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Classy.

Yeah, I’m a fan.

“Love the shoes,” I tell her. “But that dress was made for you.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” She glances down and back up, her lips curving. “And I couldn’t agree more about yours. On both accounts.” Before I can reply, she glances over my shoulder. “What are the boys doing with the flowers?”

I wince. “There was a slight issue with the florist. The guys are fixing it.”

Her eyes come to mine, brows lifting in a way that tells me she may be sweet and soft, but that spine of hers is made of iron.

“The florist is shit,” I admit. “We’ve finished fixing the other arrangements. The pots are the last thing.”

A nod.

Then she looks to Hugo, who’s speaking with Ace. “Honey,” she call, interrupting their conversation without compunction. “We need to go help the boys finish fixing up those flowers.”

Hugo face softens, making my heart tremble again, then he shakes Ace’s hand and immediately heads toward Beck and the others.

“Evelyn,” I begin. “You don’t have⁠—”

“We’re late,” she says, “and even though the ceremony isn’t underway, the least I can do is give the girl some pretty flowers before it starts.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

Not that she’s waiting for an answer. She’s already marching over to the boys, Hugo trailing. She talks to them for about ten seconds, nods, and starts in on a different pot.

“Billionaires arranging flowers at my brother’s wedding,” Ace says quietly. “Couldn’t have predicted that one.”

I shake my head then laugh. “Yeah, I couldn’t have called that one either.”

“Fuck, but you’re beautiful when you laugh.”

I still, my eyes immediately stinging, my body instinctively drifting toward his. “Ace,” I whisper.

His head drops, and his lips are right there.

“Steve!” I hear Joan cry. “Language!”

Ace curses softly then brushes his lips over mine, glancing over to where the noise is coming from.

Steve and Joan are nose-to-nose.

Then because of the weight I know he carries on his shoulders, the quiet pain he shared while holding me close in his childhood bed, and even though it’s not the right time, even though we need to finish with the flowers and someone needs to referee Steve and Joan and deal with who knows what other Crises have popped up while we’ve been standing here, I say, “Hugo likes you.”

His expression gentles.

The man knows exactly what I’m doing.

And he’s not shy about showing he appreciates it.

“Hugo’s a good guy.” He touches my cheek. “And lucky for me, he’s got a soft spot.”

“What’s the soft spot?”

A jerk of his chin and I follow his stare.

“Ah,” I say.