Why was everyone’s best advice to say sorry? I mean, sure, I could say it a million times, but Cassie was hardheaded. It would take a lot more than a couple of sorries to get back into her good graces—if ever.
I looked up ahead slowly, not wanting her to catch me staring. Cassie was leaning into Grant Rockwell, one of Colt’s good friends from high school. I didn’t remember much about him other than his family had a lot of money. His great-granddaddy had gotten lucky and struck oil on their family farm back in the early 1900s. That basically set his family up for life. He was a nice guy, sure, but not the guy for her.
I was the guy for Cassie, and I was stubborn enough to admit that watching some other man give her attention was pissing me off.
I squinted at Rockwell, hoping he’d look over and catch my drift.
He didn’t.
He just kept talking to Cassie about stocks and oil prices and other dumb shit she probably didn’t care about. She cared about her coffee shop and finding Fleetwood Mac albums.
The longer I had to watch him talk to her, wishing that was me, the deeper I sank into my own misery.
Chapter 16 – Cassie
Grant was going on about stock exchanges and something about oil prices I didn’t really understand, but I would sit and listen to him talk for hours if it meant I got to watch Jace stare at him as if he’d just asked me to marry him.
Grant was not my type, but Jace had jealousy written all over his face, and I was loving every second of it.
Choosing not to take the high road, I used Grant’s chattiness to my advantage. The more he talked, the more I leaned into him, our shoulders touching, my laugh getting just loud enough for Jace to pick it up.
If looks could kill, Grant would be dead, but Jace would’ve been dead first from the look I gave him when he walked through doors of the venue earlier.
For Colt’s and Ellie’s sake, I was willing to play nice and walk down the aisle with Jace tomorrow, but today wasn’t tomorrow, so I had just under twenty-four hours to antagonize him as much as I saw fit. If he couldn’t take the heat, he could get the hell out of my kitchen—again.
As Grant continued talking, I leaned in, laughing and placing my hand on his lap. Jace definitely knew where my hand landed based on the angle of my arm.
Fire blazed behind Jace’s eyes. I smiled sweetly at him from across the table as if I had no idea what was upsetting him.
Take that, motherfucker.
“So Grant, tell me… What are you doing after this rehearsal dinner?” I asked, taking another sip of my red wine.
“Nothing really. I need to go home and catch up on some work,” he said.
“Have you ever been to the Twisted Spur?” I asked louder than I’d asked the first question.
“Just once when I first turned twenty-one. I don’t go out much. Work and home, work and home, ya know?”
“I actually do relate to that,” I whispered, remembering last weekend in Jace’s truck, when he told me I needed to take a break and make more time for myself. Back when I thought he actually cared about me. Back when I was coming around to the idea that he might be a good guy after all.
Some kind of wishful thinking that was.
Part of me wanted to invite Grant out after this rehearsal dinner—maybe go to the Twisted Spur, have a few drinks, say yes when Grant invited me back to his place—and use him to get over Jace.
But the other part was exhausted. I felt like I’d been riding an emotional roller coaster since last weekend—hesitation, happiness, vulnerability, and sexual tension on the climb to the top. Then came the drop—disappointment, hurt, and pain rushing at me full force. And now, the ride had screeched to a stop. I was sitting the closest I’d been to Jace since that day in my kitchen, the rush of the roller coaster over. It was time to get off and move on to the next ride, making a mental note to never get back on this one because it scared me too much.
I guess some lessons are harder to learn than others.
As the night continued, I went back and forth between flirting with Grant, peeking at Jace to make sure he was watching, and sipping my emotional-support glass of red wine.
I was on my fourth glass, maybe fifth—who was counting? My words were starting to get lost, and so were my emotions—exactly what I wanted. Who needed feelings? Most of them sucked anyway.
The dinner was coming to an end, people started to tell Ellie and Colt goodbye, a different couple leaving every few minutes. The sun had gone down long ago, and the stars were out, shining through the clear glass windows, giving the entire dinner a soft yellow glow. A picture-perfect night on the outside, yet nothing but turmoil for me on the inside.
“Would you like to go out for a nightcap?” Grant asked, too predictably.
“I’d love that,” I said, accepting his invitation a little louder than necessary.
