They stand together, gazing intently into each other’s eyes as the officiant begins the ceremony and looking for all the world like they’ve found their paradise.
My eyes stray from my brother and Amelia to the sight beyond them. James is standing behind Noah, his pained gaze fixed heavily on a place just over my shoulder. Maddie. I steal one discreet look back, and find her smiling fondly at Noah and Amelia, none the wiser that a man is staring at her like every second she’s not in his arms is torture.
I know that look.
And I can’t help but mirror it as my eyes search the audience, acutely feeling the loss of the one person I love more than anything in this world.
* * *
—
The wedding was breathtaking. Romantic and tender; and even if I do say so myself, the flowers were stunning. Yeah, Amelia, you were a goddess, but let’s face it—everyone is going to be talking about the flowers for years to come.
And now Noah and Amelia are slow dancing in the middle of the dance floor to “The Way You Look Tonight,” the moon and twinkly string lights over their heads, swaying with their bodies so close it almost feels inappropriate to watch.
Also a little painful to watch, if I’m being honest, because it reminds me of dancing with…ugh, not thinking about him again.
I stand up from my seat at the reception table and grab my high heels from the ground, where I discarded them two hours ago when my sisters pulled me onto the dance floor with them. Everything is starting to wind down, and Amelia and Noah will leave for their honeymoon soon. The general atmosphere is relief. It’s over. The wedding is complete, Amelia and Noah are happily married, and everything can start slowing down and getting back to normal.
I tell Emily and Maddie that I’m going to get a drink refill, and I’ll be right back, but as I approach the bar, I’m hit with a fresh wave of sadness when I spot Amelia’s new bodyguard standing at attention off to the side of the reception. Suddenly I don’t want to stick around any longer—and Amelia and Noah have been so wrapped up in each other the whole night they won’t even notice whether I’m here for their send-off or not. So I set my glass down and then head for the parking lot, leaving the sound of Frank Sinatra and quiet murmurs behind me.
It almost feels wrong to get into my old truck dressed so elegantly. And yet somehow it’s exactly right. There are a lot of things that I’ve realized have changed about me, but loving this town and this truck aren’t among them.
But when I put my hand on the truck’s door handle, a familiar playful and roguish voice sounds in my ear, and a hand with a butterfly tattoo reaches over my shoulder to push my door closed again. “It’s me, and you’re safe. I’m going to blindfold you now.” A thin strip of black cloth blankets my eyes.
I gasp. “Will?! What are you doing?”
“Yes, it’s me, Will,” he says quietly and then clears his throat and speaks more firmly—theatrically—and definitely with more baritone. “But also—no, I’m not Will.”
My heart is joyfully pounding. It’s singing and running and skipping and I don’t even know what’s happening. I thought he was gone!
“My name is Captain Blackheart,” he says before hoisting me up over his shoulder, making me squeal. “And you, my lady, are being kidnapped.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Annie
I’m definitely sitting in a strange vehicle right now, next to Will—that much I know. And it’s a truck, judging by the bench seat and the distinct smell of old gasoline, aka the scent of my life. But the question is, whose truck is this? Because Will drives his company’s SUV usually.
Nothing makes sense.
And this blindfold is hot.
And I think I’m going to hyperventilate.
“Okay, wait. Can we just pause?” I ask, wanting so badly to go along with whatever this is, but because it’s been a really long emotional week, I’m finding my natural tolerance for random fun set too low.
Will must hear the panic in my voice. “Of course.”
“So I can take off my blindfold?”
“Yes, absolutely,” he says gently, which feels like a balm to my nerves.
When I pull down the black fabric, my eyes blink against the fuzzy picture of Will in a black T-shirt and jeans, his hand casually thrown over the steering wheel of an old truck as we drive down a dark back road.
First things first. “Whose truck is this?”
“Mine.”
“But you don’t have a truck.”
He clicks the side of his mouth and winks. “Ah, but I do. Well, this is actually an old Bronco. Got it for a steal, because I can’t be in this town and not drive a truck. You should know this better than anyone.”