It had taken me a minute to recover, to flip on my charm and woo Madison after my outburst, which wasn’t so much an outburst as it was a tremor. I just hated for anyone to have seen it. And I hated that Kash had irritated me by butting in even if he was right and had been trying to help me out. Which made me feel like an asshole, thus making me feel wrong.

I hated being wrong too.

But by the time Madison and I said goodbye at the elevator—let’s be honest, sweet Charlie wasn’t saying anything—she pressed her cheek to mine, her eyes fond and pleased. She was sold on the venue, and the deposit check was in my possession.

As I walked back to the chapel, I smoothed my dress, then my hair, then my dress again, pulling open the door with my spine straight as an arrow to face Kash.

He sat on the steps to the dais, dark head angled to the notebook in his lap and face narrow with concentration. Long legs were spread at the knee, ankles hooked, his hand so big as it scribbled, the pencil looked comical.

God, he was massive, a brute made of muscle and sinew. He belonged to the earth he tilled, cut from stone, hair black as a raven, eyes blue as the sea. Beautiful in the rugged, wild way, unpolished and unrefined and unquestionably right just the way he was.

In that tailored shirt and slacks, he looked like an uncut gem in a glass case—confined and incongruent, as if he’d somehow been bridled. Of course, he also looked utterly brilliant, the shirt tight enough to see the rolling cords of muscles comprising his biceps down to the smattering of dark hair on his forearms, fluttering as he drew.

I made it all the way up the aisle to stop in front of him, but still, he didn’t look up. He knew I was there, and he didn’t look up, and for some reason, I wanted to kick him in the shin just to get his attention.

“One sec,” he muttered, hand moving.

I leaned in to peek at the page where he’d sketched the arbor, just as I’d described—a perfect triangle on a frame, touched with greenery and roses. Under it, he’d drawn a couple, the man square-shouldered and the woman wasp-waisted, gazing at each other, hands clasped. The proportion was just as I’d envisioned, the sprays of florals right where I’d have put them, had I drawn it. Which I couldn’t have.

He’d heard every word I’d said, stored it all in his dumb puppy brain, and drew it up with the ease of a long-practiced artist.

“There,” he said, finishing the lacy hem of her veil. “That look about right?”