"Yep. And I'll use you as a human shield."
Laney glides to the table to grab her flowers, and I smooth my dress, suddenly hyperaware of every eye in the room. My heart begins to accelerate with the knowledge that another set of eyes is keenly tuned to my every move, and I can't help but wonder if he's praying I don't catch the bouquet.
Laney turns around, her veil floating around her shoulders, bouquet raised high above her head. "Ready, ladies?"
I'm suddenly a ball of nerves, my palms sweating, my breath coming too fast. This is ridiculous. It's just a stupid tradition. It doesn't mean anything, but I can't help but feel like my fate and the future of my mother's land lies somewhere in the knotted lace holding her bouquet of sunflowers together.
"One...two...THREE!"
Laney launches the bouquet backward with all the enthusiasm of a major league pitcher and immediately overthrows it. I watch in slow motion as the bundle of sunflowers and white daisies sail over my head, over the reaching hands of every woman on the dance floor, tumblingend over end through the air. Then, because fate loves a good joke at my expense, it nails Trigger Hale directly in the chest.
He catches it on reflex, and for one suspended moment, the entire reception hall goes silent. My body goes cold before every nerve catches fire. Unbelievable. Though, really, I should have seen this coming. Because why wouldn't the universe decide that even this, a stupid bouquet toss at my best friend's wedding, has to somehow involve him? Everyone's now staring at him, but his eyes are only on me. My face heats, but not from anger, from something else, something I've tried hard to keep tucked away. But that gaze…it's a dark storm that's always had the ability to see too much, remember too much.
The DJ's voice crackles over the speakers, dripping with amusement. "Well, folks, it looks like we just found our groom!"
The entire reception breaks out in laughter, and my feet are cutting across the dance floor before I can fully think through my next move. I'm suddenly too visible. Eyes bore into me from every direction, and it feels like they are all connecting dots they have no business connecting, as if they all know about the impossible choice I have to make and how it all comes back to this man and his arrogant, blasé indifference to my misfortune.
"Trigg, what the hell? Are you trying to cause a scene? A single woman is supposed to catch the bouquet." The words come out sharp, and my irritation almost falters the moment his cologne hits me. That damn scent, the same one that I once found comfort and safety in, the one that made me foolish enough to think he might be different.
A subtle tick pulses in his jaw before he says, "I'm not sure how I'm the one causing a scene. I'm practically at the back of the room. The flowers hit me. I wasn't diving across the floor to get them, but since they're so important to you…" He extends his hand holding the bouquet. "Take them."
It's not a suggestion. It's a challenge.
"You know what these represent, right?" I question with false patience, tossing the weight of the gesture back in his lap.
"I do," he answers.
Just that. Two words. No explanation, no elaboration. Like he's deliberately keeping me in the dark, watching to see how I'll react.
I hesitantly take the flowers from his grip and focus on keeping my hand steady as my heart thunders against my ribs, so loud I'm sure he can hear it.Is this a game to him? Another way to twist the knife?
"Are you proposing?" I arch an eyebrow, my voice dripping with sarcasm even as my heart hammers traitorously in my chest. Two can play at whatever game he's started.
"Am I?" He tilts his head to the side, and there's something in his eyes I can't read.
I thought I could swallow my pride. I thought I could pretend, but I can't. I refuse to be his entertainment for the evening.
"Whatever." I push the flowers back against his chest, harder than necessary.
His expression shifts, and something reminiscent of regret seems to appear, but it's gone before I can be sure. He's always been so damn good at hiding. I step around him, needing distance, needing air, but his hand darts out and captures my wrist. Not rough, but firm. Deliberate.
"Wait. Do you want me to?"
I stare at his hand on my wrist before forcing myself to meet his eyes. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm, and I hate that my body still responds to him like this. After everything. After nothing. He's serious.
I moisten my lips. "Depends."
"On?" he challenges, and there's an edge to his voice now, something raw breaking through that careful control.
"Conditions," I answer, my sigh full of nerves and frustration and years of unanswered questions. I'm giving him an out, a way to laugh this off, to prove that I'm right, that this is all just a cruel joke.
"Such as?" he presses, and damn him, he sounds genuinely interested. Like my answer actually matters.
God, I don't even know where to start. My pulse is racing. Is he serious right now? Are we really having this conversation? I scan his face for any sign of mockery, any hint that he's enjoying watching me squirm. Then laughter near the bar steals my attention. Bingo. At least that decision is easy. I don't need alcohol to make bad decisions, but it helps.
"Want a drink?" I nod toward the bar, watching him carefully.
He purses his lips in thought, and for a moment, I think he's going to refuse, going to drop my wrist and walk away and prove that this was all just him messing with me. "Only if you take the flowers."
