Page 48 of Almost Enough

Rowan quirks a brow in my direction, and I shake my head.

He snorts, but his eyes are still scanning the path behind her. A moment later, Violet steps out, her arm looped through her dad’s.

Rowan makes a sound that might be both a laugh and a sob. Violet is stunning and seeing her light up for Rowan guts me in the best way. I remember when he thought he’d lost her for good. I watched him unravel in slow motion while he pretended he was fine. Anyone with a brain and two eyes could see he was bleeding out over her every damn day.

They lost years they could’ve spent loving each other. Building a life. But they found their way back. Despite the pride. Despite the fear. Despite everything that tried to keep them apart.

Now, she’s walking toward him like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. And Rowan looks like a man who finally remembered how to breathe.

It’s fucking beautiful.

It’s also a kick in the ribs, because it makes me wonder what I’m doing. What I’m risking by keeping walls up.

Whitley reaches the front of the aisle, and my throat goes dry. She’s close enough now that I can see the light dusting of freckles across her nose, the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, and the soft curve of her lips that are painted the same deep burgundy as her dress.

She takes her place opposite me, shooting me another one of those looks—half challenge, half invitation—and my hands clench at my sides. I want to grab her right here, in front of god and all of Violet and Rowan’s friends and family to show her exactly what that dress is doing to me.

Instead, I force my gaze back to Violet as she glides down the aisle, her dad managing to shoot the tiniest glare in Rowan’s direction. Let’s just say that Violet’s dad wasn’t the biggest fan of their relationship at first, but the old grump came around.

The ceremony passes in a blur of vows and rings and whispered promises. I hand over the band when prompted and try not to stare at Whitley the entire time.

When the officiant finally announces them as husband and wife, Rowan sweeps Violet into a kiss that makes the crowd erupt in cheers. Whitley catches my eye across the altar, her smile softening into something genuine. Not the practiced, polished one she wears for photos, but the real one that crinkles the corners of her eyes and makes my chest squeeze tight.

As the newlyweds turn to face their guests, arms linked and faces glowing, I hold out my elbow to Whitley. Her fingers curl around my arm, warm through the fabric of my jacket, her citrus scent washing over me.

“Ready?” I ask.

“As I’ll ever be,” she whispers back, and we follow Rowan and Violet down the aisle.

I’m hyperaware of her beside me. Her perfume, the slight brush of her hip against mine with each step, the warmth of her hand on my arm. It’s torture and salvation all at once.

The reception is held in a glass-walled pavilion overlooking the mountains. String lights crisscross the ceiling, casting a warm glow over everything. The centerpieces Whitley fought so hard for are pretty damn perfect, I’ll give her that.

As guests pour into the reception hall, Whitley’s hands slip away from my arm. I want to grab them back. Tell her to stay close. But I let her go, watching her cross the room with her whirlwind energy that’s already back in motion. She fixes centerpieces, laughs with guests, and makes everything run like a well-oiled machine. She’s brilliant at it.

I grab a whiskey and let my tie out a notch, feeling like I just got hit by a freight train. The ceremony shouldn’t have gotten to me the way it did but watching Rowan tear up as Violet walked toward him? That about ruined me. Not just because it was beautiful, but because it made me feel like I’ve been starving without realizing it.

I’ve been standing on the sidelines for as long as I can remember, trying not to reach for anything that makes me feel like I’m actually awake in my own damn life.

I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the burn settle in the pit of my stomach. Watching Whitley move through the crowd is like watching a storm roll in. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pause. She’s a constant flurry of motion, shifting from one moment to the next without missing a beat. Her hands are always on the move—tucking hair behind her ear, adjusting a misplaced napkin, guiding people with the softest touch on their arm.

“You’re gawking,” Rowan says, appearing beside me.

I grunt, not bothering to deny it. “Where’s your wife?”

“She’s talking to her brother.” He follows my gaze to where Whitley is now hugging an elderly couple. “You know, for someone who claims to value silence, you sure spend a lot of time watching the loudest person in the room.”

I shoot him a look. “I’m just making sure everything’s running smoothly.”

“Bullshit,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it. “You like her.”

I freeze, and the world narrows to the sound of my own heartbeat. For a second, I wonder if it’s obvious. If the tightness in my chest, the constant pull to be closer to her, and the way I can’t stop thinking about how she feels under my touch…is all showing on my face.

I tell myself to play it off. Tell myself it’s nothing. That I don’t feel the need to hold onto her every word, her every move.

But then I meet Rowan’s eyes and realize he’s right.

Fuck, I really do like her. And it’s not something I know how to fix, not something I want to fix. It just is.