Page 49
“Yeah,” I admit, the word falling like a stone between us. “I do.”
Rowan blinks, clearly not expecting the honesty. “Well, shit.”
I knock back the rest of my drink, the ice clinking against the glass. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You know why,” I mutter, setting the empty glass on the bar. “I’m not built for what she deserves.”
His face hardens. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“Is it?” I shoot back, keeping my voice low. “Look at her, man. She’s all light. And I’m—”
“A stubborn asshole?” he supplies helpfully.
I glare at him. “Something like that.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing hard enough to make his point. “Listen to me. For once in your life, actually listen. You’re not your dad. You’re not your mom. You’re not doomed to fuck up everything you touch. Take it from someone who learned the hard way.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. I look away, jaw clenched tight. “I hear you.” I nod in the direction of the far wall. “I think your wife is looking for you.”
Rowan narrows his eyes but doesn’t push it. “Think about what I said,” he mutters, then crosses the room to Violet.
The reception is in full swing now.
The dance floor is packed with a blur of twirling dresses, stomping heels, and clapping hands.
I drift toward the edge of it all, loosening my tie the rest of the way, watching from the shadows like I always do. Whitley’s dancing with everyone from Rowan to Violet’s granddad.
Everyone gets a turn, except me.
I’m halfway through my third whiskey when the music shifts. The upbeat rhythm fades, replaced by the first slow, haunting notes of a ballad. The dance floor clears slightly as couples form. Rowan finds Violet almost instantly, wrapping an arm around her waist, pressing his forehead against hers before they disappear into the slow sway of everyone else.
I can’t stop watching them. I’m so happy for them, not an ounce of jealousy in my body. But somewhere along the way, I forgot that life could be more than surviving it.
My gaze drifts back to Whitley. She’s brushing a crumb from the corner of her mouth, completely oblivious to the guy making his way toward her.
He’s clean-cut with a practiced smile. One of Violet’s cousins… Marcus or Matthew or something. He’s weaving through the crowd, eyes locked on Whitley at the dessert table.
Before he even reaches her, something inside me settles. Like a decision that’s been made for days and my brain is only just catching up.
If I don’t do this now, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what would’ve happened if I’d asked her for one dance.
Before I can second-guess myself, I’m moving. Long strides carry me across the dance floor, and I reach her just before he does.
“Dance with me,” I say to Whitley, holding out my hand.
Her eyes widen, surprise flashing across her face before a slow smile curves her lips. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who likes to dance.”
“I don’t,” I mutter. “But I’m making an exception.”
She places her hand in mine. The curve of her palm fits mine almost perfectly, like she was made to match this exact shape, this exact grip. I lead her to the dance floor, conscious of every step, every inch, because her hand in mine isn’t just a hand. It’s a tether, and it’s making me want things I’ve kept carefully buried.
“That was smooth,” she notes as I draw her close, one hand settling at the small of her back. “Saving me from Micah?”
Ah. That’s his name. Noted.
“Is that what I was doing?” I keep my voice neutral, even as my thumb traces small circles against the silk of her dress.
