Something stirred inside me. Wild. Reckless. Dangerous.
“Wait.” I grabbed his sleeve, stopping him just outside the tent.
Guests trickled past, casting glances our way. Wrong place, wrong time, but I slid my fingers into the hair at the nape of Asher’s neck.
Then I kissed him.
He gasped, lips parting—soft, inviting.
I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath since August. But pressed to him now, kissing him like we were starving, it felt like breathing again. Like living. His tongue brushed mine, and I followed, tasting him the way I had a hundred times before. Only now, there would be no next kiss.
“What the fuck are you doing to me?” he murmured against my mouth, fisting my curls, his lips swollen and wet, an inch from mine.
“Getting my goodbye kiss.”
He shut his eyes, leaning his forehead to mine. When he opened them, they glistened. A tear slid down his cheek, and I brushed it away with my thumb. “Ash, don’t.”
He caught my hand, pressed it hard to his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut like the feel of me burned.
White tulle drifted at the edge of my vision. Sharon’s laughter carried, followed by my father’s baritone.
Asher still clung to my hand. I eased free. “We should head in before they see us.”
He nodded. “Go, peque.”
“And you?”
“In a moment.”
I found our table and sat, still reeling from the kiss. Still breaking under the goodbye I wished I didn’t have to say.
But I couldn’t ask him to stay. He had no team here, and he needed one. He was the one who told me it would never work.
I rubbed the edge of the white tablecloth between my fingers. Silver-rimmed plates. Fresh flowers. Probably Sharon’s choices, maybe a wedding planner’s. Dad might’ve helped. The truth was, I hardly knew. I’d felt like a stranger in his life for years.
Guests settled in. Asher slid into the chair beside me. His cheeks were dry, but his eyes stayed rimmed red.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded as Dad and Sharon entered to applause. He didn’t look at them. His gaze stayed fixed on the empty plate before him.
“I’ll need to leave soon,” he whispered as Dad raised a champagne flute. “But first, thank you. For the letter. For the kiss. And”—his throat bobbed—“for just being you. The kindest, smartest, most beautiful girl I know. You should study that degree you picked, peque.”
Tears roughened my voice. “I will.”
“Good. I’m so fucking proud of you. Don’t ever forget that. And I’m sorry for what I’m about to do, but I need it.”
Fear gripped me. “Ash?”
He pushed to his feet. Dad froze mid-sentence, flute suspended. Heads turned. Murmurs rippled through the tent like a current.
“Yes, Asher?” my father said, his tone sharp, warning.
Asher gestured to a server carrying a tray of champagne. The man hesitated, eyes flicking to Dad before stopping beside us. Asher plucked a glass and raised it.
“Thank you. I’d like to make a toast.”
I held my breath. What the hell was he doing?
