“Fine!” I say, cut down to size, embarrassment scalding my cheeks. “Fine, just—just give me a few.”
Back in the bathroom, my hands shake as I fumble with the makeup remover.
When I come back out, face redone, Mark Winterson looks relieved.
“Thanks for humoring me,” he says, recovering some of that charm. He pulls me closer and kisses my temple. “I just want to show you off to everyone.”
I never knew, until this moment, that these emotions could coexist in my body: a twinge of tenderness; a roiling, white-hot fury; a weaselly little flattered feeling, even though I should know better.
He puts a hand between my shoulder blades, forcing me to stand straight. “Good,” he says, and my chest burns. “Remember to smile.”
Chapter
43
It’s a short drive over to the venue where the wedding is being held—a mansion on another vineyard. When we pass through the main house and out to the back, a breathy little “wow” escapes from me before I can worry about sounding like a bumpkin.
Rows of Chiavari chairs are set up underneath strings of lights. The lawn gives way to impressive manicured gardens, complete with topiaries and afucking hedge maze.My inner child wants to kick off these teetering heels and go running off into it.
I wave Mark Winterson over to take some pictures with me against this backdrop, and he obliges, a hand resting possessively on my lower back. I’m still angry at him, but I lean my head on his shoulder, trying to be convincing for the photo, and his warm palm on my bare skin muddies my thoughts.
As we’re making our way to our seats, Mark Winterson gets caught up talking to someone, and I claim a spot on the groom’s side and send Greg a photo of the whole setup.
Ruby:
look at this shit
there’s a hedge maze!
Greg:
damn, you’ve got me beat
He sends a blurry photo from the outside of a Ramada Inn, freeway off-ramp visible in the distance, and I resist the urge to snort.
That’s right, I remember—he’s also at a wedding right now. Adam from Accounting is tying the knot with his high school sweetheart, and lots of TKCORP people are going. Big weekend for marriage, I guess.
Ruby:
idk yours might be a better time
i heard the accountants like to party
Mark Winterson extracts himself from his conversation, and I stash my phone in my clutch and beam up at him.
I sitspine straight, shoulders backthrough the ceremony—the generic exchange of vows, the inside-joke-laden readings from their friends. It’s not lost on me that Mark Winterson’s cousin is also taller than him, and maybe that doesn’t help with whatever resentment he’s harboring.
All morning I’ve been turning the components of his password over in my mind, rethinking my approach. I have to take it slow, ideally wait for alcohol to do some of the work for me. I’ve ranked everything in order of how drunk I want him to be:
Ask about his relationship with his dad, in hopes that I can finagle a way of getting him to talk about his dad’s life philosophy and that motto. (He should be buzzed, slightly tipsy.)
Get him to talk about his relationship with Erickson—though finding out about the first deal they ever discussed might be more of a needle in a haystack. (Ideally at least three drinks in, given what I’ve observed of his tolerance.)
