The wedding was seven days away.
Emma woke to sunlight streaming through the penthouse windows, the city glittering below, Nick's arm draped across her waist. She lay still for a moment, listening to him breathe, watching the dust motes dance in the air.
Seven days.
Her heart pounded.
Nick's eyes opened. "You're thinking too loud."
"I'm not thinking."
"You're always thinking." He pulled her closer. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong."
"Emma."
She turned to face him. The scar on his jaw. The sleep in his eyes. The man she was going to marry.
"What if something goes wrong?" she whispered.
"Like what?"
"Like the flowers don't arrive. Like it rains. Like I trip walking down the aisle."
Nick smiled. "Then we buy new flowers. We buy umbrellas. You trip and I catch you."
Emma's throat
