“What?”
“Riley just texted me.” He clears his throat dramatically. “‘Please keep my parents away from the vodka luge.’”
I blink.
“The what?”
He points toward the far side of the room.
And there it is.
An actual vodka luge.
Made of ice.
Because apparently subtlety died sometime during cocktail hour.
At the head table, Riley and Liora are deep in conversation with Ethan while Riley’s father begins striding toward the bar and about three uncles follow close behind.
“At least his family travels in groups,” I mutter.
Colton huffs out a laugh.
“You haven’t seen his cousin Alex dance.”
“That ominous?”
“There will be casualties.”
The food keeps coming, and at some point between the third course and another refill of wine, I realize I’m dangerously past full.
“It hurt my feelings, by the way.”
I glance up.
Colton’s watching me over the rim of his wineglass.
“What did?”
“When you said you didn’t miss me.”
His voice is light, almost teasing, but quiet enough that something in my chest stumbles again.
“Liar,” I say.
His foot nudges mine beneath the table.
“Okay,” he says. “I missed having someone around to mock the floral arrangements with.”
“That’s marginally more believable.”
“Marginally?”
“You’re dramatic.”
“Says the woman mentally cataloguing centerpiece violations.”
I try not to smile.
