Chelsea makes it down the aisle—barely—in a rigid dress boasting the volume of a small airplane and a train fifteen feet long. Lillian whispers the designer’s name, who I’ve never heard of, and tells me they are the hottest and most sought after. My response is an eye roll. I’m even less impressed by Chelsea’s efforts to divest South Africa of its diamond reserves.

The officiant’s spiel is brief (shocking) and transitions swiftly to the vows. I spend the time alternately staring at the back of Damien’s head and the face of Alex Hughes. I don’t mention the latter man to Lillian, who’s listening avidly to the exchange of vows, her eyes glassy with tears.

Some women cry at weddings.

Some don’t.

When Alex steps forward with the rings, Lillian finally registers his face. “Holy fuck,” she whispers. Her eyes dart to me. “What are the chances?”

I shrug. “Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.”

Her lips twitch comically, yo-yoing between a smile and frown. “I don’t… I just…” She shakes her head. “You’re like a drama magnet, Thebes.”

“Since when?” I scoff.

“Since yesterday.”

“Hardly a substantial pattern.”

“Shhhh!” hisses the woman beside me.

I turn slowly and give her my iciest expression, perfected by years of imitating my mother. She blanches and looks away.

Lillian whispers in my ear, “If you could bottle that…”

“I’d be a millionaire,” I finish.

A minute later, Chelsea and Jason have their first kiss while six hundred of their closest friends and strangers applaud. There are some cheers but mostly from the groom’s side. I’m cynical enough to wonder if they’re happy because Jason is marrying up.

The village that is the bridal party begins filing down the aisle. As Jason escorts Chelsea past our row, I note that she isn’t a woman who cries at weddings, either. Not even this one.

Six flower girls trail past, then two little boys in tuxes. Bored after thirty seconds, I roll my eyes skyward to view the meager offering of stars.

Lillian gasps loudly.

A smooth, deep voice says, “Thea Sands. We meet again.”

My head jerks down, eyes widening. Once again, he’s taken me off guard.

Alex Hughes is stalled at the end of our row, four seats from my own. Gone is the casually dressed, art gallery browser. In his place is a man who wears a tuxedo like a second skin. The worldly power I glimpsed last night now exudes from every pore.

The maid of honor, Molly Hines, is beside him, her breasts pressed to his arm. She stares at me with horror and disdain. The horror is for Alex’s massive breach of wedding protocol. The disdain is nothing new.

“Come on, Alex,” she whines, as the rest of the bridal party continues past them.

He ignores her, his eyes never leaving mine. “Save me a dance, Ms. Sands?”

My heart kicks against my ribs. “I don’t think so,” I reply.

Molly gasps in affront, both at the invitation and refusal. Alex’s oceanic eyes shine with amusement and something else. Irritation? Respect? I don’t imagine he’s told no very often.

“Let me rephrase, then,” he says in a new tone, lower and darker. It purrs across my skin and clogs my throat. “We are dancing together tonight, Ms. Sands.”

What the fuck?

“We’ll see,” I bite out.

Alex’s lips curve. He nods once, then he and Molly are gone.

“Damn, that was hot,” says Lillian. “Thebes, you’re blushing. Nevermind, you don’t blush. Clearly we need some air.”

“We’re outside,” I murmur, but she’s already pulling me down the row, not toward the herd but away from it. Away from the noise, the lights. Away.

Within a minute, we reach a secluded patio. It’s well beyond the designated wedding zone and therefore safe. No one stops us when we navigate over a rope partition. Not that they would dare.

The space is quiet, not well lit, and beyond a low wall is yawning emptiness. Stepping to the edge, I look into the darkness. Ocean air tickles my nose and hair. I turn my head to hear the muted thunder of waves.

“Are you okay?” asks Lillian.

“I think so,” I say, and wince at my own questioning tone. “That was intense. I definitely wasn’t prepared. That man is…” I falter, unwilling to finish the thought aloud.

Overwhelming.

“What are you going to say when he comes for that dance?” she asks softly.

“I don’t know.” My numbness has been compromised and I need time. Lillian knows this and will keep me here as long as it takes. “You’re the bestest friend in the whole wide world, Lil.”

She smirks and lifts a hand to display the small bottle on her palm. “Universe. Best friend in the universe.”

I laugh and grab the airplane bottle of Jack Daniels. “Did you liberate this from the limo?” I ask as I unscrew the top.

“Yep.” She uncaps a second bottle and clinks it to mine. “Here’s to a clusterfuck of a night.”

We drink.

* * *

The banquet hall is massive and looks like a spread from a wedding magazine. All white drapery, candlelight, glistening crystal, and accents of gold and powder blue. Gorgeous fresh flowers everywhere. It’s actually not terrible.

Also not terrible is being anonymous fish in a sea of strangers. It’s only a matter of time before we confront familiar faces, but for now we wander freely.

At the bar, we order martinis, then do a circuit of the room. All the while, Lillian keeps up a running commentary that I listen to with half an ear.

“Is that Julie Prescott? Damn, I barely recognized her with the new nose.”

A minute passes.

“Scott Franklin has really let himself go. Can you believe he was the star quarterback?”

Another minute.

“Sarah Walker still looks like she’s got an iceberg up her ass.”

Ten seconds, then a tense murmur, “Battle ready, Thebes.”

I look up and straight into my mother’s glittering eyes. They are the same pale hazel as mine, but against the blonde frost of her hair the color is unnerving. Closer to yellow than brown or green. Her slim, elegant form is encased in a gold, floor length gown. The snug bodice is tailored to her surgically perfect stomach and breasts.

Before she can speak, I take first blood. “You look lovely, mother. Very youthful.”

She’s the best, though. Far better than me. Her smile is the picture of sweetness. “Couldn’t you afford a new dress, dear?”

“I prefer thrift store finds.”

She clicks her tongue. “Although the cut is very fifties, tea-length is out of fashion these days.”

“What’s fashion?”

Her smile grows, but not in warmth. “Is that where you found those fake pearls, a thrift store?”

I finger a strand, showing off my short, unpainted fingernails. “Fifteen dollars for the whole necklace.”

“My, how embarrassing.”

“Not especially.”

Her eyes roam over my bare shoulders and I know what’s coming. “Did you forget a wrap? I’m sure I can find one for you.”

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

“Of course, dear. I merely thought you’d feel more comfortable. Your back is very exposed.”

“Better my back than my front.”

Her eyelids twitch, signaling that round one goes to me. She regroups swiftly, turning to Lillian. “You’re looking well, Lillian. Although you’ve put on some weight since I last saw you.”

Lillian grins. “Men like a little something to grab onto, Mrs. Sands.”

My mother doesn’t even blink. “Have you given any thought to keeping a man more than one night?”

“Nope,” says Lillian. “Have you?”

Only because I am watching for it do I see my mother’s jaw clench. Round two: Lillian. But the game isn’t over yet. I’m up.

“Did you see Damien yet, dear? He looks magnificent this evening.”

I don’t bother reminding her that she loathed him while we were dating. When he was broke.

“I did see him, yes.”

“Will you be speaking with him?”

“We have nothing to say to one another.”

“I disagree,” she counters. “I’m certain he still has feelings for you.”

“I’m certain he doesn’t.”

Diamonds sparkle as she gracefully waves a hand. “Nonsense. I saw him before the ceremony. He was overjoyed when I told him you would be here.”

Round three goes to Mrs. Katherine Sands.

At this familiar juncture of our verbal sparring routine, my options are a temper tantrum or redirection. I haven’t thrown a temper tantrum in twenty-five years but I can’t think of anything to say. I acknowledge her win a nod of feigned indifference.

She smiles slightly. “Did you enjoy the ceremony? I thought Chelsea was radiant. And the gown! Not many could pull off such a statement. It would be dreadful on you, dear.”

“Indeed,” I say mildly. “I can’t imagine anything more dreadful than wearing that gown.”

Her gaze lifts over my shoulder. “Oh, look, the photos have finished. I simply must speak with Chelsea’s mother. Ta-ta, ladies.”

We perform our parting ritual—an air kiss for each cheek—and she glides away. I twitch in the aftermath.

Lillian sighs gustily. “I’m disgusted and in love with her at the same time.”

“I’ll agree on the first part.”

My mother is a complicated woman. Do I hate her? No. She hasn’t always been a snide, superficial bitch. I have plenty of early childhood memories that prove it. Her gentle touch, a soft voice singing me to sleep. I remember her laughter best. Loud and unfettered, before she decided it was uncouth.

“I need another drink,” I say.

The evening takes a positive turn when we sit for dinner, as my mother is nowhere in sight. Our table is a collection of wedding guest odds and ends—two former classmates and their spouses, an elderly couple who are both hard of hearing, and a man whose weathered countenance suggests he captains a yacht for one of the hosting families.

Neither Lillian nor I mind that we’ve been relegated to a far corner, or that we can barely hear the requisite toasting from the front of the room. Our food is only passably warm when it arrives, but it’s top quality. We find out that yes, the man captains a yacht, and yes, our classmates have survived the eleven years since high school.

Mostly, we drink. And as soon as we’ve eaten, we escape.

There are enough people wandering amidst the sixty tables that we don’t look odd. Except for my vividly painted back. And perhaps the very slight wobble in our steps.

“We’re trekking across the Sahara,” Lillian whispers loudly. “Soon, we will need shade and water.”

I snicker and almost roll my ankle as my heel snags in carpet. Catching myself on the back of a nearby chair, I hiss, “Shit.” The occupants of the table go quiet.

Lillian giggles. “Oops. Bad choice, Thebes.”

Molly Hines is in the chair I’m hanging on. She rotates slowly and lifts her gaze to my face. She’s almost as good as my mother, but not quite.

“You’re drunk,” she seethes. “How typical.”

I’m not drunk—maybe a little buzzed—but she doesn’t need to know that. “Soooo sorry,” I say, grinning. I release her chair, but only to pet the springy pile of curls on her head. “Bouncy.”

Molly makes a noise of disgust and slaps my hand away—or she tries, but I’ve already moved it. Across the table, someone stifles a laugh. I feel a zing of recognition and glance up, meeting the amused blue eyes of Alex Hughes. I stare blankly at him until his smile falls and he blinks.

I reassess my drunkenness.

“Get away from me, Sands,” says Molly. “Go back to whatever hole you found those fake pearls in.”

I almost say, Your closet? but suddenly don’t have the energy to play. Between Damien, my mother, and Alex, my reserves are running low. Numbness still lingers, but I feel the telltale prickling of pins and needles.

I summon physical training, both dance and debutante. Perfect tilt of my neck, perfectly executed curtsy. I smile winningly at the table and hear several drawn breaths. I don’t often offer my poster-smile.

“Do forgive the intrusion,” I murmur sweetly, and turn away.

“…tattooed,” I hear Molly sneer.

“It’s an exceptional piece, Molly.” I shiver at Alex’s cutting tone, grateful to not be on its receiving end. I also don’t read into the comment; after all, he liked the art enough to spend eight-thousand dollars on a photograph of it.

Lillian is unusually quiet as we stride away.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Molly and her silicone cronies. I’m still scarred from high school. Sorry I wasn’t a good wingman back there.”

I squeeze her shoulders. “Let’s find Matthew and Adam.”

It takes another five minutes, but we finally spot the men sitting in a wasteland of empty chairs and half-full wine glasses. The resemblance between the Price brothers is pronounced—light brown hair, green eyes, and easy grins. Though Matthew is taller and more slender.

Relieved to get off our feet, we plop unceremoniously into seats opposite them. Adam trails off mid-sentence, derailed by the sight of Lillian. Matthew—who only has eyes for his wife—smiles at me with brotherly affection.

“Having a good time?”

“Fabulous,” I lie.

He chuckles and glances at his brother. “Adam, you remember Thea’s friend, Lillian Harris?”

Adam nods, smiling broadly at Lillian. Dimples enhance his attractiveness. I have a feeling I’ll be on my own the rest of the night. But after what she’s endured on my account, Lillian has more than earned a little R&R.

“Hey boss, want to hit the bar?” I ask.

Matthew winks knowingly and stands. “My lady,” he says, offering me a suit clad arm.

I lean over and give Lillian a smacking kiss on the cheek. I whisper, “No sex in hotel closets, sweets.”

She giggles. “Thanks, Thebes. I’ll find you.”

Matthew and I make our way across the room, which has emptied substantially. I gaze around, wondering where the supposed dancing will take place. Then I see the steady exodus commencing through double doors.

“Ah, they’ve converted the ceremony patio,” I say. Matthew gives me a questioning look. “Dancing, good sir. Dancing.”

He laughs. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk, Thea.”

“Don’t tell Oliver,” I warn him. “He’ll be very, very mad.” I catch sight of a familiar, dark blonde head. “Did you see Damien Young? Maybe I should ask for an autograph.”

Matthew halts abruptly. I sway forward before whipping back to his side like a rubber band. Warm hands cup my shoulders. His eyes are concerned.

“Do you need to go home? Has he spoken to you?”

As my boss of six years, Matthew enjoyed a front row seat to my heartbreak. Thus, he has a pointed dislike of all things Damien Young related.

“I’m fine,” I say softly. “No, he hasn’t spoken to me. I’m sure he won’t.”

Matthew sighs. “You’ll tell me if that changes?”

“Yes,” I say, bobbing my head.

He squeezes my shoulders before reclaiming my arm. We approach the bar, only to find twenty people in line before us.

“There’s another one outside,” he says, and steers us toward the doors.

Outside is exactly where I don’t want to go, but I keep my mouth shut. The expansive ceremony patio has been transformed into a covered dance floor. Since there’s no rain in the forecast, I assume the massive tent is for temperature comfort and noise dampening. And noisy it is—huge speakers are blasting a remixed eighties hit and at least a hundred guests are already shaking their money makers.

Apparently we missed the spectacle of the first dance. Oh well.

Colored spotlights arch and spin against the tent’s ceiling. Cameras flash. It’s dark enough that in the press of the crowd, I decide it’s unlikely Alex Hughes will find me. I’m both relieved and mildly disappointed.

Matthew beelines for a small bar with only a moderate line. Ten minutes later, drinks in hand, we find chairs far enough from the speakers that we can hear each other. We have to speak at full volume but at least aren’t reduced to a yelling match.

We chat for a few minutes about his wife’s work—she’s a fundraiser for a local children’s hospital. All the while, more and more people fill the dance floor, and the music keeps getting louder.

“The… client… preliminary sketches,” says Matthew.

“What?”

He leans closer. “The Wind N Sea client loved your sketches!”

“Ah! Great!”

“Holy shit, that’s loud!” he yells.

I point a finger-gun to my head and pull the trigger. He laughs, then scissors fingers in a suggestion of walking somewhere else. I consider and finally shake my head.

“Feet hurt!” I yell. He looks so pained that I laugh and shove his shoulder. “Go! I’ll be fine!”

“Sure?”

“Yes!”

He’s visibly torn. I lift a brow in challenge—I’m a grown-up, after all—and he finally relents. “Inside if you need me!”

“Okay!”

He skedaddles.

I sip my cocktail, enjoying relative solitude and the antics of drunk wedding goers. My reprieve lasts approximately three minutes before someone claims the vacant chair beside mine. When I see who it is, I gather myself to stand.

“Please,” says Damien. “Don’t leave.”

The DJ is talking to the crowd, allowing Damien’s words—and their urgent tone—to reach me. I meet his gaze, relieved it’s dark enough that I’m spared the full effect. No soul stealing. Not this time.

“What do you want, Damien?”

He reaches out as if to touch my arm. I jerk away. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I just… You look so beautiful tonight. You take my breath away.”

“Save it,” I snap. “What do you want?”

He drags a restless hand through his hair. I used to love his hair. Now I’d love to take a razor to it. His eyes scan my face, settling on my mouth.

“I miss you. How are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fantastic. Now fuck off.”

“Please don’t say that,” he says fervently. He grabs my nearest hand between his palms. His guitar-string-calloused fingertips stroke mine. I feel a jolt of old, unwanted emotion, potent enough that I don’t pull away.

“I miss you,” he repeats.

“Money not keeping your bed warm at night?” But my words aren’t as sharp as intended. Panic twists in my gut. Numbness recedes. Pins and needles everywhere.

Damien touches my face and I flinch.

“Ms. Sands,” says a deep, wry voice. A familiar voice. Relief pours through me as I turn and look up at Alex Hughes. “A dance?”

“Y-yes,” I stammer. Damien’s grip on my hand tightens. I yank ineffectually.

“We’re talking,” he snarls at Alex.

Alex merely raises a brow, glancing meaningfully at my efforts to pull away. “Let her go, Mr. Young.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

Broad, tuxedoed shoulders shrug. “Just a man claiming a promised dance.”

I don’t correct him. Finally, Damien’s grip slackens enough that I’m free. I jolt to my feet and stumble into Alex’s chest. His fingers slide around my waist, holding me to him. I’m putty in his hands as he turns and guides me away.

After a few moments, his lips graze my ear. “Was I right, doing that?”

I can’t suppress a shiver. He smells incredibly good, and his body is a furnace against my cooler skin.

“Yes, thank you.”

He leans back, grinning wickedly. “About that dance…”

The music is a thumping techno beat. On the one hand, it isn’t as threatening as a slow dance. On the other, I seriously doubt something as minor as song selection will stop Alex Hughes from getting what he wants.

As I mentally twiddle my thumbs, he watches me with a knowing smile teasing his lovely lips.

I blurt, “This isn’t going anywhere.”

“I disagree,” he says easily.

“I’m not who you think I am,” I try.

An eyebrow quirks. “Are you CIA or something?”

I duck my face to hide a smile. Focus, Thea. Once more in control, I look up. In my lapse, he’s stepped closer. My eyes are in perfect alignment with his mouth. His hands, still on my waist, tighten minutely.

But I’m not a normal girl. I’m trained. Compartmentalized. Desire blooms low in my body but it’s distant. Like watching a thunderstorm from the safety of a house.

“Very smooth,” I say, staring into his eyes. In the shifting lights, I can’t see their color. “Does the caveman approach work often for you?”

He tilts his head and laughs, but doesn’t release my waist. Eyes twinkling down at me, he replies, “I’ve never been tempted to try it before.”

“Don’t change on my account.”

His smile slowly fades. “What would you do, Ms. Sands, if I said I want to?”

I frown. “Want to what? Throw me over your shoulder and take me to your cave?” I blink, surprised by my lack of filter.

Definitely buzzed.

Eyes narrowed and burning, he says, “I’m certain I’d enjoy that.”

The thunderstorm gathers force; lightning strikes dangerously near. I strike back, “Until I kicked you in the balls.”

Nonplussed, he grins. “Dance with me, Thea.”

“We’re on a first name basis now?”

“Now, yes,” he says, “Dance with me.”

“Do you always get what you want?”

“Yes,” he says, unapologetically.

I sigh. “One dance.”

“Two.”

“None.”

He laughs. “Okay, one.”

Before I can speak, he kisses me on the forehead. And while I’m still reeling from the contact, he seizes my hand and drags me onto the dance floor. Just as the music shifts to a slow song.