More Than Hate You (More Than Words)

“Nia has her in hand, buddy. In less than thirty minutes, Sloan will be your wife, for better or for worse.”

In the front row, my mother sits, wearing a mint-green dress and a misty smile. It’s great to see her. I missed her more than I realized. We haven’t had much time to talk. Hopefully, we will during the reception…when she’ll finally meet my bride.

Two chairs down, Maxon Reed sits in a navy suit, holding his infant daughter, who’s still wearing her pajamas, rubbing her eyes. His wife and the dynamo behind this suddenly successful bed-and-breakfast, Keeley, has a mic in hand, ready to sing. What, I have no idea. I didn’t pick the music. I’m not sure who did. But once Nia told Keeley and her sisters-in-law that I intended to have a wedding today, they planned everything and made it all happen.

Harlow, Maxon’s younger sister, had a wedding dress for nuptials she apparently ran out on that fit Sloan almost perfectly, so my bride is wearing that. Nia is standing up as Sloan’s matron of honor—and hopefully keeping her nerves calm. Another one of Keeley’s sisters-in-law, Britta, organized the food and baked the cake, with a lot of help from her mother. One of Harlow’s friends, Masey, is a famous makeup artist or something, so she did Sloan’s hair and face. Masey’s fiancé, Harlow’s brother-in-law, seems to know everyone on the island and found a last-minute florist willing to whip together a bouquet and some assorted flowers overnight. I don’t know how much that’s going to cost me. I don’t care, either. Keeley seems to have an officiant on standby, and Harlow’s husband, former pro quarterback and future hall-of-famer, Noah Weston, called in some favors for a top-notch photographer.

Now all I’m waiting on is my bride.

“This thing should have started by now,” I murmur to Evan, fidgeting.

Discreetly, he checks his watch. “She’s only two minutes late. Patience.”

Disquiet gnaws at my gut. If Sloan doesn’t come through, I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do. Yeah, Evan will insist we buy Reservoir for pennies or bury them altogether, and I won’t have a valid reason to stop him…except that, even if my bride doesn’t march down the aisle, I don’t think I can walk away from her.

It’s official. I’m in love.

Damn it.

I’ve had zero time to process that before Nia appears at the back of the big white house, bouquet in hand, wearing a short, lacy dress in a blush color with a big satin bow I recognize from a recent Stratus bash. She’s clutching a bouquet of white and pink flowers as she pastes on a smile and nods at Keeley across the yard.

Music begins then, and Keeley lights up as she waves to her baby daughter and lifts the mic to sing Paramore’s “The Only Exception” in a soft, lilting voice. Nia makes her way across the white runner to stand on the far side of the makeshift altar, smiling all the while at Evan.

The song goes on, and the officiant approaches, Bible in hand that seems out of place, given his braided salt-and-pepper beard and his loud Hawaiian shirt. He leans toward me and whispers in low tones, “I’m Lono.”

“Sebastian.” We shake hands.

“The wedding license has been taken care of. Once you sign after the ceremony, you and Sloan will be official.”

I’m not sure how Lono managed that, but I’m not questioning it. “Thank you.”

The music changes again. Everyone stands. Tension seizes my chest. I hold my breath, my heart pounding so hard I swear it’s going to beat out of my chest.

Then Sloan emerges from the open door at the back of the shimmering house as Keeley strikes up the notes of Adele’s “Make You Feel My Love.” My bride takes my breath away in a beaded ivory dress with a delicate scooped neck and her hair swept away from her face. The sensual Hawaiian breeze tugs at the flowers tucked into her fiery curls.

She. Is. Beautiful.

And she’s almost mine.

It’s obvious she’s nervous. If her death grip on her bouquet of pink roses and tender white plumeria isn’t a giveaway, her trembling definitely is.

I send her an encouraging smile, willing her to believe that, somehow, someway, we’ll work everything out and be happy. But the confidence comes from somewhere deeper inside me because, now that she’s here, I know this is right. I know she’s where I belong. I feel it all the way to my bones.

Convincing her will be the bigger problem.

She’s chosen to walk up the aisle alone, despite the fact Bruce Rawson sits on the bride’s side of the crowd, looking paler than the last time I saw him. What the hell is he doing here?

I turn to Evan, but he merely shakes his head. Yeah, he’s right. Not now. I need to focus on my bride. Her sperm donor of a father isn’t important at the moment.

When Sloan reaches my side, I hold out my hand. She takes it, still shaking. Her fingers are cold, despite the temperate day.

I give her a squeeze. “It’s going to be okay.”

Her eyes, which have never looked bluer, skitter up to mine. “Is it?”

Then Lono clears his throat, so I nod. We’ll table this discussion for later.

When the officiant starts the ceremony, I forget he’s the least formally dressed person here. I forget that he looks like a stereotype. His voice… It’s both reverent and reassuring. And as I caress the back of Sloan’s hand with my thumb, I think it’s calming her, too.