I get a text not long after we walked into Cari’s show.

Con: Better start planning

my bachelor party.

I take that to mean Henley said yes. I also take it to mean that Conner and Henley won’t be making an appearance tonight.

Cari’s so blissed out she hardly notices.

Could have something to do with the fact that her show officially sold out twenty minutes ago. Could have something to do with the ginormous sparkler Patrick put on her finger in the parking lot.

The Gilroy men are dropping like flies.

By this time next year, they’ll all be married and I’ll still be who I am now.

Tess Castinetti.

Best friend.

Ex-girlfriend.

Left behind.

I text some sort of congratulatory bullshit back.

Ooo and ahh over Cari’s ring, all the while, wondering what’s wrong with me.

Why I can’t let go.

Why I’m not worth loving.

Not worth fighting for.

“So?”

I look up from my glass to find Cari staring at me, a huge smile on her face.

“So what?” I say, my question dampening the wattage on her grin. I look around. Ryan and Patrick are standing a few feet away talking in low tones. Presumably about the community and veteran housing center Patrick is opening and Ryan is moving into next week, but if I were a betting kind of girl, from the quick looks they keep flicking at me, I’d wager they’re talking about the fact that Declan came here alone.

That he’s been standing in the corner by himself, sipping whiskey and looking like someone took his favorite toy for the past hour and a half.

“Will you be my maid-of-honor?” Cari repeats her question, her tone more subdued.

“Me?” This time it grabs my attention and holds it. “What about Grace?” I look around for her and find her, hovering near the exit, fingers clenched so tight around her clutch that I can see how white they are from here. She looks nervous. Likes she’s about to bolt. “Isn’t she moving here?” Not that it matters. Patrick’s loaded. Wherever Grace is, he’ll bring her here for the wedding.

“Shhh.” Cari flaps her hand at me and throws a nervous glance at her parents who are talking to Chase, one of Cari’s art friends, a few feet away. “Yes—but she hasn’t broken it to my parents yet.” We’ve talked about it. Her mom and dad will be devastated because when Grace moves, she’ll take Molly, her daughter, with her.

You would’ve had a daughter.

She’d be seven years old.

She’d have dark hair.

Her father’s blue eyes.

Your temper.

His dimples.

My gaze instinctively searches for him in the crowd and I hate myself for it.

I find him.

Declan.

He’s where he’s been all night and looking right at me.

“I have to go pee.” I blurt it out. “Does this place have a bathroom?”

“Yes.” Totally unoffended, Cari just laughs. “Down the hall,” she says, opening her clutch to pull out a key. “Use the bathroom in Miranda’s office. It’s private.” She presses the key into my hand with a smile. “I’ll keep the boys occupied.”

She’s already slipped through the crowd and has her arm linked through Patrick’s before I understand what she’s implying.

Declan is still watching me.

A warm flush rushes over me and my knees go so soft I’m not sure how I’m going to walk but I manage it. Slipping and squeezing my way through the crowd, I finally push myself into the hallway. Passing a trio of Kardashian wannabes, on my way down the hall, I find a door marked

Slipping the key Cari gave me into the knob I give it a twist, letting myself in before shutting and locking the door behind me.

Take that, Ms. Matchmaker.

Tucking the key inside my purse, I toss it on Miranda’s desk on my way to the bathroom. I don’t have to use it but I shut the door anyway. Wash my hands. Stare at myself in the mirror and ask myself what the hell is wrong with me.

Declan and I were together for one summer, nearly a decade ago. Three months. Yes, things happened that were irrevocable, but those things damaged me. I should not still feel this way. He should not still have this effect on me.

I shouldn’t still love him. The fact that I do makes me feel pathetic. Defective.

My gaze drifts over my reflection, finding and settling on the hummingbird I have tattooed on my collarbone.

There’s nothing wrong with you, Hummingbird. You’re perfect, just the way you are.

Taking a deep breath, I let it out in a slow, steady stream. I’ll tell Cari I’m going to make it an early night. Ask Patrick to take Ryan back to Sojourn. I’ll get out of this stupid dress, take off these medieval torture devices Henley calls shoes, put on my sweats and binge watch Jessica Jones until my eyes glaze over.

Sounds perfect.

All I have to do is leave this bathroom, brave a mob of snotty, caviar-slurping assholes and avoid Declan Gilroy like the emotional plague he is on my way to the exit.

Step one: Open the door.

Piece of cake.

Pulling it open and stepping into Miranda’s office, my escape plan is derailed before I can even consider step two.

Declan is blocking my only exit.

I look at the door he’s leaning against. It’s locked. Just how I left it. “How’d you get in here?”

“Door was open.” One of his dimples makes an appearance.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“No.” He shakes his head, his dimple slowly disappearing. “It wasn’t.”

When I don’t say anything he sighs and pulls his hands out of his pockets. “Look, I just—”

“I swear to Christ, if you apologize to me one more fucking time I’ll stab you with Miranda’s letter opener.”

“I’m not here to apologize.”

That shuts me up. For a second, I don’t know what to say, which is a rare occurrence for me. “Oh.” I hook my lip ring with my teeth and give it a tug, trying to figure out what this is about. It’s a nervous habit. One that draws his attention to my mouth. The warm flush is back with a side of damp panties. I let go of my lip ring and clear my throat. “Then what do you want?”

He lifts a massive shoulder and lets it fall, his gaze coasting over me. “I just wanted to tell you that you look nice without your pack of watchdogs barking at me.”

“Nice?” I look down at myself—the tight, red dress and sky-high heels—and laugh. “I look nice?”

“You don’t like it when people tell you you’re pretty,” he tells me. “I mean, I guess I could tell you

that you look so fucking good that I’ve been doing mental gymnastics for the past two hours, trying to keep myself in check because every time I look at you, I have this overwhelming urge to drag you into the nearest supply closet so I can do very, very dirty things to you, it would probably warrant another apology,” he says, in the same tone of voice I’ve heard him use to rattle off Happy Hour drink specials. “But getting stabbed isn’t something I’m looking to do. So, yeah.” He smirks at me, lifting his hand to scratch the scar on his chin with this index finger. “You look nice.”

It takes several seconds and the fact that I’m feeling light-headed for me to realize that I’m holding my breath. I let it out slowly while he just stands there and looks at me, waiting for me to do or say something. Scream fire! Kick him in the balls. Make good on my threat and stab him.

“Is that it?” I say, reaching for the purse I tossed onto Miranda’s desk when I walked in.

“You’re here with Ryan.”

It’s not a question, so I don’t answer him.

“You made sure Logan wasn’t available.”

He doesn’t even try to deny it.

“You can’t keep doing this, you know?”

“Doing what?” He sounds angry. Defensive. He’s never been one to admit when he’s wrong. It’s one of the few things we have in common.

“Playing with me, Declan.” Saying it out loud is like cutting myself open, exposing my insides. “You can’t keep playing with me.”

When I say it, his anger evaporates. “I’m not—” He straightens himself off the door, shaking his head. “That’s not what—”

“Is that it?” I gesture toward the door he’s still blocking. “Can I leave?”

“Yeah.” He nods at me. “That’s it,” he says, but that’s not it. I can tell it’s not, just by the way he’s looking at me. But he unlocks the door. He opens it and lets me go.