Featured Author: Nicole Deese
I’m no mathematician, but I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain I just screwed up. And not in the I-forgot-to-pack-my-swim trunks to my sister’s tropical wedding in Turks and Caicos kind of screw up. But more in the I-should-have-worn-a-shock-collar-to-prevent-me-from-being-such-a-moron kind of screw up.
“Jilly Bean, wait.” I’m a quarterback in high school all over again, dodging the reception wait staff as I chase the gorgeous brunette in the Caribbean blue bridesmaid’s dress across the second-story patio of this extravagant oceanfront venue. But either Jillian doesn’t hear me due to the DJ’s exhaustive commentary, or she’s straight up ignoring me. Based on the smoke trail sparking from her heels, I’m guessing it’s the latter. Deservingly so.
My stride is brisk as I flash an uncomfortable smile at the bride who counters immediately with her best fix-this, Walker glare. For months, I’ve been the unwilling recipient of many a lecture from my sister, Caroline, contrasting proper versus improper codes of conduct for social affairs as high-brow as this one. I don’t have to wonder which category my hijacking of the bouquet toss fell into.
What on earth had possessed me to re-direct that bouquet from Jillian’s reach?
I fight the urge to break into a run as soon as she heads toward the staircase at the far end of the patio. A cascade of aqua whips in the breeze behind her as she descends the marble steps at a speed that causes my pulse to hit extreme cardio zone. Jillian’s been Caroline’s best friend since middle school, a constant presence in our lives and in our home.
I bore witness to her awkward bangs and braces phase, teased her relentlessly when it came to her school crushes, and turned every one of the twinning BFF costumes she and Caroline wore into sharable memes—my personal favorite being the peanut butter and jelly sandwich costume that made Jilly look like a walking mud puddle. But in all that time, through all those little jabs, pranks, and verbal sparring sessions, I’ve never wanted to see her hurt.
Or worse, be the cause of it.
The minute she touches the sand and yanks off her heels, relief mends my fraying nerves.
In another circumstance, her waddle-jog on this powdery sand might be laughable. But tonight, it only serves to highlight the lengths she’s willing to go to escape me. Only, I can’t let her do that. Not until I explain myself. If I can explain myself…
My long strides overtake her, and soon I’ve captured her elbow and tugged her to a stop.
“Jilly Bean, please, look at me,” I say to the back of her head, but she doesn’t turn, doesn’t even shift her feet in the sand.
“Just go back to the party, Walker,” she says in a raspy tone I don’t recognize . “I want to be alone.”
Her words sting more than I thought possible and even though I’m holding onto her arm, I feel as if a piece of her is slipping away from me. It scares me. “It was a stupid thing to do, I know that now.” I swipe a hand through my hair. “But I swear I wasn’t trying to—”
She twists and meets my gaze head-on. The tears swimming in her eyes deflate my weak excuse. “To what? To humiliate me in front of two hundred people?” She tugs her arm free and faces the ocean as the last sliver of sunset disappears. “Is the idea of me getting married someday really so repulsive to you?” She swipes a tear from her shimmery cheekbone. “Or maybe it was just another good laugh at my expense, was that it?”
“No, no, that’s not—” I stammer, desperate to find an answer that doesn’t make me sound like a total punk. “To be honest, I wasn’t thinking at all. I just… reacted on instinct.”
The minute I say it out loud, the scene replays in my mind like a movie.
The obnoxious DJ calling for Caroline to prepare for her big toss, the superstitious remarks on the magic of this tradition, and how when I saw the bouquet zeroing in on Jillian my heart nearly exploded from my chest.
Not her! Not her! Not her!
It was the only thought in my head as I leaped from the sidelines to intercept and re-toss the catch to an unexpecting teenager.
Her hands move to bracket her hips and I find myself studying her the way I had when she stood opposite me during the ceremony. I’d counted each of her seven smiles, four laughs, and the two bottom lip quivers she couldn’t hide during the vows.
“Instinct?” she questions, her voice wavers. “How is it that you can watch your baby sister get married and still think of me like a little girl in need of a protective big brother?”
“That’s not how I think of you.” The confession slips out so easily as whisps of golden brown hair dance around her face in the post-sunset breeze like a halo.
Her hands slip from her hips. “Then how… ?” The question stalls on her lips as her gaze lowers from my eyes to my mouth and back again.
And it’s then I see it, finally. The truth I’ve never even allowed myself to hope for.
The truth I’ve never allowed myself to fully feel… until tonight.
“I didn’t want to see my sister’s bouquet in your hands because I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you down the aisle to someone else.”
“Oh, Walker…” she whispers as her bottom lip begins to quiver.
I touch her waist and pull her close. “Because I want to be him, Jilly.” I search her eyes. “I want to be the man who vows to love, honor, and protect you before God and any witness who will listen.” I swallow and then catch the tear sliding down her cheek. “Because I love you, Jillian Patrice Owens… and I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure you love me, too.”
Her latest novel in the Fog Harbor Romance series, The Roads We Follow released in April 2024 from Bethany House Publishers.
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