How to Ruin a Wedding(33)
“Right,” I say, ignoring Olive’s snickering. “That sure is something. So, do you still go to this psychic?” I ask, an idea forming in my brain.
If Valerie is into signs, the universe, and fate, I could try to warp their relationship from her perspective. Taina went through a yearlong astrology phase and spent every other sentence scolding me with “That’s so Aquarius of you.” I’m sure she can give some insight.
“Ugh,” Valerie groans, throwing her head back. “She died last year. So sad, for sure. But, like, I’m so lost without her. The last thing she told me was to cling to my love, so I haven’t found someone to replace her. I need to get this feeling, you know? To know who the right fit is.”
“Really?” I say, pulling my phone from my pocket and checking the time. I stretch out my words so they come out slow, almost slurred. “That’s. So. Interesting.”
I feel Anders’s eyes on me as I go on. “So. Special.”
The time changes, and I clap my hands. “I know someone.” Valerie’s eyes widen. “My sister is similar to you. Studied astrology in school and everything,” I lie. “She sees someone regularly, and you know what? My sister lives an amazing life. Her girl travels. I can give you her information.”
“Oh my God!” Valerie shoots up again. “Really? That’d be perfect. I have been searching for someone to no end.” Subtly, I push my phone closer to her side of the table. Her eyes flicker toward it, and she snatches it up. “Oh my God.” She holds out the phone for us to see. “Look at the time!”
“Four-forty-four,” Anders reads with a smirk.
“A sign,” I say.
I finish my wine, carefully avoiding where Anders placed his lips. Maybe I can get Valerie to back out of the wedding earlier than I thought with the help of a psychic who can show her all the red flags in her relationship. I’ve never tried it before, but somehow, I know this wedding will require a little more creativity than I’m used to.
Anders reaches over and swipes a stray bead of wine from my bottom lip.
Creativity and the willpower of a much better woman than I am.
9.
At first, the ride to Anders’s place is bearable. But as time passes and we get closer to our destination, the air between us thickens into something like syrup—sweet, but hard to swallow an even breath.
The road to his house winds through hundreds of trees arching over the pavement like the top halves of hearts. It eventually spits us out into a wider clearing where the trees are taller, their branches too high to feel enveloping, and his house is tucked between thick bushes. Several warm lights glow from tiny old-school lanterns hung along the porch beams.
We get out at the same time, Anders heading to the back to grab my suitcases. He rolls his sleeves up and pulls them out. He doesn’t even glance at my outstretched hand.
“Come,” Anders says, gaze flicking from my face to the porch and back. “I’ll give you the tour.”
I follow him up the steps, my nerves doing cartwheels in the pit of my stomach.
He leads me past shiny wood floors and richly colored details—dark golds and greens against lighter woods. The ceilings are high, or maybe they just seem that way from all the books stacked in every corner, on every surface—the tables, the counter—even used as coasters for an unfinished wineglass on the coffee table. Not messy. Warm, comfortable, and attractively well maintained.
My mom always said that the way a man treats his home, his sanctuary, speaks volumes about how he’ll end up treating you. But then again, she married my dad, who was the best guy around but could not fold a sheet for the life of him, and she loved him all the same.
To the left, at the end of the entry hallway, is a kitchen with dark cabinets and more books. To the right, the living room, with an oversized tan sectional and two blankets tossed over the back. Candles sit on books atop the side tables.
“Anything in the fridge is yours,” Anders says, brushing past me. “Any room you want to hang out in—yours.”
I press my hand on the couch, and the cushion is as soft as it looks. “And if I wanted to snoop in your room?”
“I’ll leave the door open.”
The cartwheels in my stomach upgrade to backflips.
Anders leads me farther into the house, pushing open a door in another hallway.
A king-size bed sits at the center, cushioned with several pillows and a pale blue comforter so plush I have to physically stop myself from face-planting into it. There’s a little desk in the corner, another softly glowing light—all the lights are warm and golden here, no LEDs.
It’s simple and intimate, and being in the space with Anders as he places my suitcase by the bed makes my heart trip over itself.
“This is so cozy,” I say, scanning the room, trying not to notice how it still smells like him—sandalwood and citrus and warmth. A combination that only makes sense against Anders’s skin.
Anders leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I like cozy. Not a fan of extra space with nothing in it.”
“Did you do all the decorating yourself?”
“Yes,” he says. Then, hesitantly, “Do you like it?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course I do, and of course you did. You have great taste. Do you have any flaws?”