“Shoes,” is all she says. I look down, and peeking out of the high slit of her dress are the strappy gold heels from our first wedding night. She was barefoot for our ceremony, but when I saw her pull those out for the reception after our tryst in the closet, I damn near lost my mind.
“You know those shoes drive me crazy,” I told her.
She simply smiled as she slowly wrapped those tiny gold straps around her ankle. “I know.”
“Do you want me to go get you a different pair?”
She shakes her head.
I chuckle. Oh, the irony. Apparently, she’s determined to tease me with those shoes on both of our wedding nights—a game I’d gladly play if I didn’t know she’s in pain.
I bend down so my lips brush her ear. “How about we compromise? I take those sexy shoes now, and I promise you can put them back on…later?”
It’s the emphasis on the wordlaterthat does it. Her eyes meet mine, and her cheeks flush pink. “There’s a pair of ballet flats in an overnight bag by my old bed.”
I just smile and wait as she uses my arm for support and slowly removes one shoe at a time. Once she hands them over, I turn to my best friends. “Do you think you can take my barefoot bride to the bar and make sure she gets a drink?” I toss Pres a wink. “No tequila.”
I’m practically on cloud nine as I climb the stairs two at a time to the deck. I might even start whistling as I walk through the double glass doors into the Creeds’ living room and head upstairs.
My face breaks into a stupid grin the moment I walk into Presley’s old room and see the open door to her closet, remembering how she looked pressed against that wall.
How long is one required to stay at their own wedding reception before it’s considered rude? Two hours? An hour and a half?
I find the overnight bag she mentioned by the neatly made bed and drop the shoes next to it.
“Hello, Hollis.”
My whole body stiffens at the sound of those two words. My back is to the door, but I already know who’s standing there.
Don’t turn around.
Don’t turn around.
But I do, because part of me can’t believe it’s her.
Part of me thinks surely I’m mistaken. Maybe it’s a caterer who looks or sounds like her. Or shit, maybe I’ve just temporarily gone insane.
I’d fucking take insanity over the sight ofherstanding in the doorway of Presley’s old room in a designer coral cocktail dress and nude heels. I nearly gag as the smell of that flowery perfume she always wore wafts into the room.
She looks older, yet still in her prime—one of the perks of having a kid when you’re still practically one yourself. She must be doing well for herself—or someone is—considering the diamond studs in her ears.
My lungs feel tight. My hands feel clammy.
This isn’t happening.
Not today.
“What are you doing here?” My voice sounds hoarse. Weak. I hate it. “How did you even?—”
“I’m a guest.” She shrugs, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle on her skirt.
“A guest?” No. She couldn’t be. They wouldn’t?
That cruel smile I recognize in the crowd on the dance floor gazes back at me. “Don’t worry, your precious Creeds didn’t betray you.” She rolls her dark brown eyes, reminding me of all the times I thanked the heavens mine were green. I may never know who my father is, but at least I can be grateful for his strong genes. “I came with someone.”
“You crashed my wedding?”
She steps further into the room. I take a step back. “The record producer I cozied up to was more than happy to bring me along. Turns out his wife left him last year, and he’s been feeling a little lonely ever since.” She fakes a pouty frown. “Anyway, it’s not like I had a choice. I wasn’t invited.”
