Of course it was enough. It was just nerves unsettling her. That was all. Last-minute nerves. Nick was—fine.
Fine? Like safe, steady, reliable, predictable—that kind of fine? No chemistry, no fireworks? And whatever happened to amazing?
She tuned the voice out. There were more important things than amazing. Trust, fidelity, respect—and chemistry was overrated—
How do you know that? You don’t know that. You haven’t got a clue, you’ve never felt it. And if you marry Nick, you never will...
She stifled the voice again, stuffing it firmly back in its box; then, easing her death grip on the bouquet, she straightened her shoulders, tilted up her chin and gave Leo her most convincing and dazzling smile.
‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m ready.’
* * *
Leo felt his breath catch at that smile.
When had she grown up? Turned into this stunningly lovely woman, instead of the slightly chubby, relentlessly accident-prone girl who’d dogged his footsteps for ever? He’d turned his back for what felt like five minutes, and she’d been transformed.
More like five years, though, give or take, and a lot of water under the bridge for both of them. Far too much, in his case, and so much of it tainted by regret.
He cradled her pale cheek in his hand, and felt her quiver. She was nervous. Of course she was. Who wouldn’t be, on their wedding day? It was a hell of a commitment. Literally, in his case.
‘You look beautiful, Amy,’ he said gruffly, looking down into the wide grey eyes of this lovely young woman he’d known so well but now hardly knew at all. ‘He’s a lucky man.’
‘Thank you.’
Her eyes searched his, a flicker of uncertainty in them echoing the tiny tremor in her cheek, the smile on her lush, pink lips a little hesitant now, and he felt himself frown.
Second thoughts? About time. There was nothing wrong with the man she was marrying, from what little he’d seen of him—in fact, he’d liked him, a lot—but they just didn’t seem right for each other.
There was no chemistry between them, no zing that he could see. Maybe she didn’t want that? Maybe she just wanted safe and comfortable? And maybe that was a really, really good idea.
Or maybe not, not for Amy...
He hesitated another second, then took her hand in his, his thumb slowly stroking the back of it in a subconscious gesture of comfort. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly in his, reinforcing his concern. He squeezed them gently.
‘Amy, I’m going to ask you something. It’s only what your father would have done, so please don’t take it the wrong way, but—are you sure you want to do this? Because if not, you can still turn around and walk away. It’s your life, no one else’s, and nobody else can decide this for you.’
His voice dropped, his frown deepening as he struggled to get the importance of this across to her before it was too late. If only someone had done this for him...
‘Don’t do it unless it’s right, Amy, unless you really, truly love him. Take it from me, marrying the wrong person for the wrong reasons is a recipe for disaster. You have to be absolutely, completely and utterly sure that it’s the right thing to do and for the right reasons.’
A shadow flitted across her eyes, her fingers tightening on his, and after an infinitesimal pause that seemed to last an eternity, she nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, of course I’m sure.’
But she didn’t look sure, and he certainly wasn’t, but it was nothing to do with him, was it? Not his decision to make. And the shadows in her eyes could just as easily be sadness because her much-loved father wasn’t here to give her away. Nothing to do with her choice of groom...
Not your business who she chooses to love. God knows, you’re no expert. And he could be a lot, lot worse.
He hauled in a breath.
‘OK. Ready to go, then?’
She nodded, but he saw her swallow again, and for a moment he wondered if she’d changed her mind.
And then she straightened up and took a breath, hooked her hand through his arm and flashed a smile over her shoulder at her bridesmaids. ‘OK, girls? Good to go?’
They both nodded, and he felt her hand tighten on his arm.
‘OK, then. Let’s do this.’ Her eyes flicked up and met Leo’s, her fake smile pinned in place by sheer determination, but it didn’t waver and anybody else might have been convinced.
Not your business. He nodded to the usher, who nodded to the organist, and after a moment’s silence, broken only by the shuffling of the congregation getting to their feet and the clearing of a few throats, the evocative strains of Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major filled the church.
He laid his hand over hers, squeezed her fingers and felt them grip his. He glanced down, into those liquid grey eyes that seemed flooded with doubt despite the brave smile, and his gut clenched.
He’d known her for ever, rescued her from a million scrapes, both literal and otherwise; dammit, she was his best friend, or had been before the craziness that was his life had got in the way, and he couldn’t bear to see her make the mistake of her life.
Don’t do it, Amy. Please, don’t do it!
‘It’s still not too late,’ he said gruffly, his voice muted, his head tilted towards her so only she could hear.
‘Yes, it is,’ she said, so softly he barely heard her, then she dredged up that expected smile again and took the first step forward.
Damn.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and slowly, steadily, walked her down the aisle.
* * *
With every step, her legs felt heavier and more reluctant, her heart pounding, the sense of unease settling closer around her, chilling her to the bone.
What are you doing?
Nick was there, watching her thoughtfully. Warily?
It’s still not too late.
She felt Leo ease his arm out from under her hand and step away, and she felt—abandoned?
It was her wedding day. She should feel a sense of joy, of completeness, of utter, bone-deep rightness—but she didn’t.
Not at all.
And, as she glanced up at Nick, she realised that neither did he. Either that, or he was paralysed by nerves, which was unlikely. He wasn’t remotely the nervous type.
He took her hand briefly, squeezed it in reassurance, but it felt wrong. So wrong...
She eased it away, using the excuse of handing her bouquet to the waiting bridesmaid, and then the vicar spoke, everyone started to sing ‘Jerusalem’, and she felt her mouth move automatically while her mind whirled. Her mind, this time, not the voice in her head giving her grief, or a moment of panic, stage fright, last-minute nerves or whatever. This time it was really her, finally asking all the questions Leo’s ‘Are you ready?’ had prompted.
What are we doing? And why? Who for?
The last echoes of the hymn filtered away, and the vicar did the just cause or impediment bit. Was there a just cause? Was not loving him enough sufficient? And then she saw the vicar’s lips move as he began to speak the words of the marriage service, drowned out by her thudding heart and the whirlwind in her head.
Until he said, ‘Who gives this woman to be married to this man?’ and Leo stepped forward, took her hand with a tiny, barely perceptible squeeze, and gave it—gave her—to