. I imagine all of the eyes that will turn when the doors open and we step into the aisle.

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