The ushers, Richard Dean and one of Isabella’s cousins, open the heavy glass doors and the bridal procession begins down the ridiculously long aisle. Fiona’s son runs down its length. Mia’s daughter, Cate falters at the entrance.
“You can do it, linda,” Sofie coaxes.
“I’m not Linda. My name’s Cate,” she says, then trudges down the aisle in a huff.
Sofie laughs and shrugs her shoulders before squaring them into her fantastic posture. With the confidence of a runway model, she saunters down the aisle, her gorgeous smile in place. God, I’d kill to have a figure like that. I catch myself staring at her swaying butt a bit longer than I probably should. Only Mia’s big rear blocking my view stops me.
Next to deploy is Penny who trudges down the aisle all business-like, hands clutching the base of her bouquet as her heels clickity-clack on the polished stone floor of the cathedral. The petals on the flowers at the end of each aisle flutter as she zooms past. It’s the fastest I’ve seen her walk. Ever.
Then it’s my turn. Shit. This is more difficult than I expected. Everyone is turned in their seats and looking at me. Suddenly, I understand why Penny walked so fast to the front of the congregation. I will my feet to slow down, looking ahead to avoid the dozens of guests smiling encouragingly at me.
The groomsmen are all lined up behind the groom. In matching kilts, jackets and ties, Keats is beside Byron, Blake behind him, then Jamal and Tomohiro at the end. Somehow, the fact that they could all look so dashing in the skirt-like tartans makes them even hotter. Actually, the whole matching outfits thing is also doing it for me—it’s like they’re a team in uniform. I wonder what they’re wearing under those kilts?
Eventually, I notice Keats looking my way. Our gazes meet and hold. He flashes me a tentative smile. I resist the urge to give him the finger. I lower my eyes to the floor before the temptation overcomes me. I don’t want to cheapen Isabella’s grand matrimonial with the one finger salute so close to the altar.
The congregation stands when I’m three-quarters of the way to my destination. I look at the groom and his groomsmen, my heart melting at the sight of the proud smile on Byron’s face and the slight gleam in his eyes. The other groomsmen are grinning, happy for their friend. Keats is still looking at me.
I break eye contact with him again when I reach the front row of pews. Turning left, I take my spot beside Penny, closer to the altar. I face the aisle and find Isabella gorgeous in her fitted wedding gown, a parent at each elbow as the three of them make their way to the front. A tear pricks the corners of my eyes, as a lump in my throat threatens to choke me. I get a mental picture of me on my wedding day, walking down the aisle alone. Perhaps my brother will “give me away”. Perhaps I’ll never get married. I’ll definitely never fit in a dress that looks like that.
“Isabella, wait!”
We all look up at the sound of a distinct British accent. A familiar man in a light suit is running down the aisle with one hand up like he’s trying to hail a bus he’s just missed.
“Isabella! Wait!” he repeats, intent on stopping her.
This time, even the bride and her parents look over their shoulders. For a heartbeat or two, Isabella is speechless.
“Eamon?” She sounds incredulous when she finally finds her voice.
Eamon Henning, the cheating ex-fiancé, takes two big gulps, catching his breath. “Darling. Please, don’t marry him. I’m sorry.”
Byron runs down the steps followed by his groomsmen like the hot row of Scottish warriors in Braveheart. Isabella keeps a calming hand on her father’s arm and motions the male half of the bridal party to stop with a lift of her hand.
I walk over to the drama. There’s no way I’ll let the cheating bastard ruin this wedding I’ve worked so hard on.
“Oh. My. Gosh. Eamon, why are you here? Actually, I don’t want to know,” Isabella says. Despite the harsh whispering, the acoustics of the cathedral allow most of us present to hear their exchange. “I am in the middle of my wedding. Go away.”
“Darling, my plane was delayed. Look, you can’t marry this boy.” He motions towards the twenty-six-year-old groom. “I left Sandy Grey. For you.”
“Bollocks.” Isabella looks around at the gathered guests, at least half of whom do not have a clue who Eamon is. She takes a deep breath as if to calm herself down. “I know she dumped you for one of the Five Ways lads.”
A look flits across Eamon’s face at being caught out. “One Direction,” he grumbles. “Isabella, darling, Sandy left because she could tell I never got over you.”
Isabella’s grip tightens around the stems of her flowers and for a second she seems on the verge of smacking her ex with the bouquet. Instead, she takes in a laboured breath, and hisses, “Eamon. It’s over. Now, please go.”
“But—”
“Time to go, asshole.” Keats steps up to Eamon and puts himself between his ex-girlfriend and her ex-fiancé. Arms crossed in front of him, Keats fixes Eamon with a glare.
“Who the hell are you?” the cheating bastard says, trying to look around Keats to Isabella.
“The best man,” Keats says before grabbing Eamon by the front of his shirt. “I’ll tell you this now, pal, you keep this up, you’d better be ready to have your ass kicked. I don’t have to look pretty for these wedding photos. I ain’t the one getting married.”
Chapter 33
“I’ve just had a great idea. Why don’t you just tell Keats how you feel?” Jillie suggests. Her words are garbled around
