Filling the Spaces
No Pete
Going to a Wedding
Accidentally a Couple
Part One
—-OOOOOOO—-
Thinking about it (now that it's done), I may have misunderstood the whole "No Pete" space. My brain immediately flew to a period of time in the series when Pete had, indeed, left the building.
But now that I'm more than 10,000 words into this chapter of the series, I'm thinking the trope actually meant "Pete Never Entered the Picture". Oops.
Welp. Sorry, folks. Since this was literally the first plot that I hammered out when I saw the Bingo Board, this is what you're going to get.
(If it helps—I promise there's a happy ending in Part 2.)
—-OOOOOOO—-
"You're really going to do this?"
He hadn't shouted. Not even close. His voice was a lesson in calm—controlled and precise. Serene, even, his expression as blank as fresh paper. The only evidence of any emotion at all was the single vein throbbing in the side of his neck.
And the hurt look he'd quickly hidden when she'd pulled away from him. When she'd fled.
Even now, she was breathing hard—quick inhales and exhales while her heart beat so furiously that it felt as if it were trying to escape. But she couldn't look at him. Not now. Not with his shirt unbuttoned, untucked, and wrinkled. Not with her hair mussed, her core heated and wanting, and her bra closure hanging on by a single hook. Not with the taste of him still on her lips, the feel of his hands still heavy on her body. "I don't know what else to do, Sir."
"Sir." His eyes narrowed—almost imperceptibly—as he pulled his gaze off her to search the sky—or the tops of the trees—or the universe itself—for answers. Finally, he turned, taking a few steps towards the edge of the porch, touching the log support with his fingertips as he found her again. "So we're back to that."
Sam weighed the keys in her hand, felt the sharp points of the metal pieces as she closed her fist around them. Welcomed the pain when she tightened her fist, gouging the sharp jagged edges into her skin. Welcomed feeling anything past the panic that still raged within her, coursing through her like a pyroclastic flow—hot, and searing, and destructive. "I don't know what else to do."
"You do know, Sam. You know exactly what to do." Still so controlled. Not even a wobble in that tone. His jaw worked once—twice, his lips thinning further as he looked down at where she stood just on the other side of her car. "You're just too scared to do it."
There was no point in denying the point. It was true. She was a coward.
Yanking the door of the Volvo open, she tossed her duffel bag into the passenger seat. She'd only taken a minute or two to grab a few handfuls of her things, heedless of what she was abandoning at the cabin. After all, she was used to traveling light—to leaving items—leaving people—behind. She'd survive.
And ridiculously, she knew that she was kidding herself.
She'd been given the smallest room, which also happened to be the master. The guys had slept in the secondary, larger, bedroom, while Teal'c had staked his claim on the pullout sofa in the great room. This was supposed to have been a few days of team fun at the cabin. A few days meant to serve as a transition of sorts.
That had certainly been the intention. Three days with Daniel and Teal'c as a buffer. Three days of playful banter and barely-hidden innuendo. Three days of lingering looks and extended touches. Accidental bumps of hip or thigh, his hand at her waist as he passed her in the kitchen, her fingers on his as she learned to tie a lure. His voice calling her 'Sam', with no 'Sirs' in sight.
Things had been sweet. Flirtatious. Easy.
Until they weren't.
Until the dust had settled behind Teal'c's SUV, and Sam and Jack had been left alone amidst acres of forest. And all of a sudden all that playfulness had found its purpose. They'd cooked together—sharing a spoon to taste the sauce. Clean-up had been quietly anticipatory—warm water and domestic ease. Casual talk about nothing and everything. She'd noticed marinara on her blouse and headed to her room to change.
She'd looked up to find him in the doorway of that small room, reached for him. Beckoned. He'd touched her gently, kissed her, smiled as she'd moaned against his lips—then taken her mouth more thoroughly. Touched—tasted—her face, and throat, and shoulder. He'd swallowed a sigh as she'd explored the planes of his chest—abdomen—smiling at her as her fingers had stilled on the button of his jeans—
"Damn it, Sam." For the first time since she'd panicked, his voice faltered. Cracked as he edged even closer to the porch steps. So close to chasing her. "Just talk to me."
"I'm sorry, Sir." She was breaking. Shattering. Throwing everything to hell. And the worst part was that she knew it, but couldn't figure out how to stop herself from doing it all the same. "I'm sorry."
"Sam—"
"I'm so sorry."
She hadn't cried until she'd hit the interstate.
—-OOOOOOO—-
Organza.
Why was it always organza?
Sam looked down at the dress she'd been given. Peach satin layered with organza, ruched at the bodice before cascading downward into a frothy floaty skirt that danced around her calves. Wide straps skimmed over her shoulders, criss-crossing her bare back until they reconnected to the bodice just above her waist. The dress was tight at the waist, saggy around her boobs, several inches too short, and the straps were staying up due to a combination of determination and prayer—all attesting to the fact that the gown hadn't actually been intended for her.
Of course, Sam hadn't intended on being a bridesmaid at this wedding.
Originally, she'd intended on being the bride.
"Are you sure you're okay with this?"
Sam looked over her shoulder to see Chloe standing just behind her. She looked beautiful—resplendent, really—in simple white silk with touches of French re-embroidered lace on the sleeves and train. Her hair had been curled and caught up in a half-up-do, ready for the short veil to be added at the last moment. How she'd nailed her own gown so perfectly while going so far afield with the bridesmaids' dresses was, indeed, a mystery.
Apparently the old adage about the bride not wanting to be overshadowed by her attendants carried some truth to it. Janet had once declared that bridesmaids were supposed to be 'purposefully ugly'. Janet had always been right about that kind of thing.
"I'm fine, Chloe." Sam drummed up a smile. "I'm happy to help."
"It's just that my stupid little sister managed to get herself arrested again. I'd just say to heck with it and have fewer bridesmaids, but then one of Jay's groomsmen would be walking down the aisle by himself, and that would look totally lame." Chloe sighed. "Besides. They've all flown in from out of town—except for Simon, of course—and I'd feel bad if one of them didn't get to participate because my stupid little sister can't stop stealing stuff from the CVS."
"It's okay." Smoothing down the poofy skirt, she cast a glance over towards where the other bridesmaids were gathered around the vanity mirror in the bride's room. They were primping. Sam didn't know how to primp. She'd touched up her lipgloss and made an attempt with mascara, and called herself done. That's why she was over here looking out the window and not still futzing with her face at the mirror. "Really. I don't mind."
"I just know that this has to be all kinds of awkward for you. I don't want it to be too weird or anything." Chloe stepped closer, her eyes growing wider. "But when I saw you earlier in the hotel lobby, I figured that there was no harm in asking."
This time, Sam's smile was real. She honestly liked both Chloe and Jay—and was happy for them. Not to mention grateful for the tiny bit of what—providence? Luck? Favorable planetary alignment?—that had brought this entire situation about.
She'd called off the wedding on the wrong side of the grace period for the contracts they'd signed. Pete had balked at taking the loss—and Sam had been too exhausted to fight about it. She'd already been fighting through the process of settling her father's estate, fighting with the new posting at Groom Lake, and dealing with an R & D team that really didn't want her. Struggling to find housing in Nevada—trying to decide what to do with her little house in the Springs. Fighting through her grief for her father.
And grief for him.
Don't think about him, Sam. Not here. Not now. Let him go.
It had been her mantra for the past seven weeks. Ever since she'd last seen him in her rearview mirror, leaning against the support pillar of his cabin porch, watching as she'd driven away. She could still see the expression on his face as he'd asked her to stay. Such bleak vulnerability, such honesty, mixed with his anger.
Even now, she needed to allow her eyes to drift closed and force his image from her mind. If only it were as easy to get him out of her heart.
She'd returned from the fiasco in Minnesota to find several terse messages from Pete on her machine. Her engagement to Jonas Hanson had never gotten this far—she'd returned his ring before the wedding had even been scheduled. So, she wasn't anticipating this part of the break up. The business of it. Haggling over returning the rings, sending back the engagement gifts, and adding up the receipts already paid out for the wedding that wouldn't happen had been chores that Sam really hadn't been prepared to do on top of everything else.
Insult to injury, or something.
Just as Sam had numbly agreed to eat the non-refundable deposits for the catering, photographer, florist, and venue. Chloe had announced that she and Felger were engaged. A few well-placed hints later, and voila! Jay and Chloe had decided they were only too glad to take Sam's wedding and make it their own.
See? Providence. Favorable planetary alignment. Luck.
Only—they hadn't really done much in the 'make it their own' department. The event looked exactly as Pete and Deborah had planned it—from the flower-covered arch at the front of the smaller of the two tent-like structures they'd reserved right down to the three-tiered cake behemoth with alternating layers of vanilla and chocolate waiting on the dessert table in the reception area.
There were a few differences—the rose-colored linens and chair hoods had been changed out for a light shade of peach, the centerpieces—flowers arranged around tall, thin candles—now sported white ribbons rather than green. A large table had been added at the reception tent entrance for the guest book and for gifts. Deborah hadn't wanted anything so gauche as an obvious spot for such things. She'd had the drop-off point placed deeper into the structure, near the bar.
Sam hadn't minded being married by the priest Pete and Deborah had chosen, but she hadn't felt comfortable with the church aspect of the whole thing. Something about standing before God in His own house and making vows hadn't felt right—not when Sam had spent the better part of the last decade hunting down and dispensing with various and sundry other deities. The fact that they'd all been false gods somehow seemed irrelevant. Birds of a feather and all that.
Not that she'd been able to explain any of her reservations. Not to people who couldn't possibly understand them. But Pete was a good guy, when all was said and done. He'd inferred what Sam hadn't been able to iterate, and he'd gone to bat for her with his mother.
So, they had compromised on that part of things. A fact that had worked out well, since Felger and Chloe had engaged both a rabbi and a pastor to perform their ceremony, and added a chuppah to the bower.
It was beautiful. Really—it was. And despite knowing that the choice she'd made in ending her engagement had been the right one, she still felt a twinge of something indefinable standing here on the outside of her wedding and not being the bride.
So—weird? Hell, yes. Still, she reached out towards her friend and squeezed her hand. "I'm really okay, Chloe."
Chloe's keen green eyes made quick work of Sam's expression. Finally, the little physicist nodded and stepped backwards, addressing the rest of the room. "Well, then, let's do this, ladies. Let's get me hitched."
—-OOOOOOO—-
They'd kept her quartet.
Well—not her quartet, really. Sam hadn't truly had an opinion about it. Pete's mother had been vehemently pro-quartet, Pete had wanted to please his mother, and Sam had simply not argued the point. Apparently, Chloe and Jay had sided with the Shanahans. The wafting strains of Vivaldi's Spring drifted lazily across the grass as the female contingent of the wedding line approached the smaller of the two canopies.
Sam was second in the line-up, situated between Chloe's non-felon older sister and her two best friends from college. As she tugged at her bodice for the umpteenth time, Sam felt a little envious of the other three bridesmaids—all of whom were wearing dresses tailored specifically for them. She was, however, intensely grateful that she was so much taller than the rest of the line—the other girls, having chosen to wear high heels, had to tiptoe their way across the lawn, while Sam could walk normally in her flats.
Rounding the outside of the larger tent, the party aimed towards the smaller canopy where the wedding was to take place. It was just past dusk—the sun already having dipped below the horizon. Still, Sam could make out Coombs, looking dapper in a tuxedo, chatting with two similarly-attired groomsmen. And just to their right, wearing his full service dress uniform, stood—
Oh, damn.
Him.
Damn, damn, damn, damn.
Sam stopped dead in her tracks, eliciting a startled gasp from the bridesmaid just behind her. Muttering an apology, Sam stepped to one side and let the other ladies pass. It was at that moment that the General looked up, instantly finding her within the approaching group. Even at this distance, Sam could see him frown, could see his jaw tighten. His eyes were dark beneath his lowered brows, his lips thin. He seemed as surprised as she was.
Cursing beneath her breath, Sam futzed with the strap of her gown yet again—more out of nervousness than modesty.
Seven weeks. Seven weeks and all those damned mantras, and she still went weak looking at him. Still felt everything—all of it—deep in the pit of her soul.
"By the way, Sam. General O'Neill will be your escort. Jay practically pestered the man to death until he agreed to be in the line, bless him." Chloe adjusted the bouquet in her hands as she urged Sam to start walking again. "Originally, he was supposed to escort my friend Malia, but with my stupid little sister and all, well, I thought that he could do you, instead, since you two have history and all."
"Do me?"
Chloe caught the double entendre, crinkling her nose and giggling. "You know what I mean, silly."
Damn.
The quartet paused, and the crowd inside the venue turned expectantly in their seats. Coombs was already holding his arm out for Chloe's older sister, while the college girlfriends lined up with their groomsmen. They'd obviously practiced this at the rehearsal dinner night before last, before Sam had arrived in the Springs. Before she'd been sucked into this rapidly worsening debacle.
Without a word, the General moved to fill the empty spot in the line, raising a single brow as he looked at Sam. His expression was utterly implacable. Unreadable. Bland.
Gritting her teeth, Sam tightened her hand around the small bundle of flowers she held and slid into place next to him, instantly overwhelmed by his presence—by his smell, his heat. By him.
Damnity-damn damned freaking damned damn.
The quartet eased into the opening measures of Pachelbel's Canon in D, and the first couple started slowly down the aisle towards the arch, where the priest and the rabbi stood smiling.
After a few beats, the second couple moved forward down the aisle. And a few beats after that, the General held out his arm. Sam ducked her chin before placing her hand in the crook of his elbow. He felt warm, and solid, his arm strong beneath the heavy fabric of his uniform. And then they were walking. Easily—with the familiarity of two people who had moved together many, many times before.
"I didn't know you were going to be here, Sir." It was probably against the rules to talk during the processional, but Sam couldn't help it. "I had no idea you were in this wedding."
"I was going to be here anyway, for some transitional meetings with Landry." As if that explained everything. "Besides. It's Felger. Saying no would have been like kicking a puppy."
Sam cast a long sideways look at O'Neill. "That was really nice of you, Sir."
"So, we're still sticking with the 'Sir', are we?" This, he'd whispered. Low, close to her ear, his voice deep and soft.
"I guess."
"Just so we're clear." His arm tensed beneath her fingertips as he cast her another sidelong glance. Longer, this time, more deliberate.
They reached the end of the aisle, and Sam pulled her hand off O'Neill's arm as she moved to the bride's side of the platform. Turning, she angled her body in the same direction as the other attendants, watching out of the corner of her eye as the General did the same on the opposite side.
And already, she wanted to touch him again.
Damn.
—-OOOOOOO—-
Sam couldn't concentrate on the ceremony. Not with him standing just a few yards away. Not with him looking past—no, through—the other people in the wedding party and focusing in on her. She could feel him watching her. Knew every time he looked away, or blinked, or glanced into the audience. And she knew exactly when his eyes lit on her again. She could feel his attention on her—as if she were one of his objectives for recon—or his prey—and he'd made himself familiar with every aspect of her form, her existence. Every movement tracked and followed. Mental annotations made of each and every time she twitched, or shifted, or futzed with the blasted ill-fitting bodice of her dress.
She'd never felt so exposed, nor so seen.
It shamed her as much as it thrilled her.
And standing there, in this tent, with his entire focus on her, she finally understood how it had all happened. How she'd managed to convince herself that Pete Shanahan had been the answer to the questions she'd been too ashamed to even admit asking.
She'd thought about little else over the past two months—standing hunched over a microscope, or poised at a keyboard, or lying alone in her bed in her tiny apartment in Nevada. There were entire days where she'd spoken to—interacted with—no one else. Where she'd suddenly realized that she was hungry and then wondered whether she'd eaten that day, or the day before. Or she'd yawned and then couldn't remember the last time she'd actually slept. It had occurred to her more than once that nobody knew—or even cared—how long she'd spent in her lab. Not a single soul gave a damn whether she drove too fast, or drank enough water, or whether she'd had dinner before falling—wide awake—into bed.
She'd been living like this for years. At least when she'd still been part of SG-1, she'd had her team.
Even so, she'd been just that needy for more. Something more than brotherly kindness. Something more than Daniel and Teal'c could offer. Everything more than he'd been willing to give.
She'd needed him.
But he hadn't been available, right? He'd told her so, when he'd looked at Pete's ring and told her that he'd rather be anywhere other than with her.
So, she'd settled for something far, far less. She understood that, now. She'd had a lot of time to work all of that out. At least she'd gotten to the bottom of it before she'd actually donned the gown.
She'd lain in her unfamiliar bed in Nevada, staring up at her unfamiliar ceiling, thinking about him. About what she'd lost. It had been an anchor, of sorts. Something familiar in a shifting sea of the unknown. Weird that her greatest failure was the one thing that kept her tethered to reality
He was still out there. In Washington, or Virginia—or wherever he lived in the vicinity of the Pentagon. In that great 'anywhere' she envisioned whenever she thought of that day. That ring. Her question. His response.
She might not know where he lived these days.
Only that he'd taken up permanent residence in her head.
—-OOOOOOO—-
"So, anyway. Again—to our parents—we are truly grateful for everything that you've done for us. Chloe and I will strive to live up to your amazing examples."
Some idiot had given Felger a microphone. At the best of times, the man was chatty. At the worst of times—a few glasses of wine into his own wedding reception and running high on adrenaline—he was positively loquacious. Sam wasn't wearing a watch, but she'd peeked the last time that the General had checked his, and they were well past the half-hour mark.
And he clearly wasn't done.
Sam wriggled her toes against the vinyl flooring the event facilitators had laid down over the grass, grateful for the floor-length cloth on the table. She'd slipped her shoes off around twenty minutes before. Even though it was an early-summer mountain evening, the enormous crowd in the enclosed reception tent made the place seem stifling. She couldn't help but feel sorry for the General. He had to be roasting in his wool suit.
"Chloe and I would like to take this opportunity to thank some other very special people who are here with us tonight." Felger fumbled with the note cards in his hand, shuffling through them until he'd found the one he wanted. "Malia, Audrey, Desiree, Grant, and Henry—you've been our friends for ages, and you're still standing with us. Thank you for traveling here at such short notice to be in our line. We love all you guys. Frankie—who kit-bashed the custom original Aragorn and Arwen cake toppers for us. As Gandalf the Gray said, 'All we have to do is decide what to do with the time given us'. Chloe and I appreciate the time you spent on this fine work, my friend. Mandy—the groom's cake is epic. I can't believe how much it looks like The Eye of Sauron. Truly–it's a masterpiece and I can't wait to storm it when it's time for second breakfast."
O'Neill leaned in towards Sam, a smile playing around the corners of his lips. "Maybe he's like a wormhole."
It was the first time he'd spoken to her since the ceremony had ended. Since they'd followed the now-husband and wife back down the aisle and into the reception area. Since he'd pulled her chair out for her at the head table and then settled in beside her.
They were practically sitting on top of each other. The head table was just barely large enough for the entire wedding party—but with the addition of layers and layers of organza in the bridesmaids' dresses, space was at a premium. Even sitting ramrod straight in her chair—the only way she could keep her dress from falling off—Sam was close enough to Jack that their knees and elbows kept bumping.
"Sir?"
Stretching out his right arm, he rested it on the back of her chair, indicating his watch with a twist of his left wrist. "Maybe he automatically shuts off after thirty-eight minutes."
Stifling a snort, Sam wriggled backwards in her chair, the weight and movement of her body tugging her bodice back into place. Standing in the ill-fitting gown was doable. Gravity helped to keep the pertinent bits covered. Sitting was a whole different nightmare. The organza overskirts were so slick that Sam was constantly sliding forward in her chair. Any forward movement meant that the straps at her back went lax, causing the front to sag, which made the bands on her shoulders slide down her arms.
The damndest part of the whole situation was that the dress had a built-in bra. There was nothing underneath that but—well—Sam. A fact that made it even more imperative that she keep the dress in place. She wasn't in the mood to flash a bunch of strangers tonight.
This wasn't Mardi Gras and nobody was handing out any freaking beads.
Gingerly, making sure not to upset the fragile balance of her clothing, Sam tilted her head just enough to speak directly into O'Neill's ear. "At least the 'Gate has an iris. I'm pretty sure that there's nothing around here that's going to shut him up quite as efficiently."
The corner of the General's lips twitched. "You could probably engineer one that would fit his speaking orifice, right?"
"Maybe." She bit back a grin. "Given enough time and the right materials."
But she didn't have the materials, and the time just kept ticking away as Jay Felger just kept talking.
"Auntie Olive, we can't thank you enough for making the chuppah. I promise that we will take care of it forever to pass on to our future little Felgers. And to Simon Coombs, who introduced me to Chloe. Wow. My brother. My wingman. I promise that I will try to return the favor. Somewhere out there, there's a Janeway for your Chakotay. Ladies? He's single, and a heck of a catch. He'd love to find some sweet thing with whom to live long and prosper."
As a low rumble of laughter eased through the crowd, Sam glanced over at her escort. He was sitting back in his chair—incongruously military and masculine against the frou-frou chintz of the apricot covering on the backrest. He'd stretched his long legs out beneath the table, extending his arm across the back of her seat in a posture that could either seem casual or protective. She wasn't quite ready to speculate as to which.
Above all else—he was bored. Sam knew this with absolute certainty. She could feel his fingers thrumming against the top of her backrest. He always got fidgety when he was bored.
Or when he was brooding about something.
"It can't be harder than blowing up a sun, right?" He finally looked at her, meeting her gaze with his own. His eyes were softer than they'd been earlier. Less intense. It was as if they'd traveled back in time a year or so. Before things had gone so horribly wrong. "And you managed that just fine."
Sam let out a tiny smile. She'd missed this. Missed him. Missed the wealth of shared history that could be passed in just a single look, or a wry smile. Missed everything she'd lost when she'd walked away. When she'd gone chasing what would end up being a pipe dream. She tore her eyes from his, focusing down at where the peach froth of her skirt bunched up against the navy blue of his uniform. "I'm never going to live that down, am I?"
His fingers shifted on the back of her seat, and his thumb brushed against the sensitive skin of her arm, drawing her gaze back to his. "Would you want to?"
Sam frowned down at her lap, at her hands folded neatly on the peach froth of her skirt. She wasn't sure how to take that. Would she want to do what?
Blow up another sun? That opportunity wouldn't come again—especially now that she'd buried herself in an earth-bound lab. Anyway—it was a non-event, really, since the accomplishment only existed in the memories of those who lived it, and in a series of reports that would most likely never see the light of day.
Maybe he was referring to ending the constant ribbing she'd taken about that incident. She'd grown accustomed to that. Just as she'd gotten used to being expected to pull random bits of genius out of her ass whenever the situation warranted it.
Or was he asking about something else? About returning to the past? Before things had been done—choices had been made—that had changed everything else.
Would she want to do that? Go back in time? After all, she and the General were uniquely qualified to know that it was actually possible.
Still—even as her mind questioned itself, her body reacted to his touch, and she had to force herself not to lean into it—not to let loose the sigh that hovered at the back of her throat. Closing her eyes, she sought something—grounding? Sanity?—as her palms moved against the slick fabric on her lap.
When she opened them again, he was still watching her, the pad of his thumb making a warm arc on the back of her arm. His face was impossible to read—at once intense and impassive.
And still so damned compelling. Galvanizing. Provocative.
Apparently, Felger thought so, too. "And finally, we'd like to thank two people who have been literal lifesavers for Chloe and me. Who have taught us grace under pressure, and who have shown us what it means to truly work as a team." Felger turned back towards the table, indicating Jack and Sam with a wave of his notecards. "General Jack O'Neill and Colonel Samantha Carter—our heroes. Two of the most gifted, brave, strong, intelligent, stalwart, and self-sacrificing individuals I've ever known. These two have put honor and duty before all else time and time again. And I'm not just saying that because the General used to sign my paycheck."
The whole room seemed to shift its attention from Felger to where she sat next to O'Neill. Dozens—no—hundreds of eyes narrowing in on her—and him—them. Oh, lord. Sam ducked her chin towards her chest, sagging down in her chair—then instantly regretting it when the movement sent the straps of her dress sliding down her arms. As the wedding guests laughed good-naturedly at the groom's joke, Sam grabbed at the front of her dress in a desperate attempt to prevent it from falling down completely. Groaning, she used her free hand to pull the fabric back up over her left shoulder, but didn't trust the top to stay in place long enough for her to fix the strap on her right arm.
Cursing under her breath, Sam instantly bolted back upright, fumbling with the slippery fabric as she yanked and tugged.
And of course, he'd noticed her dilemma. With a nod and a smile towards the audience, he wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulders, hooking the errant band of fabric on her right arm with his fingertips and shoving it back into its proper position. Pulling her in towards him, he tucked her body into himself, effectively anchoring the other strap in place so that Sam could shift things around enough to fix the front.
Oblivious, Felger waved those damned notecards in their direction again. "Awww. Would you look at them? They're a powerhouse power couple, wouldn't you say? Maybe we can arrange things so that Doctor Colonel Carter catches the bouquet tonight. You know what I mean? What do you say, Chloe? But until then—hey! Let's give a hand to everyone who helped out with tonight's festivities. A big round of applause, people!"
A smattering of clapping filled the air, after which Jay finally landed the blasted plane. "So—the food is going to be served shortly, and then we'll get this party started!"
On cue, the DJ dimmed the lights and a love ballad started blaring through the speakers as members of the wait staff hauled out serving carts filled with covered dishes. The crew worked quickly, placing the plates with almost military precision.
Beside her, the General relaxed slightly, watching as she threw her shoulders back in an effort to keep things in place. His dark eyes made quick work of how the whole system worked before lowering his hand to grasp both straps where they crossed just below her shoulder blades. "Better?"
Inwardly, Sam groaned. She was blushing—pink washing up her throat and into her cheeks—which only added to her frustration. "It's just this damned dress."
"It's not cooperating?"
"It doesn't fit." She looked over at him, scowling. "I wasn't supposed to be a bridesmaid. Chloe asked me at the last minute when her sister was detained."
"She missed her flight?"
Despite the situation, Sam grinned. "No—actually detained. By law enforcement."
Jack's eyebrows rose. "Arrested?"
She cast him a sidelong glance before responding. "Apparently, Chloe's youngest sister is a bit of a kleptomaniac."
"No kidding?"
"No kidding." Sam shrugged—which was a mistake, because it just sent the left strap sliding back down her arm. Dragging it back up to her shoulder, she continued. "Anyway, she's in jail awaiting arraignment, and I got roped into being a bridesmaid."
"So, you're wearing her dress—which is why it doesn't fit."
"I arrived in the Spring late yesterday afternoon. I'd just walked into the lobby here when I saw Chloe. She was frantic, and I asked what I could do to help."
"That was your first mistake." That elusive dimple creased his cheek as he eased into a smile. "You kind of walked into that one."
"I know." Another sigh. That seemed to be her norm these days. Reaching out, she touched the stems of the flowers she'd been holding through the ceremony. Cabbage roses, with some thick green leaves mixed in and tied with a ribbon. Pete and Deborah had debated about the color for more than an hour before they'd finally decided on white. Chloe and Jay must have simply added the groomsmen's boutonnieres and the bridesmaids' bouquets onto the original order because no such preparations had been made for the Shanahan–Carter wedding. Sam had flatly refused to have a line of any sort. That part had not been up for compromise.
O'Neill tugged at the back of her dress to get her attention. "Are you hungry?"
"Not really."
"I've got to get some air." With a quick move of his feet, he scooted his chair backwards, careful not to disrupt the tenuous balance of her bodice. Rising, he hesitated for the scarcest of moments before turning towards her. He extended his free hand—palm up— towards her with a tilt of a single brow. "Join me?"
She shouldn't. She should stay here, in this seat, fighting with the damned dress she was wearing and eating whatever it was that Chloe's sister had requested for her entree. She should fight against whatever it was inside her that wanted to follow this man out of this tent—away from this weird, freakish, hellacious situation. She should say no. She should remember that this—that he—wasn't what she could have anymore.
She'd already burned that bridge, hadn't she?
And yet here he was, with his invitation. His hand literally outstretched. And his expression—unreadable. Obscure. Deliberately so, most likely. Whether it was by artifice or for self-preservation she couldn't possibly say.
"Sir." She couldn't help it, couldn't stop herself from looking up at him, at how his dark eyes were fixed on her. "I—"
"Just come with me, Carter." His fingers moved—almost imperceptibly—his eyes softening as he asked again. "Please?"
To be continued. . .