Page 5 of The Wedding Party

“But they’re going on their way and we’re going on our way midevening,” she says. “There will be naked women at their event. Don’t fool yourself and think otherwise. And that means nothing. It’s a tradition. The last time he can see another woman’s breasts. It wasn’t for my ex, but my ex was an asshole. Oliver loves you. I see it in his eyes when he looks at you.”

“I don’t want him looking at a bunch of women’s naked breasts.” I bristle, uncomfortable with this idea, in what one might call an excessive way considering said tradition, but I don’t care.

“Exactly,” she says. “And now you see why he might have hidden the box. To protect you. And as he said, to keep you from hating the guy who did that.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Maybe one of his groomsmen has the hots for you and wants to break you up. And maybe Oliver knows.”

Now she’s weaving a story of pure craziness, but somehow, she’s made me feel better. Almost. Mostly. I’m somewhat better.

Chapter Four

Oliver calls me just after my return from lunch. “Sorry for sneaking out this morning.”

“I was shocked to wake up without you,” I say rather primly despite my efforts to sound natural.

“Babe,” he says softly. “Don’t be angry. This competitor we’re acquiring is massive for the company. I meant to tell you more about it last night, but we got a little distracted, you know?”

My cheeks heat. “Yes. I suppose we did.”

“How are things today? Better?”

“Not as bad as yesterday,” I say.

“Good. Two more weeks until the bachelorette party and three months until our wedding. Almost there. And you’re almost mine.”

We hang up and I’m bothered by the call. I feel off with Oliver. It’s a feeling that stays with me most of the afternoon and is reinforced when just one hour before my shift ends, he sends me a text: Final stretch of this race. I’m going to have to work late.

“He’s having an affair,” I whisper to myself, silently adding that it’s really the only explanation for the box and his behavior.

Chapter Five

My shift ends an hour after expected, and I decide I’m driving myself crazy with this affair mumbo jumbo. Oliver is not having an affair. He’s working hard, which deserves my appreciation. I leave the hospital and drive to his favorite taco joint, not far from his downtown offices, and order us both food. I arrive at his building a bit after seven, and the guard, Henry, who knows me well, greets me and motions me on up.

I arrive on the twenty-fifth floor to the empty reception area of Oliver’s office, which is the norm at this hour. With the lay of the land on hand, I round the desk and enter a hallway that leads to Oliver’s corner office. I step inside his doorway to find Allison, his blonde bombshell of an assistant, on his side of the desk, leaning over him, staring at the MacBook screen. At the moment, there is ample cleavage present, while her ass, which is squeezed into a pencil skirt, is in the air. Thankfully Oliver’s eyes are on the screen, not her.

Allison, who predates me with Oliver, says she’s gay.

I don’t believe her.

“I need this tighter,” Oliver says. “It’s wordy. Cut it back.”

“Right,” she says. “Of course.” She straightens and her eyes land on me. “Carrie.”

Oliver’s gaze shoots to mine, and his expression warms. There is nothing in his reaction that holds defensiveness or resistance to my presence.

“Tell me you didn’t eat already,” I say. “I brought Margarita George’s, enough for all.”

“We didn’t,” Oliver says. “And I’m starving.” He runs a hand through his hair. “And exhausted, with at least another two hours left to work.”

“Well, let’s eat, then,” I offer. “And you can get back to work.”

“None for me,” Allison says. “I’m on a diet. Which sucks, but you know, it is what it is.”

She’s on a diet. Whatever.

She lifts the papers in her hand. “I’ll get this done.” She hurries around the desk, and I step out of the doorway to allow her exit. Once I’m inside the office, I shut the door. Oliver stands up, stretches, and meets me at the conference table. A few minutes later, we’ve fallen into a familiar place—that place that is “us”—and we’re eating, laughing, and talking.

When dinner is over and he’s back behind his desk, having thoroughly kissed me, I should leave, but I hesitate. I step to the opposite side of the desk. “The box is bothering me, Oliver.”

“Wasted energy,” he says softly. “I threw it away. We’re better than raunchy jokes, and I told the bastard as much.”