“Dara.”
My eyes flip to his. His gaze catches them like an award-winning baseball player and holds them hostage.
“Never apologize for saying what you feel,” he says, his voice quiet yet firm.
“I obviously don’t take direction well, you know. Like, the drink thing …”
He closes his eyes briefly and exhales.
A wave of frustration mixed with panic seeps into my soul. Truth be told, it’s probably mixed with champagne too, and that’s not helping things. But we’re already waist-deep in this conversation. If I don’t say all the things I want to say, there won’t be another opening.
I know that for a fact.
He will make sure of it.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” I say. “I shouldn’t be standing here with your arms around my waist while I admit to you how much I wanted this very thing.”
A shadow filters across his features.
“But …” I bite back a lump in my throat. “But tonight, I feel more like myself than I’ve felt in a long time. I feel … happy. Interesting. Wanted. Not wanted by you in a way you don’t mean, but I feel like my presence is wanted here.”
Tears form in the corners of my eyes, and I blink them back. I will them not to fall.
The sudden eruption of emotion is unexpected, and I curse myself for not managing it better. But here I am, and here all of the feelings are, and—as is common in my life—there’s not a whole lot that I can do about it.
“Your gramps was so sweet. Your mom is so kind. Larissa was a doll. The only person who hasn’t been nice to me is Rosie because she thinks I’m trying to steal her man.”
Wade grins.
I take a deep breath. “Little does she know that’s out of the question.”
“You think you know things that you know nothing about.”
I rip my gaze from him and study the buttons on his shirt instead. I’m flushed, both from the champagne and from this conversation.
“I know that I shouldn’t be talking about this with you,” I say. “Because tomorrow morning when I wake up and remember tonight, I’ll kick myself for embarrassing myself like this.”
“Dara—”
“And I also know that I’m not emotionally ready for conversations like this. My life is still messy. I’m too vulnerable. If I’m going to put forth the effort to figure out any man, it should be my grandfather.” I laugh, more from humiliation than levity. “Strangely, he’s not too interested in me either.”
Wade stops moving. “Dara.”
I look up. “What?”
He licks his lips.
His palms press heavily into the fabric of my dress as he studies me so intently that I try to look away. But I can’t.
“I just wanted to get to know you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for pushing you.”
“I …”
He releases one hand and runs it through his hair. Frustration is evident in his face as he sweeps the room, looking for an out. Probably. I don’t really know what he’s thinking, or else I wouldn’t be in this situation to start with.
“Are you about ready to go?” he asks.
The question throws me off. I step away from him and wish I could fall into a black hole.
“I’m ready whenever you are,” I say.
He nods. “I’ll … I’ll be right back.”
“Sure.”
He walks a few paces to a man standing next to the door. They have a quick conversation before Wade steps outside.
I dart off the dance floor. Partly because I’m ready to cry and partly out of defiance, I take a glass of champagne from a server and down most of it in one gulp.
The alcohol goes down smooth and sweet. The bubbles in my stomach dilute the ball of tension that has twisted itself into an unforgiving knot over the past few minutes.
“Hello,” a man says, coming up next to me. Beside him is a woman wearing one of the blush-colored bridesmaid dresses. “I’m Oliver Mason, Wade’s brother. This is Shaye.”
“We met earlier,” I say, hoping my voice sounds normal. “It’s nice to meet you, Oliver.”
“I’d say that I’ve heard a lot about you, but you obviously know Wade, so you know that’s a lie,” Oliver jokes.
I try to laugh. “He doesn’t give much away, does he?”
“He wants to kill us half the time,” Oliver says. “But there’s a reason Holt chose him to give a speech tonight.”
Shaye nods. “I was surprised that he agreed.”
Me too.
The longer I stand with members of Wade’s family, the more of an imposter I feel like I am. I’m not here with him—not like they think. Hell, he didn’t even invite me.
It doesn’t matter that I feel alive when I’m with him. It matters even less that I think he feels the same way. Because he won’t admit it. Not now, not ever.
“It was nice meeting you, Oliver,” I say, setting my glass on a passing tray. “But Wade mentioned being ready to leave, and I don’t know where he went.”