“Nathan,” she whispered.
He did not answer.
Thirty minutes earlier, he had been laughing so hard outside the reception hall that one of his groomsmen told him he looked drunk on happiness.
He was not drunk.
He had barely finished half a glass of champagne because he wanted to drive.
Their friends had stood under the awning with sparklers, shouting through the rain as Emily and Nathan ran toward the car.
Her veil was pinned crooked in her hair.
Her mother had cried through the sendoff.
Nathan had opened the passenger door for her, bowed like an idiot, and said, “Mrs. Mercer, your getaway car awaits.”
She had laughed because the name still felt borrowed.
Emily Mercer.
It sounded like a woman who had already figured out what kind of curtains to buy and how to argue about dishwasher loading without taking it personally.
It sounded like a life.
They pulled away from the reception hall in Charleston with rain streaking the windows and sparklers glowing behind them like tiny fading stars.
