Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

He wasn’t a chump. Hadn’t been played. The woman had truly been in danger.

At least, that’s what Jack kept trying to get through his brain as he stared into the mirror in Doyle’s master bathroom, tying and retying his stupid bow tie.

The sun cast its rays through the windows—a glorious day for a wedding.

“Can’t we just have clip-ons?” He ripped the stupid tie from his shirt, wanting to crush it in his hand.

“Take a breath there, Goldilocks,” Stein said, walking up to him. “Give me the tie. Simple knot tying 101.”

Jack handed Stein the tie, lifted his jaw.

Through the open door of the bathroom, Jack spotted Doyle in his usher’s attire, fixing his cuff links, his dark hair gelled, wearing a scrub of trimmed dark whiskers. He’d said little when Jack arrived at the rehearsal last night with Penelope—had simply given a tight nod and shaken Jack’s hand.

Walked away.

Memories, maybe .

Sometimes—more often than not—Jack wished he could wind up the past, recast it.

Conrad sat on the bed, already dressed in his gray tux, the shoulders tight. Someone should have taken more time to get it fitted. He was texting.

Possibly Penelope, given the way he’d looked at her last night, the worry in his gaze. The woman might not have been wrong about an impulsive romance.

Except, everything about her explanation sat inside him like a burr. It didn’t help that Harper had all but abandoned him at the rehearsal, and maybe that was petty, but?—

“Chin up, bro,” Stein said and finished tying. “Now, don’t touch it.” He turned Jack by the shoulders, back to the mirror. “Spiffy.”

Whatever .

“What’s that look?”

“Nothing.” Jack headed out of the room. The sooner he could get this day over?—

And then what?

Stein had followed him out of the room into Doyle’s massive master bedroom, where the brothers were getting ready. Oaken was at Grover House with his team.

The ladies had left early this morning for the Duck Lake Heritage Church, the first church in town, now a historical site used for exactly these occasions.

Well, not exactly this occasion, because the town had started to buzz with the arrival of paparazzi and Oaken’s celebrity guests. Even last night as Penelope was giving her statement at the sheriff’s office, most of the conversation from the gathering of deputies had centered on the various celebrity spottings.

“I saw Glo and Tate Marshall and their little girl.”

“And Kelsey Jones—she and her husband were here. She just dropped a solo album.”

“Ben King was at the Lumberjack’s Table tonight with some people. Saw it on Insta.”

“Mike Grizz showed up . . .”

Jack had tried to block it out, his arms folded as he leaned against the doorjamb and listened to Penelope attempt to describe her kidnapper.

Tried to get past the fact that he knew it—just knew it.

She’d constructed the entire thing. Even if it had gone south on her.

“What has you all dark and broody?”

Stein had come up behind him where Jack now stood at the window overlooking the snow on the lake, the sun shining through the trees. A glorious, blue-skied day, and everything would be fine. Probably.

“I don’t know.”

“I do,” Conrad said, pocketing his phone, getting up from where he sat on the end of the king bed. “It’s the wedding day.”

Jack frowned.

“Which means that tomorrow is . . .” He raised his eyebrows as if waiting for an answer.

“Leftover cake?” Jack offered.

Conrad laughed. “No, man. It’s fish-or-cut-bait day.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

Conrad walked over to the dresser mirror, checked his appearance. “It means, what’s up with you and Harper?”

Stein grinned. “Yep. That’s it.” He nodded. “That’s what’s got him all surly.”

“I’m not surly.”

Silence.

“Fine. If you haven’t noticed, I’m homeless.”

“You’re hardly homeless,” Doyle said, looking up. “You practically have a beachside home. And a pretty nice-looking vintage Alfa Romeo in the garage. And a sick-looking Victory Hammer S bike.” He folded his arms. “You want to talk about homeless—try living in your parents’ guesthouse like you might need an emotional Band-Aid.”

Jack looked away.

“I know I need to figure this out. And I will because I’m not the guy I was five years ago,” Doyle said.

“We know that. And Dad needs help with this place,” Conrad said, his voice soft.

Doyle lifted a shoulder, directed his gaze to Jack. “I’m sorry about your broken-down old bus going up in flames, but maybe it’s a sign.”

“Of what?”

“That your running is over.”

The words came from their father, who stood in the doorway. He wore his tuxedo, gray with a blue vest, a bow tie perfectly tied, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, clean-shaven, and walked into the room and shut the door.

Silence.

Conrad drew in a breath.

Stein folded his arms, looked away.

“Running?” Jack said.

“Let’s cut to the truth, Jack. We all know that you blame yourself—not sure why—for Sabrina’s death.”

Jack shoved his hands into his pockets.

“It derailed you. And then it got worse when you failed the bar.”

Jack glanced at Stein, who raised his hands. “I didn’t tell him.”

“Please. We’re not stupid. Jack, you’re an achiever. You don’t fail. And when you do, you freak out.”

“Not true.”

His dad held up his hand. “Let me amend that. You hate to fail.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Everyone isn’t the oldest brother in the family. Everyone isn’t the guy who was known as Big Jack.” His dad’s voice softened. “Everyone isn’t the son who showed up, shovel in hand, for every firepit I asked you to dig.”

A smile from his brothers.

“Everyone isn’t the guy who still shows up, even when all hope is gone.”

“Let’s not turn this into a hero thing. I get paid to find people. Some might call me a mercenary.” Jack offered a smile.

His father shook his head. “I don’t know who told you that you had to be the best—I hope it wasn’t me—but you need to know that the only one looking at your failure, judging you by your failure, is you.”

Jack looked away, took a breath.

“I know you hate being called out. You don’t do vulnerable well?—”

“I’m not a jerk.”

“That’s not what I mean. You hold everyone away because you think that your failures will make you less in people’s eyes.” His dad stepped closer. “You care very deeply about your people.”

His chest clenched. He glanced past his dad, looking for escape.

“That’s why you ridiculed your sister when she wanted to re-up with the Navy.”

“She was going to join a Marine expeditionary unit! Again. ” Oops. That might have come out a little too passionately.

“I know,” his dad said quietly. “For the record, I’m not unhappy that she opted out of that. But I know you carried the rift between you and Bront? and in our family on yourself, and . . . well, you made it bigger than it should have been.”

“I hurt her. I got that.”

“You hurt yourself . You let your shame tell you that you weren’t loved. Weren’t eligible for grace.”

“We fixed it.”

“You might have fixed it with her, but you haven’t fixed it between you and God, have you?”

He looked at his father, made to open his mouth, but his father held up his hand. Great, they were doing this in front of his brothers?

“God loves you very much, Jack. He made you for a purpose. And he’s waiting for you to come to him, to stop running and discover peace. To take your rightful place in this family, as Big Jack.”

Shoot. “I don’t even know what that looks like.”

“Maybe you won’t until you get there.” His dad had walked close enough to put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You were created for the outrageous, overwhelming, wonderful love of heaven. Stop telling yourself what you’re supposed to do and simply let God work in you to do . Then, and only then, will you truly stop searching and satisfy this restless itch. The greatest find is waking up every day to the excitement of seeing what God will do.”

And just like that, Harper’s words rushed into his head. “You’re not lost anymore, Jack Kingston. You’re right back where you’re supposed to be. So stop running.”

Except the voice sounded deeper, maybe a heartbeat or a thrum inside him.

He nodded as his dad squeezed his shoulder.

“So, ready to get your littlest sister married?”

“I can’t believe she’s getting married first,” said Stein, probably without thinking.

Jack wanted to wince for Doyle, but his brother took a breath, found a smile. “Let’s do this.”

His father put his arm over Doyle’s shoulder as they walked out. Stein and Jack followed, Conrad swiping up his phone behind them. They tromped out into the frigid, beautiful day.

Jack got into the front seat of his father’s truck as his brothers squished into the back, shoulder to shoulder.

“It’s like I’m five, pinned between my brothers,” Doyle said, sitting on the hump in the middle.

Conrad grabbed one of his knees, and Stein grabbed the other.

“Get your grubs off me.” He elbowed them but laughed.

Jack was right where he was supposed to be. Maybe. At least for a while.

And then what? Florida? He’d purchased the place for investment purposes after the success of the true-crime book.

But maybe his heart was here . . . or . . .

Harper certainly wasn’t staying, so there was that.

Except, what if . . .

Maybe they should play the game again, this time at the reception, maybe where he could pull her into someplace private . . .

“After the wedding, Oaken and Boo will take pictures at the church, then more at the house before the reception starts. That was the memo that Boo’s wedding planner gave me.”

“Who?”

“A woman named Megan. She’s from out of town but came highly recommended.”

“What’s for dinner?” Stein asked.

“I don’t know. Mom brought in a caterer, a recommendation from Megan.”

Yeah, he’d get Harper away from the reception and tell her . . . what? He looked out the window, trying out words in his mind. He didn’t want this to end? He was in love with her?

Yeah, that was raw and terrifying. Maybe his dad was right about the running.

The historical church sat on the edge of a park in the middle of town, miraculously spared from the tornado six years ago. A simple limestone building with a tall steeple and a bell at the apex. The stone stairs that led up to double wooden doors were now flanked with tall cedar trees decorated with white ribbon and tulle.

A blue carpet, laid for traction, led up the stairs to the front door.

His father pulled into the lot, parked. “We’re supposed to use the side entrance, sneak in.” He grinned at them, a joy in his eyes that Jack felt down to his bones.

They got out, and Conrad put a hand on Jack’s shoulder, pulling him away. “Hey. I need to show you something.”

The wind shivered through him as Conrad handed him his phone. “This came through on my feed. It’s a PopMuse blog about the wedding. They’ve been posting little blurbs every day, some insider point of view.”

He might know who that insider was. “Yeah, that’s Harper. She got permission from Boo to cover it.”

“That explains it.” Conrad nodded. “Didn’t know you had it in you, bro.”

Had what? Jack looked at the blog. His breath caught. “What?”

“Not sure what she was going for there, but I’d give you five out of five stars.”

Jack’s entire body turned cold as he read, the words like a punch to his sternum.

And he just wanted to run.

* * *

“Just stop thinking. Breathe. Enjoy.” Harper stood in the bridal suite, a room in the back of the Duck Lake Heritage Church, holding Boo’s hands, meeting her eyes, saying the words to herself just as much as to the bride.

They’d found Penelope. Safe and alive.

The lit candles in the hearth filled the room with the scent of lilies, competing with the array of blue-and-white rose bouquets delivered by the florist earlier. The flowers sat on a vintage coffee table surrounded by pale-pink Victorian parlor sofas.

Beyond the double doors, the hum of guests filling the sanctuary lifted and filtered into the former choir room. The room had been redone for exactly the purpose of these final moments. Ornate full-length mirrors, one of them a three-way surrounding a dais. Plush white velvet straight chairs sat against makeup vanities with soft lighting and table mirrors, and along the wall, there were hanging stands for long dresses. More flickering candles in the windows and soft piano hymns playing turned the morning into a fairy tale.

Or maybe that might just be Harper’s wild imagination having a go. See, everything is going to be fine. Perfect.

Magical.

So what that Jack had been acting weird— very weird—last night. Maybe he was as relieved as she was.

He’d driven them back to the inn in silence and hadn’t even attempted to stop her as she followed Penelope to their room.

She’d sort of hoped for a late-night regroup in front of the hearth. Something that included his arms around her, telling her— what? That he loved her? That he wanted a future with her?

There went her imagination again.

Just stop thinking. Breathe. Enjoy .

“Nearly ready for the dress.” This from Megan, their very busy wedding planner.

“Thanks for finding Penelope,” Boo said. “If I’d known she was really in danger, I would have stopped everything and sent out a search party.”

“Honestly, we thought she was fine. I called her security, and he said she’d checked in. And then Conrad got the scary voicemail.”

“I told Franco that I was going back to Minneapolis,” Penelope said, coming over. “But I didn’t realize I’d sent the voicemail.” Of course, her dark-blue V-necked velvet bridesmaid dress fit like a glove over her tall, slender body. The hairdresser had coifed her hair into a waterfall of dark curls and drips.

The poor woman had tried to do something—anything—with Harper’s short hair, and in the end had added a few curls, flips, and a gold barrette.

Harper felt cute. Maybe sweetly pretty. The girl next door, standing on the edge of what she really wanted. So maybe this was the best Harper could hope for.

“With the extra security team that Oaken’s crew hired, we’re all safe now,” Boo continued. “Everything is going to be fine.”

Right. What she said .

“Okay, Bride, you’re up.” Megan had positioned Boo’s shoes in the puddle of the dress and now took Boo’s hand and helped her over to the dais. Then, while Megan held the dress open, Austen and her mother steadied Boo as she stepped into the gown.

Harper’s throat filled watching Boo transform into a bride as Megan pulled the dress up around her. The beaded-lace sheath wedding dress framed her toned body, the long-sleeve arms ending in scallops. The deep V back, with covered buttons, formed a bodice with a lacy décolletage and cat-eye neckline.

“Wow, Boo,” said London, also elegant in her gown and long blonde hair, swooped up. “That works.”

Boo grinned. “It was my mom’s.”

“Oh,” said Mama Em. “We updated it, a lot. Added sleeves and took in some around the waist. The chapel-length train is all hers. I wasn’t that fancy when I married Grover.” But Boo’s mother wore a look in her eyes that made Harper wish . . .

Aw, she wished for too much, probably. Her wishes got her in too much trouble.

Just stop thinking. Enjoy.

“Something old,” Boo’s mother said and handed Boo a strand of pearls. “Your grandmother’s.” She attached them around Boo’s neck as Megan buttoned up the back of the dress.

“And something new,” said Austen. “Oaken asked me to give these to you.” She opened a box, and inside sat diamond earrings.

“Wow,” said Penelope. “Good man.”

Boo lifted them out, affixed them in her ears.

“I got you the quote you wanted,” said London, and lifted a small index card.

“What’s that?” Harper asked.

“A line from Wuthering Heights. ” She read the card: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

“I don’t think you’ll forget that,” her mother said.

“Just in case,” London said, “I’ll stick this into the something blue.” She folded the card and tucked it between the blue and white roses of the bridal bouquet in a stand on a table in the room.

And in Harper’s mind, she was already writing her article.

In the softly lit bridal suite, a sanctuary of calm and beauty buzzes gently with the quiet excitement of a wedding morning. Here, Bront? steps into more than just a dress; she is slipping into a story woven from generations of love.

The air is scented with the subtle fragrance of roses, lilies, and anticipation. Bront?, standing gracefully in front of an ornate mirror, lifts the fabric of her gown—the same gown her mother wore decades ago, now altered to marry tradition with contemporary grace. The dress, a cascade of delicate lace and silk, whispers stories of the past as it rustles against the plush carpet of the dais.

She wears a pair of diamond earrings, a gift from her groom, Oaken. They sparkle under the soft glow of the chandelier, each facet catching light. Around her neck is clasped a pearl necklace, handed down from her grandmother. The pearls, each a testament to enduring beauty and strength, lie against her collarbone—a touchstone to the women who have shaped her.

Her bouquet rests on a nearby table. White and blue roses cluster tightly, their hues a perfect echo of the clear January sky. Concealed among the blooms is a love note, a ribbon-bound excerpt fromWuthering Heights: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” This quote now gains new meaning as she prepares to walk toward Oaken.

Okay, even in her head that sounded over the top. But probably appropriate.

And now, as Boo took a long breath, the words in Harper’s mind continued to pen the moment.

As the organ music slips in through the closed doors, building the anticipation of meeting her groom, Bront? steps fully dressed toward her reflection. She pauses, her heart a symphony of beats, her reflection a portrait of bridal beauty. The joy in her eyes mirrors the smiles of the women who surround her. Today, Bront? not only marries the man she loves but also steps into a new chapter of a love story that spans generations—her feet firmly planted in tradition, her heart soaring into the future.

Harper wanted to cry.

She wanted this. All of it. The tradition. The family. The groom. Her own groom.

Jack.

“Don’t let him walk away unless you want him to.”

“Bee, you okay?” Boo’s gaze had fallen on her.

“Yeah. Great.” She forced a smile.

Boo shook her head. “It’ll all work out.”

Harper raised an eyebrow.

“Jack will take one look at you, and he’ll realize that he is crazy about you. Always has been. It’s just taken this long for it to be right.”

Yes. Maybe his walking away from her back then had been exactly the right thing. Had given her a chance to find herself—at least enough that she knew what she wanted. Who she wanted.

So no, she wasn’t letting him walk away.

“Hey, how’s the article going?” Boo asked.

“Good. They posted a couple excerpts on the PopMuse blog.”

“I can’t wait to read it. You always have a way of bringing out the magic.”

A knock came at the door. The photographer, a woman from Minneapolis armed with a camera around her neck, stuck her head in. “Five-minute warning.” She closed the door.

Boo inhaled, smiled, her gaze still on Harper. “I’ve learned that God has good things for those who trust His love for them.”

Maybe she was talking about Harper, maybe herself, but Harper nodded.

Megan stepped up to the dais. “Time for the veil.” She affixed the chapel-length veil with the embroidered edges and the tiny tiara on Boo’s head.

“Gorgeous,” Austen said.

“My sister is overjoyed that someone could wear it,” Penelope said softly.

Boo looked over at her. “Thank you. I love it.”

“She got it in Italy.” She pressed her lips together, nodded, her eyes bright.

Aw, so there went any lingering anger toward Penelope.

Boo stepped off the dais, letting the veil cascade along the pale-pink carpet. “How do I look?”

“Oaken won’t be able to speak,” Austen said.

“I hope he can speak enough to say I do,” Boo said, laughing.

“He’ll be able to nod. Maybe grunt or something,” London said.

The door opened and Megan, who’d stepped out, came back in. “We’re ready for you. Bridesmaids, I need you in reverse order, like we practiced.”

Penelope stood at the front, then London, and Harper lined up between London and Austen, who stood in front of Boo. Her mother kissed her cheek and exited.

And right then, Harper caught a glimpse of Jack, standing in the vestibule.

He could take her breath away. If possible, the tux only made his shoulders wider, his waist trimmer, sculpted his entire body. His hair hung just above his collar, dark and curly, and he’d trimmed his dark beard for the occasion. He stood, his hands clasped in front of him, and all she could think of was those hands pulling her to himself on the boat.

She may have crushed on him as a child, dreamed about him as a high-schooler, but the last few days, spending time with him, discovering him—no, finding him—had nourished in her feelings that had taken breath and life and . . . hope.

She loved this man. Loved him enough to . . . what? Stay in Duck Lake? Follow him around the country?

To find a life with him, wherever that might be.

“You should go,” Austen said from behind, and only then did Harper realize that London had moved forward.

Shep held out his arm—he had cleaned up well too and wore a look of appreciation for London.

And then Harper searched for Jack’s gaze.

No appreciation. Not even kindness. His mouth pinched, and he glanced away as she took his arm. His stiff, unmoving arm.

The arm of a man who wanted to ghost her.

He didn’t spare her a look as they stepped up to the sanctuary door.

Inside, sprays of blue and white roses hung along the carved wooden pews. And at the front, an organist played “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”

But in the back, a frost settled over her.

Megan nodded, and Jack stepped out, stiff, a soldier doing his duty.

Harper pinned her eyes to the front, glancing once at Oaken, dressed in a tuxedo, his face stalwart, as if trying not to weep.

Her too.

She looked away and spotted Penelope, all grins, having walked down with Conrad. And next to her, London, now taking her place on the stage, her smile aglow.

They reached the bottom on the stage and Jack simply dropped his arm. He held out his hand to help her up the steps, but she ignored it. Managed on her own, then took her place beside London. Somehow managed not to cry as Austen came down on the arm of Steinbeck, her brother. Then the congregation rose for Boo and, aw , now she had cover.

So many tears. At least she didn’t blubber as Boo came down the aisle, glowing, and took Oaken’s hand.

Beautiful. From the vows, with Boo’s romantic quote, to Oaken’s song, written just for her. A man, a guitar, and eyes only for his bride.

And then the pastor pronounced them married.

They walked back up the aisle to cheering, and the bridesmaids followed on the arms of the groomsmen, and if she’d thought Jack was chilly on the way down the aisle, she practically caught frostbite during the recessional. He couldn’t get rid of her fast enough when they reached the vestibule.

He walked over to Boo, gave her a hug, along with Oaken, and stepped away, a strange expression on his face.

Whatever. She didn’t care.

She hugged Boo. “Congratulations.”

“I’m so glad it’s over.”

“Oh, it’s just beginning,” Oaken said beside her.

Harper forced a laugh, hugged him too, and then joined Austen, who’d already done the honors.

“Now what?”

“Now we have pictures at the house,” Boo said. “And then the reception.”

And then Harper could get into her Sonic and floor it back to her life in Nashville.

“There’s a couple limos outside to take the wedding party to the house,” Austen said. “Megan said that she’d bring our makeup and clothing bags.”

Boo and Oaken stood at the doors, greeting guests as they came out. Sure, Harper should probably stick around and play bridesmaid—and sure, she was overjoyed for Boo and Oaken—but at this point, she was over it. The sooner she could escape, the better.

Maybe she’d spend the night on her mother’s sofa.

Harper followed Austen outside and found a limousine waiting for them, warming. Conrad helped Penelope inside, then held out his hand for Austen, who followed Penelope in.

He held out his hand to Harper. She took it.

“Great blog today,” he said as she gathered up her dress.

“What?”

“On the PopMuse site. I have to admit, I didn’t see that coming. Very . . . informative.”

She just frowned at him. “What blog?”

He raised an eyebrow, then fished his phone from his pocket. Unlocked it and handed it to her.

She climbed in and settled next to Austen in the plush seats, then looked at the phone.

No. Oh no . . . What?

Conrad got in and shut the door.

“Where’s Jack?” asked Austen. “And Stein?”

“They’re driving Dad’s truck back to the house. Mom and Dad are driving with Oaken’s parents.”

But Harper couldn’t take her gaze from the blog—no, her novel .

Jack turns toward me, his expression hesitant yet filled with a longing that echoes my own. He leans in slowly, his lips meeting mine with a tenderness that sends shivers down my spine. The touch is a whisper, cautious and exploring. Yet as I respond, something shifts. The kiss deepens, fueled by my eager reply.

The PopMuse editor had written an introduction. Harper wanted to cover the phone as she read it.

Welcome to the juiciest slice of today’s wedding insider—where the bride and groom aren’t the only ones trying to stay warm in snowy Minnesota. Stay tuned as we dish out more from this wedding’s exclusive “Private Moments with Bront? and Oaken” series.

Private moments? Oh no?—

Don’t say we didn’t warn you—it’s getting hot in Minnesota!

Not hot. Not. Hot.

Harper looked up at Conrad, who was watching her. He nodded to her silent question and she handed back the phone.

Just stop thinking. Breathe. Enjoy.

Hide.