Her turn.
She walked with slow, steady strides to join her daughter. Dalton and Tristan stood beside Cal, dual best men, devastating in their sleek black tuxedos. Smiling at her husband, she turned toward the main event, and the crowd stood as “The Wedding March” began to play.
Morgan floated down the aisle, her gaze trained on the man she loved, her face wreathed in a joyous smile. Wide blue eyes shone behind the weblike lace of her veil. The Vera Wang gown was a classic, with a full skirt and a high neck encrusted with an array of pearls, emphasizing the graceful length of her neck and her delicate bone structure. Her shoes shimmered in a peekaboo toe in pure glass.
Damn. She wore actual glass slippers, just like the princess Cal called her.
She reached Cal, and her father gave the bride away, blinking back tears. Cal hugged the man, then took his bride, joining their hands together.
Her lower lip trembled. Oh no. Not this early. She would not cry. No, no, no . . .
Tristan met her gaze across the room. Whiskey-gold eyes pierced into hers, a gleam of understanding and desire closing the distance and squeezing her heart.
Then he winked.
She pressed her lips tight to keep from laughing. The gesture was so unlike him; she knew he’d done it for her. She certainly didn’t want to be blubbering the first five minutes and ruin all her makeup for photos.
God, she loved him.
The ceremony unfolded, wrapping the guests in memories of love and hope for the future. When they were announced man and wife, Cal picked Morgan up high in the air and spun her around, laughing with such open joy the guests burst into wild applause.
They lined up outside in the receiving line, greeting guests and posing for pictures in the gorgeous June sunshine. Tristan entangled his fingers with hers and Becca’s, standing as a unit through the wedding formalities of pictures, toasts, and getting to the reception. Becca was still freaking out at being able to ride in a limo, and Morgan treated her like her own, making sure Becca had a glass of apple cider when they drank on the way to the country club.
They pulled up to the Harrington Club, a five-star resort on a stunning golf course with rolling green acres. After a few more pictures, Sydney made a beeline for the waiters and began pulling madly from the trays.
“You bringing those to Morgan?” Tristan asked, his hand resting on her waist.
She paused in the act of taking her first bite and groaned. “I’m evil. Hell no, I wasn’t thinking about Morgan. I’m starving.”
He grinned. “Eat first, then feed her. You’ll be no good to her if you pass out from starvation.”
“I’m a terrible mother. I forgot about Becca.”
He took the bite-size bacon-wrapped scallop and popped it into her mouth. She half closed her eyes in delight. “She’s fine. I got her situated in the bridal party room with a tray of chicken fingers and mozzarella sticks. She may never leave.”
“You rock.” She took the next few minutes enjoying bruschetta, shrimp and grits, various cheeses and vegetables, and mini spring rolls. “Okay. Now I can take care of Morgan.”
“I think Cal has her covered.”
She turned. Cal stood in the corner with his bride, feeding her slowly and pressing kisses to her mouth in between bites. It was an image from a movie poster, so tender and real everyone around them stilled to watch. The photographer jumped into action, snapping pictures with a mad glee, but they didn’t notice. They gazed at each other, lost in the world they’d created for themselves.
Raw yearning gripped her. Her breath whooshed out, and for a few precious moments, she ached with bone-jarring jealousy. Their obvious love for each other beat in their auras, and Sydney almost fell to her knees in a mixture of grief and want.
It had been three months since her own wedding day, and she was no closer to Tristan falling in love with her than when they’d begun. Oh, the coldness had finally drifted away. He looked after her and Becca with a sweet concern that brought tears to her eyes. But he still held back.
Every night, he took her in his arms and wrung excruciating pleasure from her body. He reminded her of his possession, of his claim, yet after the orgasm settled and he fell asleep in her arms, she was left with an aching emptiness that was slowly devouring her.
“Baby? You okay?”
She shook off her thoughts and forced a smile. “Sure.”
Becca raced across the carpet, her mini train trailing behind. “I’m back. Did I miss anything?”
Tristan swung her up in his arms, and they stood together in a tight circle. “Nope. Is your belly full now?”
“So full.” A tiny frown creased her brow. “We’ve done the ceremony and pictures and ate and did a toast. What’s next? Cake?”
Sydney laughed, and Tristan pressed a kiss on top of his daughter’s head. “Something much more important and a heck of a lot more fun.”
“What, Daddy?”
He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “We party, sweetheart.”
Tristan glanced around. Coast was clear. He darted to the side door and escaped outside. He sucked in deep breaths of fresh air. His shirt was stuck uncomfortably to his skin, his tie was too tight, and his shiny stiff shoes hurt like a bitch. Pressing himself against the far wall, away from the smokers, he relaxed for a few seconds and hoped no one would find him. He refused to become a spectacle in this Grease thing Morgan had lined up. No one could make him do it, either. How could such a classy Southern woman stoop to such a level as to force a musical rendition on her guests?
The door banged open. Dalton came out, spotted him, and darted over. “Thank God. I’m not doing that shit, man. The DJ is looking for a Kenickie, and Morgan’s already pissed ’cause they can’t find Cal to be Danny.”
“Well, don’t lead them out here to me,” Tristan hissed. “You always sucked at hiding. Did anyone see you?”
“Nah, I checked for tails.”
“Did you bring beer?”
“Yeah, here.” He shoved an extra bottle into Tristan’s hands. The cold brew felt like heaven in his palm, and he pressed it against his forehead. “I’m so fucking tired. I hate dancing. And why are there so many relatives I don’t recognize? They keep telling me how big I got.”
“Yeah, Dad never kept up with his side of the family. They haven’t seen us since we were ten.”
The door squeaked, then flew open, and Cal trudged out, looking like his usual grumpy self. “I’m not doing it. Fuck Danny. Fuck Grease. There are certain levels of humiliation you can’t go past, even on your wedding day.”