“No problem.” The crackling ends.
With a pained expression, Declan looks at me. “I don’t know how else to explain it, but facts are facts. I didn’t want you thinking that he’s rejecting you for the wrong reasons.”
“There are right reasons?” I choke out.
With a shrug, he gets on the elevator, the doors closing over troubled eyes.
“But why won’t he say it?” I call out.
And...he’s gone.
I look at Shannon. Her eyes are a mix of pity and confusion.
“Oh, God, Shannon. What have I done?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
It’s showtime. Shannon and Declan’s rehearsal dinner party night. It’s T-minus two weeks for the wedding and now everything shifts into high gear. My calendar is filled with bridesmaid dress fittings and re-fittings, photographer walk-throughs, final confirmations for the bachelorette party, florist checks, and a million texts from Marie asking about details and a million more from Shannon hot on her heels, complaining about her mom.
But no Andrew.
We actually did the rehearsal part earlier in the day at the minister’s office because of a slew of calls from New Zealand and Indonesia that Andrew and Declan had to take. Andrew’s head was bent over his phone the entire time, his distraction so bad he had to be physically moved by Grace throughout most of the practice ceremony. At least he was present. Sort of.
We’ve confirmed that everyone knows where to walk, even though rain made us just do this at the church where Declan’s parents married. Quite some time ago, Shannon, Declan and Marie decided to just hold the wedding outdoors at Farmington Country Club, so the rehearsal is a formality.
Marie has been studying the layout of Farmington Country Club weddings for so long she should get an honorary Army Corps of Engineers membership card.
Tonight, Shannon and Declan’s apartment looks like something out of one of those HGTV television shows combined with a Gordon Ramsey kitchen. My mom and I arrive before all the guests to provide Shannon with some much-needed support, only to find her crying over a small frying pan full of onions.
“I can’t do this! Mom is insane! I can’t host a dinner for twelve people! I can barely assemble a Lunchable correctly,” she sobs.
Declan is nowhere to be seen.
A tall, slim woman with blonde hair and the tight smile of an overly officious school teacher interrupts us.
“You’re burning the onions,” she says kindly.
Shannon looks down and cries out.
“And there’s no need for that old trick. The odors from our meal will more than fill the apartment.”
Shannon tosses the spitting frying pan into one half of the divided sink and throws her hands in the air.
“I give up!”
“Thank goodness,” the woman mutters. I look at her apron. The logo for a very well known restaurant is on it.
“Where is Declan?” When in doubt, stick the man in the hot seat.
“I don’t know! He said he’d be here by now and everyone is coming and Mom put me up to this and I can’t even.”
Remember how I said Shannon has become so poised, so confident, so mature and composed?
Yeah. That’s long gone now. Momzillas can unravel anything.
“You can go take a shower and get ready.” I will fix this. She just has to get out of the way. Shannon can be her own worst enemy.
“I can’t! I—”
“Come here, dear,” my mother says, guiding Shannon in that way only a mother can, her voice firm and no-nonsense, Spritzy in her purse on her arm, his tail thumping against leather. DNA and training make Shannon obey her.
The door buzzes.
I march across the room and see James’s face at the video screen. I let him in.
And we’re off.
Over the course of the next hour, the following people arrive: Marie, Jason, Carol, Terry, Amy, Jamie from Outlander. Add in me, my mom, Andrew, Declan and Shannon and we are twelve total.
That’s right.
Jamie.
All right, not technically, but the man in the video screen—and the second-to-last to arrive—was a cool 6’2”, with bright green McCormick eyes and the threaded gold of a ginger-haired god.
A cousin god.
Turns out the Boston McCormicks still had some contact with the Edinburgh McCormicks and Declan asked Hamish to be a groomsman. In his native Scotland, Hamish is a rock star. Not because he’s a musician.
Because he plays football.
Or, as we call it here, soccer.
Which means Hamish is a nobody in Boston. He may have his face splashed all over all the major newspapers in Europe and South America, but he’s a complete unknown in the U.S.
And he doesn’t seem to realize it.
He’s headed to New York City for a Sports Illustrated nude athlete photo spread after this dinner, then back for the bachelor party and wedding day. Marie’s eyes comb over him and it’s very clear she’s doing her best camera imitation right now.
Andrew still hasn’t arrived as the wine’s poured, the hors d’oeurves are distributed, and Shannon tries hard to pretend she cares about McCormick tartan ribbons tied around the birdseed packets that people will throw as she and Declan leave the church.
Marie won’t shut up about them.
I’m too preoccupied by Andrew’s absence to care.
“It’s all a bit much, aye?” Hamish says to Amy, who is giving him the critical once over of a woman who knows she’s supposed to be impressed but most decidedly isn’t. His accent makes my panties melt. Maybe that’s why people in Scotland go commando when they wear kilts and skirts.