She’s resplendent in a pale pink satin dress that really should clash against her hair and skin, but somehow doesn’t. Her hair is mostly down and curled, with one side pulled back and held in place with a jeweled comb. She has one arm linked through the arm of a groomsman, a small bouquet of white, long-stemmed flowers clutched in her hands. There is an unguarded softness on her face that I’ve never seen before. It makes her look younger. Not that she looks old—lord knows she probably has a skincare routine that would bankrupt a small country—but this is different somehow.
My heart skips a little in my chest, and I have the strangest urge to growl and rip her away from the man daring to touch her skin. It’s so unexpected and unsettling that I can feel my skin pale, even as I focus with a laser intensity on where they meet. I force myself to lift my gaze back to her face, and it’s then that our eyes meet. Hers widen in surprise, giving her an almost comically adorable, doll-like expression. She nearly misses a step, but manages to catch herself, and the look is gone as quicklyas it came. The cool and detached face I’m more familiar with reappears, and it makes my chest ache.
I manage to get through the rest of the ceremony on autopilot. Vows, rings, the kiss, applause. I clap at the appropriate moments and smile when Trinity looks over at me, and I absolutely do not spend the entire time acutely aware of exactly where Ava is standing on that altar.
That would be pathetic.
The receiving line takes forever, as they always do. It’s a practice I loathe. If I ever get married, I hope to hell my wife will let me nix the tradition. By the time we make it through and Trinity has air-kissed and hugged the bride while I shake Greg’s hand, it’s been nearly forty minutes since I first spotted Ava. More than enough time to reinforce the mental pep talk I’ve been giving myself to stay the hell away from her at the reception.
The golf club is exactly what I’d expected. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the course, large, tasteful floral pieces, satin draping, and a combined monogram of the couple’s initials illuminated on the dance floor. Pretty, but exactly like every other wedding I’ve been to over the last couple of years. I hope they’ve managed to showcase something about their actual personalities and relationship in this reception. I head to the bar, get Trinity a gin and tonic and myself a glass of Bulleit, and return to her at the table with our names on it.
She thanks me, and we make a few more passes at small talk, but it’s just not taking. As expected, she excuses herselfto go mingle with people she knows. I don’t blame her. When it isn’t there, it isn’t there. I do the same, and the cocktail hour keeps me busy enough that I almost forget who is busy taking pictures outside.
The lights dim and the DJ’s voice fills the room, telling us to find out seats and put our hands together for the new Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne. A high-energy pop song kicks in with a bass line that vibrates down into my sternum, and the doors swing open.
The wedding party comes through first, and the crowd reacts immediately. The bridesmaids have changed into short, sequined versions of their ceremony gowns in the same pale pink. Only now, it’s cut high on the thigh and falls outward from the bust line, something between a 1960s Bond Girl and a babydoll lingerie set you’d find in an old Frederick’s of Hollywood. It somehow works.
The men have all ditched their jackets and ties, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and they look considerably more comfortable and relaxed than they had a couple of hours ago. I spy Ava amongst them, and my mouth goes a little dry. The cut of the dress and the way it flounces around her only accentuates her legs that go on for miles. The sequins catch the light every time she moves, which she’s doing a lot of, as the entire bridal party is dancing and encouraging the crowd to do the same as the newlyweds enter.
“You two face off against each other in court, don’t you?” Trinity asks, from somewhere to my left.
I turn to look at her.She’s watching me with the same pleasant, unreadable expression she’s had all night, and I wonder how obvious it was that I was staring. “Who? Ms. Kendrick?”
She snorts out a laugh through her nose. “Uh, yeah,” she says, as if I’m being deliberately obtuse. I guess I am.
I feel my cheeks heat. Has she noticed how closely I’ve been watching Ava? “Yeah, we do.” I clear my throat. “I’m actually kind of wondering how she fits in here. I’d have thought Greg would have mentioned knowing her when he worked in my office,” I respond, keeping my voice mostly neutral if a little bored.
“Her and Samantha went to college together. They were in the same sorority. Maybe he never mentioned it because everyone knows you two hate each other. You were Greg’s boss, right?”
I nod. “Yeah, I guess that would be kind of weird.”
The reception settles into the expected routine. Waiters bring around our plated dinners. I see Trinity glance toward someone she’d been speaking to earlier that has an empty spot beside her. “You won’t hurt my feelings if you want to go sit with her,” I finally say gently.
She looks over at me, and I smile. “You seem lovely, but I think we both aren’t really what the other is looking for. There’s no harm in it.”
“You sure? I don’t want to be a bitch. You seem like a goodguy, just… preoccupied.” There’s no bitterness in her tone, just honesty.
“Yeah. And I am. Sorry about that. Work has been nuts, and I’ve had some personal stuff happening. Long as you don’t go telling everyone I was the worst date you ever had, we’re good.”
She grins at me. “Deal. Though I hope you’ll keep the same promise. I look hot in this dress.”
I nod. “You do. Go find you a groomsman or something so it doesn’t go to waste.”
She gathers up her plate and walks over to the other table, and I bite back a sigh. I probably should make a hasty exit as soon as it’s polite to do so.
Ava is at the head table with the rest of the bridal party. She leans in close to the bride, whispering something that makes her laugh hard enough to cover her mouth. A second later, Ava grins, wide and unguarded, and bumps her shoulder lightly into the bride’s. I can’t seem to keep my eyes off her.
The groomsman beside her is trying to get Ava’s attention, trying to draw her into a conversation. She gives him a soft smile, and the surge of jealousy inside me makes me almost choke on the bite of grilled salmon and lemon risotto I’ve placed in my mouth. Surely she isn’t going to entertain this asshole? He looks like a thumb.
When the speeches start, I try to ignore her and focus on what is being said, but I’m hyperaware of all things Ava in my peripheral vision. She listens attentively during the speeches, her chin propped lightly on her hand. She tears up during the maid of honor’s toast, swiping discreetly at the cornerof her eye before anyone can make a big deal of it. When the best man makes a joke that lands particularly well, she tosses her head back laughing in a way I’ve never seen her do.
By the time the DJ calls everyone to the dance floor, I’m restless. I know I should leave, but instead I find myself at the bar, getting another drink. I sip at it, leaning against the rail as all the predictable first dances take place before the DJ shifts gears. I try to mingle some more with the people I know.
Older family members of the newlyweds begin to make their exits as an upbeat, familiar song fills the room. Like a switch has been flipped, the dance floor floods. The bridal party leads the charge, pulling reluctant guests in their wake. I find myself edging closer and closer, drawn like a magnet to the woman I should be doing everything in my power to stay away from. She’s in the thick of it, because of course she is, her body rolling in perfect harmony with the beat.
Soon, Mr. Thumb reappears, and I have to school my features before anything slips. From the outside, I’m neutral, detached. Inside, not even close. His hand settles at the small of her back and he turns her, and she goes with it, ending up with her back to his chest as the music shifts, their bodies lining up in a way that’s less dancing and more grinding.
My alpha snarls within my chest. Abso-fucking-lutely not.
