The sound of the shutter on my camera is music to my ears.
I feel that love is an understatement for what I feel for photography. It is my art. My life. My escape. My everything. Without it, I can’t breathe.
After I’ve taken a millio
n photos of Xander and Thea, I move on to taking pictures of the cake and décor. I focus on the little things—zooming in on the turquoise flowers frosted on the cake and the crisp lines of the napkins folded on the table.
I decide to take a break and head back to the table Jace occupies. He sits with his legs taking up as much space as humanly possible. He’s now ditched his tie completely and it sits as a crumpled gray pile on the table.
He lifts his gaze to me as I place my Canon 70d on the table.
“You look like you could use a drink,” he comments.
I laugh and push my magenta-colored hair away from my eyes. “Is that your way of saying you need a drink?”
His green eyes twinkle. “Yes. I’ll be back.”
He hops up and heads to the bar.
I kick my heels off beneath the table and swear my feet sing halle-fucking-lujah at being free of those death traps.
Thea Montgomery—Kincaid, now, I correct myself—thinks there’s something wrong with you if you don’t wear heels, but I think she’s the one that’s not okay in the head because those things are painful.
I lift one aching foot to rest on my knee and begin massaging it.
Jace returns and places a beer in front of me before taking his seat again.
“Feet hurt?” he asks.
Before I can answer, he grabs my legs and tugs my feet into his lap.
He begins massaging the arch of my right foot before I can protest, and I nearly moan because, Oh, my God that feels amazing.
He rubs with expert precision, and I wonder where he learned to do it.
My head lolls back and my eyes close. “Feels good?”
I nod and don’t open my eyes. “I’m never wearing heels again,” I mumble.
He moves to the other foot, and I suppress another moan.
“On second thought, maybe I should wear heels every day if it means you’ll rub my feet.”
He chuckles, and the sound is warm and husky and perfectly Jace.
He finishes rubbing my feet, and I reluctantly drop them to the ground again.
“It’s time for the bouquet toss!” someone calls out.
I groan.
Jace nudges my shoulder and waggles his brows. “Don’t you want to catch the bouquet?”
“Yeah, and be labeled as the next one to get married? No thanks.”
“Come on,” he coaxes. “It’ll be fun.”
“Are you going to be a part of the garter toss?” I challenge.