Scraps of white fluff trailed across the bare dome of the sky, a lacy lingerie more tease than cover. The air was damp and fragrant; the grass was just damp. It had rained yesterday. Rain was forecast for tomorrow. But it was not raining this morning. Cullen regarded it all — wet grass, sweet-smelling air, blue sky — with exhilarated wonder. “No r ain,” he pointed out to his best man. " They were predicting rain, you know.” “True,” Rule said. “It ha s remained true every time you've mentioned it.” So he was repeating himself. So what? He was getting married. A man could be foolish on his wedding day — was intended to be foolish, perhaps, on this one day, when past and future hinged on a moment that was nearly here. Nearly now. Nearly, dammit. Cullen was not good at waiting. “I should have gone. When she called--” “You think Cynna and Lily can’ t handle a flat tire?” “They shouldn’t have to, dammit! Not today.” “Which is why they took a taxi the rest of the way.
