Logan cursed as his self-cleaning steam iron left a trail of flaky white grunge and damp spots over his dress shirt. He scratched and flicked hastily at the schmutz while he rearranged the shirt on the battered ironing board.
He was going through a whole lot of trouble for a wedding of a guy he didn’t even like that well.
Elsewhere:
Ororo clutched the tiny scrap of cloth in her hand, reeling and slumped against the back of the door as she heard Pietro’s Jeep tear down the road. He’d already been halfway out the door, reminding her that the best man had to stand up in front of the church before the processional march, so he’d ignored her request to take the same car. He hadn’t heard her call to him to help find her other glove amidst the clutter made by the two of them getting ready.
So, she looked under the bed. Easy enough to kick something under there in the scuffle, right?
As she cleared out the scattered, dusty articles of clothing, her gaze landed on something red. She reached for it, hand shaking, and eased up from lying on her stomach. The room spun.
Sitting down was a better idea by far.
“Pietro,” she moaned. Cold prickles bit at her, and she began to sweat.
The day yawned ahead endlessly. Ororo wanted to crawl back into bed and die.
Still elsewhere, a few minutes later:
“Hold y’self still, mon ami. Y’all crooked, quit fidgetin’.”
“Get on with it, already. Only one allowed ta be late is the bride. Wouldn’t put it past her, either.”
“Aww, naw, mec, she was a lil’ ole pussycat, she knew how ta let her hair down.” Remy’s grin was a mile wide. Logan breezed by his apartment after a harried phone call, barking out “Help me ta tie this damned knot around my neck!”
“Ya s’posed t’save lives, mon ami; not take y’own.”
“A Windsor know, smart ass. Ain’t like it’s rocket science fer a guy like you.” Remy’s closet was teeming with a collection of dress shirts with cufflinks, bow ties, and tear-away collars that he often wore on nights when he danced. He was a whiz at slip knots, if you asked any of his ex-girlfriends, even though Logan filed that away under the category of “too much information.”
Remy squinted down at the two ends of the tie gripped in his hands as he wrapped one over the other. “Not too shabby. Y’clean up nice,” he murmured. Logan’s coffee brown silk tie held a subtle amber pinstripe that any woman would have told him really brought out his eyes. His charcoal suit was pressed, fresh from the dry cleaners with knife-sharp pleats and lapels, a sharp contract to his snowy white shirt. He’d merely grunted at the salesman in the big and tall shop to “just find me somethin’ in black that I can wear ta a funeral or a weddin’, bub.” They’d compromised on charcoal, and Logan grudgingly admitted it was the best choice.
Remy fussed at Logan one more time as he fiddled with the tie, tugging the wide end through the column of looped fabric, snugging it neatly up to the collar.
“Not so damned tight!”
“It ain’t. S’perfect. Don’t touch!” Remy wrested Logan’s hand away from his collar as he tried to finish a finger’s breadth of space between the confining flap and his throat.
“All pretty,” Remy pronounced.
“Those are two fucking words I never wanna hear outta yer mouth again,” Logan carped. His heels clicked down the hal to Remy’s bathroom. Remy came up behind him as he rummaged through the drawer for a comb.
“Who y’tryin’ t’impress?”
“Nobody,” he murmured to Remy’s reflection as he wet the comb and flicked it through his hair, eyeing the hair gel and debating whether it would push him that extra inch toward looking like he worked at a menswear store. He took the plunge, pumping out a blob the size of a dime and rubbing it through.
“Lotta trouble fer nobody, mon ami.”
“Ain’t no trouble. Can’t look like somethin’ the cat dragged in. And I gotta work with Summers everyday.”
“Gonna probably see more of his wife at work now.”
“Gads. I hope not.” He recanted. “I mean, she’s nice, but she’s…just…”
“Got a stick up her butt?”
“More like a bug.”
“Hm.” Remy’s look was contemplative.
Logan made his way out, spinning on his heel for one last detail. “Keys!” He caught them deftly as Remy let them sail through the air. “Lock up my baby.”
“She’ll be safe an’ sound; Remy’ll take good care of her.”
“And I’ll fill up the tank,” Logan promised. He wasn’t going to risk helmet hair and his suit looking so rumpled and windblown that he could have slept in it. He moved the seat of Remy’s red Mustang forward about a foot, cursing his friend’s long legs. He waved to Remy before he exited the cul-de-sac, turning left at the four-way intersection that led to the freeway. The digital display on his disc played read 2:35.
Friends of Humanity Presbyterian chapel:
“Is my veil on straight?”
“It’s perfect. It’s gorgeous,” Betsy insisted.
“I want a veil like this when I get married, but with those tiny pearls,” Emma nitpicked, fluffing the double layer of tulle.
“I’d settle for Elvis in his rhinestones and sideburns pronouncing me someone’s wife. Just Elvis, my man, me and you guys. I don’t know how you do it, Jean,” Ali breathed, shaking her head. “I could never pull this off.”
“I could totally see you getting married by Elvis,” Lorna considered, handing out the corsages and looping Ali’s on her wrist.
“Sounds good t’me, shoog,” Anna grinned.
“Whaddya say, ‘Ro? Elvis in Vegas for you and ‘Tro?” Ali urged.
Silence.
“Ororo? Yoo-hoo?” Betsy laid her gloved hand on Ororo’s shoulder, not sure about the blank look in her eyes as she stared out through the window overlooking the parking lot. Unshed tears clogged Ororo’s throat.
“I’m fine,” she declared, turning her face toward Betsy’s voice but not meeting her eyes. She felt Betsy slip away, and the girls continued chatting a mile a minute. Ororo lightly fanned air into her eyes, trying to dry them up before she ruined her mascara. She succeeded, just barely. Jean mistook the glistening shine as hers and hers alone.
“Don’t cry yet, we haven’t even gotten to the altar,” Jean scolded, smiling like Miss America.
“You look so beautiful, Jean. This is your day.” She leaned down and hugged her, taking care not to muss her careful hairstyle or unsettle Jean’s headpiece.
“We’ll still make time for each other, this won’t change things. I’ll be your maid of honor next time!”
“Sure you will.” Oror returned to the window, unsure of who she was even looking for.
Until he pulled up and parked the car. She heard the abbreviated signal that the car alarm was on and watched him striding efficiently up the front stairs. She wished she could beckon to him and make a sound, somehow. She saw him take his place in the dwindling line to get inside. Then, almost as though he felt her eyes on him, he peered into the window. Slowly his hand drifted up in a mute greeting, and a smile spread across his lips. He nodded, straightening up, and he reflexively touched his necktie. Ororo hadn’t been sure that she could manage the smile before it was absolutely necessary, but a flush of tingles swept over her cheeks, comforting her, and she graced him with one of heartwrenching beauty.
Even as the people ahead of him moved up in line, he stood stock-still, content right where he was until Ororo heard the usher welcoming him inside. He hurried away, and Ororo knew that was the last reprieve she would have from the ensuing ordeal for at least two hours.
Strains of haunting organ music filled the chapel as people filed into their seats. Scott stood beside the front pew, chuckling at something Pietro said and rocking back on his heels. Groom and best man were both impeccable and polished.
In the rear salon, Ororo steeled herself before flinging open the door. She turned to Jean and helped her to her feet, guiding her train and handing her the bouquet.
Show time.
Ororo took up her place and started down the aisle at a sedate pace, hesitating like a woman facing lethal injection on death row. Her knuckles tightened, nearly bloodless as she gripped her bouquet. Pietro and Scott eyed her progress. Scott beamed. Pietro looked strangely sheepish. She took up her place beside the bridesmaid pew, staring up the aisle as her friends joined her, two by two in height-matched pairs. The prelude soared to a crescendo, and Ororo caught a glimpse of white around the corner of the arch.
Pews creaked and sighs of approval rang out as the assembly rose as one, heralding the bride, resplendent in white satin and chiffon. Her father looked choked up and proud as he escorted her to the groom.
The ceremony was excruciating.
Ororo smiled beneath the trickle of tears that she allowed herself, ignoring Pietro for all she was worth. She fingered her tiny clutch purse dangling from her wrist as Jean and Scott took their vows.
“Do you, Scott, promise to love, honor, and cherish Jean, forsaking all others, through sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.” His voice was shaking but full of unbridled joy. He slid the diamond-crusted gold band into place alongside Jean’s enormous solitaire. Tears crept down his cheeks, and Jean calmly whipped them away, letting him drop a kiss into her palm.
The applause following their kiss rocked the church to the rafters. Ororo reined in the impulse to spring from the church as Pietro clasped her hand, urging her to loop it through the crook of his arm.
“That was nice,” he murmured casually enough. She managed a stiff nod as they joined the receiving line. He stared at her as she refused to meet his eyes.
She doled out handshakes and hellos like they were water, until he walked up. Pietro wedged himself between Logan and Ororo, his hand shooting out for a peremptory grapple first. “Good to see you, man. Friend of the groom’s?”
“Work with him,” Logan offered easily enough, inwardly pleading with his skin not to crawl. Pietro’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the coincidence.
“He helped us. Back when I had my episode,” Ororo deadpanned. She brightened as she greeted him. “Nice to see you again, Logan.” That fleeting trace of honesty was a relief.
“Yeah.” Damn she was beautiful. Watery eyes and all…what was going on with that?
“Maybe we’ll see you at the reception,” Pietro decided, cutting any small talk short.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He nodded to him, then saluted Ororo. “Later, kiddo.” Logan felt two pairs of eyes on his back as he made his way to the Mustang. He was satisfied when he spared the guests out front one final glance, and saw Ororo’s eyes, still glued to him, expectantly measuring him. That was another vision of her that he stored away to savor.
Ororo and Pietro took their respective cars to the resort, namely Jean’s day spa, which had been rented to her for the occasion, providing the optimum location for food, dancing, and people to mingle, enjoying the gardens out back. The ballroom dancing and aerobics studio floor was buffed to a shine and festooned with white flowers; the banquet room featured three large arches dripping with more white roses and tables draped in white and forest green cloths. Pietro attempted to lead Ororo to the bride’s table, but Ororo excused herself, making her escape to the women’s room. Her footsteps were awkward and hurried as she darted between guests and begged more pardons than she could count.
Ororo locked the bathroom door behind her and turned on the light, which automatically kicked on the fan, assailing her ears with the loud, yet soothing whirr.
“I’m not going to fall apart. I’m not going to fall apart. I’m not going to fall apart,” she chanted, breathing in and out through her nose. Pietro’s eyes swam in her vision, looking cocky and self-assured. He didn’t have a damned clue of what she’d discovered.
Worse, he didn’t have a clue that she planned to settle his hash.
Voices approached the bathroom door before someone jiggled the handle. “It’s occupied,” she sang lightly, before peering at herself in the mirror. Her eye makeup had seen better days, and her cheeks had a hint of puffiness that she could do nothing about right now. She settled for reaching into her clutch for a tiny plastic baggie containing a makeup sponge, already prepped with some of her foundation for touch-ups. She swabbed it beneath her eyes half-heartedly and refreshed her lipstick, deciding that she passed muster.
She swept grandly from the bathroom, and ran smack-dab into Logan.
“Oh!”
“’Scuse me,” he offered, reaching out to steady her with a grip that was light and warm around her elbow. He smelled good; a faint hint of woodsy cologne reached her nose, along with the scent of fresh starch from the dry cleaners. Both aromas were underscored by his own body chemistry, warm and comforting like the man himself. She had a better chance to drink her fill of him in his well-tailored suit that managed to lend him height and emphasized his broad, deep chest and wide shoulders. Glossy dark hair was mostly tamed for a change; she longed to run her hands through it to tousle it again. She didn’t know where that urge came from. She didn’t care.
“There’s a hosted bar,” she explained.
“Then let me get ya a drink.” Her lips refused to refuse. He released her, then waved her in front of him, letting her lead the way to the banquet room. He didn’t order until asking her what she wanted.
“Tequila sunrise,” she muttered. Logan’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“Startin’ out kinda heavy, dontcha think?”
“Anesthetize me, please,” she jibed with a roll of her eyes. He nodded, making a small sound of empathy in his throat before placing her order and requesting a bottle of Molson for himself.
“I take it ya aren’t one for weddings?”
“My day didn’t start off as festively as I’d like.”
“Ya wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
“Kay,” he agreed pleasantly. He clinked his beer bottle against her glass. “Cheers,” he decided. She raised her glass to him and took a tentative sip.
“Whoo.” He laughed at her expression. “They didn’t stint on the tequila.”
“Yer eyes practically crossed.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I can hold my liquor,” she insisted.
“I ain’t arguin’ with ya,” he shrugged, beckoning her ahead of him again and silently guiding her to the hors d’ouevre table.
“Are too.”
“Am not. Here, try this,” he cajoled, plucking up a tiny square of toasted garlic bread and plowing it through a nearby bowl of dip. He pressed the morsel between her lips just as she opened them to protest.
“Grblmph. Mmm. Yum. What was that?”
“Ya got me. Hold still.”
“What?”
“Hold still, ya got a little…hold on. Let me,” he chastised, reaching up with his thumb just as her tongue was darting out to lick up the dribble of dip. She held still, and inadvertently tasted his flesh just he was wiping away the offending dab of sauce. Her moist, velvety tongue brushed his flesh, sending a rush of heat through him that gave him pause.
“Er…sorry.”
“No biggie, darlin’.” Absently he licked his thumb, sharing the taste of dip that he’d stolen from her lip. Their eyes locked again. She cleared her throat and sipped her drink. He turned away a moment and took a hearty swallow of beer.
“I was looking for you, Ororo.” Pietro’s voice drifted over her shoulder as he wrapped a possessive arm around her waist from behind. “What are you doing over here?”
“Mingling. What I’m supposed to do.”
“They’re getting ready to seat everyone and serve the food. Let’s go sit down.” He nodded curtly at Logan, not bothering to excuse them as he hurried them away. Ororo’s look back at Logan was practically forlorn.
For five minutes, she’d nearly forgotten her purpose.
Dinner was a relatively forgettable affair of a chicken entrée with wild rice and garnish that was more decorative than edible. Ororo barely touched her food, but worked her way through her second tequila sunrise and contemplated the wedding party, picking her moment. No. Not yet.
Logan had made himself comfortable, chatting with a strangely familiar, huge man with dark hair. She smiled to herself when she realized it was the big man from the club the weekend before, accompanied by the elegant brunette that hovered by that night. It was hard not to stare. Some of Jean’s friends from the spa approached her table and made chit-chat about mundane things and boasting about how well everything had turned out, interrogating Ororo about the honeymoon plans and the flavor of the wedding cake. Pietro brought the loud clamor to a halt when he stood and tapped his fork against the crystal goblet in his hand.
“Good evening, everyone. It’s just about that time to start things off, and for me to say a few words about the groom and his lovely bride.” Pietro cut an exquisite figure in his black tux and white tie. His voice was sincere and boomed across the room for everyone to hear him without difficulty. He toasted Scott and Jean with his glass. “It’s an honor to be here with my best friend on the most important day of his life, as he marries the woman he can’t live without. These two were made for each other, and their love sets the bar that many here today would be lucky to even attempt during their lifetimes, let alone reach. I know I speak for Scott when I was this was the one time in his life where he truly reached for the brass ring and grabbed it. Every other moment in your life, Scott, will pale in comparison to this one, with the mere exception of when you and Jeannie bring children into this world that embody the best parts of both of you. Love them. Love your beautiful wife. Enjoy the happiness you deserve in the union you were born for!” He raised his glass aloft as waiters finished pouring a round of champagne. “To Scott and Jean!”
“Here, here!” Glasses clinked around the room before the guests drained them and resumed their conversations at a comfortable murmur.
No. Not yet, Ororo mused. Not quite.
The dancing began mere moments later. Ororo hugged herself as she watched Jean take the floor with her father, sailing smoothly along, the hem of her gown bustled into a careful poof. Handkerchiefs were left damp, and sniffles could be heard over the Celine Dion ballad that Ororo declared would never her personal choice. She tried not to flinch as Pietro stroked her back. Scott’s dance with Jean followed next. A round of applause greeted them before the DJ announced the money dance. Ororo remembered her duties and retrieved the box of safety pins. Another slow song drifted out from the speakers as people lined up for their turn to dance with the bride and groom. Jean danced first with Pietro’s twin nephews, each of whom offered her a dollar for the honor, grinning up at her shyly. They danced together in some semblance of “Ring Around the Rosie,” Jean giggling the entire time. She kissed them both and sent them off before their father took his turn. Ororo began the tedious, although still amusing, duty of pinning the bills onto Jean’s train and veil and passing more pins out to the incoming guests. She took a turn around the floor with Scott, looping a five through the buttonhole of his cuff.
“Looking good, Summers. Wedded bliss suits you.”
“Your turn next,” he grinned.
“Pfft.” She rolled her eyes, avoiding his glance.
“You all right?”
“Fine and dandy. Dip me,” she commanded. He laughingly obliged, and her cleavage bobbed up from the confines of her gown for a brief moment before she recovered. That sent her into a fit of giggles.
“Note to self: Keep Ororo away from the hosted bar,” Scott intoned with a nearly straight face. She cupped his jaw and gave him a noisy kiss on the cheek, marking him with her lipstick before she released him to Marie. Then she took a spin around the floor with Jean, just for the heck of it.
“This is really it,” Jean murmured.
“This is really it,” Ororo agreed. “No turning back. You already sent out the thank you notes for the china.”
“I’m married,” she breathed.
“You’re married.”
“You’re next.” They stepped apart, and Ororo turned Jean in a silly disco spin to avoid a reply. “You are, you hear me?”
“Whatever you say, Boss.”
“I already know where I’m aiming with the bouquet, be ready,” she whispered into Ororo’s ear. Her blood roared through her veins like a freight train.
No. Not quite yet. She rolled up a twenty dollar bill and shoved it down Jean’s cleavage, to the delight of the bridesmaids, scandalizing Jean’s mother. Disposable cameras clicked away shamelessly at the spectacle.
Ororo and Pietro finally shared a dance. Ororo fought against leaning into his strength, fighting against how good he felt, how he always felt. She breathed in his scent and clutched him almost desperately. Tears bit at the back of her eyes, but she mastered it. He nibbled her neck, whispering that he couldn’t wait to get her home and peel her out of her gown. Ororo silently marked one more blemish on Pietro’s track record. He was batting a thousand.
Next came the cake. Scott and Jean fed each other a polite forkful of the pastry, avoiding the face-smashing mess that Jean despised.
“Kinda surprised he didn’t just go for it and give her a faceful,” Logan marveled. Ororo nearly jumped out of her skin at Logan’s voice by her elbow.
“He’d never do that.”
“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to. Yer not gonna dance tonight?”
“I did dance.”
“Once. Well, twice, if ya count Scooter.”
“SCOOTER??” she crowed incredulously. “That’s freaking awesome. That’s how I’m greeting him when he gets back from the Bahamas!”
“He hates it.”
“No shit! He hates nicknames, anyway.”
“He REALLY hates that one.”
“Can’t wait to try it out,” she chuckled viciously. The tequila was setting in.
“Betcha can’t.” He raised an eyebrow, enjoying her mischievous look.
“You haven’t either, you know.”
“Haven’t what?”
“Danced. Not once.”
“Eh.”
“Eh?”
“Eh,” he confirmed, shrugging. “No one I really wanted ta dance with.”
“Oh.” She studied her hands a moment before tugging off her gloves and laying them on a nearby table. Before she could second-guess herself, she grabbed his hand and led him onto the dance floor. His expression was helpless and slightly confused. A bubble of excitement shivered in Ororo’s stomach.
“Ya don’t hafta-“
“I want to.”
“Probably shouldn’t do-“
“You lead.” He cradled her left hand in that yummy, warm grip and flattened his palm on the small of her back. Confusion was gradually replaced with acceptance, and his features softened. They were standing close enough to hear each other at a low murmur, but not enough to stir up gossip.
He guided her steadily and easily, despite the disparity in their heights. She barely resisted the urge to rest her cheek against his temple. He was a solid presence, barely holding her but offering so much support. The conversations around them drifted away as they made their way around the floor.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Pleasure,” he murmured, reluctantly letting her go and missing the feel of her slender body barely grazing his. The faintest trace of her perfume lingered on his suit.
Ororo refreshed herself with a small glass of White Zinfandel at the bar.
The glass was savagely wrenched from her hand, and she looked up into the face of a very angry Pietro.
“What the hell was THAT??” He slammed her glass down on the counter. “What do you think you were doing, Ororo?”
“Mingling,” she said blandly.
This was it.
“Mingling,” he shot back through clenched teeth. A tiny vein stood out and throbbed in his jaw. Florid color rose up into his cheeks, and she watched his pupils dilate.
“Wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m unfriendly,” she attempted. Her voice was calm until it broke on the last syllables.
“Let’s go,” he huffed, grabbing her wrist and tugging her after him at a near-trot. They headed into the deserted banquet room, and he practically shoved her into a chair, so firmly that her teeth clicked together.
“What are you trying to do?” he growled. “Do you know what people must be thinking, seeing you dance with him like that?”
“No,” she admitted.
“You weren’t thinking at all,” he accused.
“No.” She let him rail. It was the least she could do, for what she was about to do.
“How could you?” he cried. “Do you know how that made me feel?”
She eyed him squarely. “Yes.” She shoved her chair back far enough away to give herself room to stand. She reached into her clutch, fumbling for what she was looking for.
“What do you have in there?”
“This,” she hissed, gripping the scrap of crumpled satin in a ball in her fist, shaking it under his nose. “Do these look familiar?” The tiny red thong was trimmed in frivolous ribbons, well laundered enough that the Frederick’s tag was shriveled and faded. His anger drained away slightly, but he was still primed for a fight.
“Should they?” Then he recanted. “They’re yours.”
“No. They’re not.” She rearranged them to dangle between her fingertips by the string. “Not my size. Not my style. Not my color.”
“Whatever. One of your friends left them at the house, then.”
“My friends just randomly get undressed down to nothing at my house every day,” she spat.
“What do you want me to say? They aren’t my size or style, either,” he scoffed, but she noticed the defensiveness in his stance, and he was having a harder time looking her in the eye. The banquet room was quieter than it had been a few minutes ago; the busboys had removed what plates they could before their discussion grew more heated, wanting to give them ample room if dishes started to fly.
“Oh, I think these are just your type, Pietro. I found them under the bed,” she tsked. “We both know you can’t be bothered to pick up your own laundry from the floor. I found half of your missing socks under there, even your lucky hat. Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t have another woman up in my house.” Her voice was low and brooding. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“I didn’t,” he replied, hands on his hips, but his anger was gone. His eyes flicked down to his shoes.
“Don’t repeat me. Tell me that you really DIDN’T have another woman up in my house. In our bed. If you love me, tell me. And make me believe it. Right now, I’m not convinced.”
“Look…I love you. You’re drunk right now, Ororo, and not thinking clearly, we shouldn’t be doing this here…”
“You brought me in here to read me the riot act. It’s different, now that you’re on the hot seat.” Ororo tasted metal. “These aren’t mine. You’re worried that I’ll embarrass you. That I’ll make a scene. You’re not even that angry that I was dancing with someone else, just about what other people would think.”
“You’re my girlfriend.”
“I’m not your fiancée.”
“You don’t act like you want to be, from what I saw tonight.” It was lame, and they both knew it.
“I’ve been acting like I want to be for five years. I’ve been tiptoeing around you all this time, worrying about what I could do to make you stay. To make you love me enough to want to commit. How I could please you. You were the one that walked out on what we had, ‘Tro. And you didn’t even come crying back! You didn’t have to. All you did was call, and send a few damned flowers, and waltz right back in! You knew I loved you…so…much.” Her words were rasping out on a near-wail, and those damned tears were back, spilling down her cheeks in floods. “You knew I wanted you back. Even then, it was all about you. You never had to work that hard to get back into my good graces.”
“I loved you. It should have been water under the bridge.”
“Water under the bridge. Here, then,” she glared, “put these on, and take a dip in that water under the bridge! I’m done! We’re finished, I’ve had enough.” His hands fought her as she stuffed the wadded up panties into his handkerchief pocket.
“Don’t do this. Not here.”
“Don’t come home tonight unless it’s to pack your stuff.”
“Ororo. Don’t. You don’t know what you’re saying.” His voice was shaking. He raked his fingers through his silver hair. The ground dropped out from beneath them both, and Ororo felt slightly sick.
“No. YOU don’t know what I’m saying. Go on. Leave. You’re always so quick to run away. Don’t drag your feet now.” Heartbreak was etched across her face.
“You’re a mess. Clean yourself up. Here, I’ll help you. Jean’s about to throw the bouquet, people will expect you out there.” He tried to take her arm to lead her away, and wore a look of defeat when she flung herself from his grasp.
“They’ll just have to be disappointed. Why not? I am.” She mopped tears from her cheeks and sniffled, reaching for a discarded linen napkin to wipe her nose. “Hate you,” she whimpered.
“No you don’t.” His own eyes were wet.
“Yes. I do.” She staggered away, leaving him bereft. He sagged into the chair she’d abandoned, staring dully at the floor. The red thong dangled uselessly from his fingers before he crumpled it, stuffing it into his pants pocket.
Ororo’s feet couldn’t carry her quickly enough from the spa. She ignored Jean’s call for the woman to assemble for the bouquet toss as she sprinted out into the parking lot.
She heard her ankle twist as the spiked heel of her pump caught on a small pebble. Her legs were dragged out from under her as she fell forward. “WHOOULLFF!” The asphalt abraded her palms and scraped her flesh, sending shooting pains through her kneecaps as she landed in a heap. A whimpering, shivering heap. The night air was cooler than comfort allowed, and she hadn’t worn a wrap over the delicate crepe gown.
Which was now ruined beyond repair. She’d skinned her knees on the way down, shredded the delicate fabric, and blood stains were seeping through. She sat numbly for a moment before giving into her despair.
She heard heavy footsteps approach her before the chill against her back was blocked by someone bending over her. “Ya all right, darlin’?”
“No.” She shivered and hugged herself, not caring about her scraped palms getting debris and blood on her dress. She’d known she would never wear it again, despite Jean’s assurances to the contrary. She felt his knee bump her as he knelt down, and felt the lining of his jacket, warmed by his body, draped over her shoulders. She shook her head futilely. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Tough. Yer not in any shape ta drive home.” His voice rumbled out from his chest, gruff and soothing.
“I don’t want to go home,” she moaned. She didn’t want to face Pietro, whether it was to watch him pack or to hear him plead his case one more time.
“Then we won’t,” he agreed. “C’mon, darlin’,” he encouraged. She hissed in pain when he helped her to her unsteady feet.
“My ankle,” she explained.
“Those damned shoes gotta go.” He finished helping her into his jacket as she wobbled. He skipped ceremony and wrapped his arms around her waist, hoisting her onto the hood of a car. She just stared at him, nonplussed, as he removed her shoes and looped the straps over his thumb. His hands were gentle as he turned her foot for a better glance at her ankle, pronouncing it merely twisted. His touch made her feel safe.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He let her slide most of the way to the ground before scooping her up in his arms. Her hair tickled his lips when an errant breeze kicked up. Ororo stared guiltily back at the spa, then shoved those feelings aside as Logan helped her into Remy’s car.
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