Just to be safe, though, I go in nice and easy. I’d like to avoid hitting on another man’s bride.
What am I saying? I’m not going to hit on her, period. I’m merely saying hello to an old flame.
I close the distance, leaning a hip against the bar. “Hello, blast from the past. And happy . . . Saturday night?” I arch a brow, give a crooked smile, hoping maybe that’s the start of what she needs. A friendly face. Someone to lighten the mood.
Katie turns to me in slow motion, taking her sweet time. Her blue eyes are edged with sadness and fury. But when they lock on mine, recognition sparks, and a wide range of emotions dances across her face.
Surprise. Embarrassment. And maybe a touch of excitement?
“Or we can be more precise and call it Happy Just-Escaped-Marriage-To-A-Cheater day,” she deadpans.
Whoa.
Someone does not mince words.
Who the hell would do that to her?
I blow out a long stream of air and scrub a hand over my jaw. “They ought to have cards for that,” I say, trying to match her mood. “Say goodbye to the double-crossing, duplicitous dick.”
She lifts her shot glass, a tiny laugh escaping her lips. “Yes. And the inside could say Congratulations to the jilted bride,” she says, hurt leaking into her tone now.
My heart screams for her. “I hate that this happened to you, but I’m glad you got out in the nick of time.” I park myself on a stool and do the one useful thing I can—I lift two fingers at the bartender. “I’ll take a shot too.”
“Coming right up,” he says.
I turn to Katie. “I cannot let you drink alone. Not on your wedding night. It’s just not right. I refuse to do it. So you have a just escaped marriage to the traitor drinking buddy.”
She pats the bar, heaving a sigh. “Then drink up, partner.”
The bartender slides over a tequila for me. “Here you go, sir.”
I slap down some bills. “And I’ll take care of her bar tab tonight,” I say.
Katie shakes her head. “I’ve got it.”
I scoff, patting my chest. “Gentleman here. It’s the least I can do on your Great Escape Day.”
She holds up her hand in surrender. “I have no argument left in me. Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. And by the way, on behalf of all men everywhere, I’d like to apologize for whatever that dickhead of a guy did. He is clearly an asshat of the highest order, and he does not deserve you. That’s just a fact.”
She lifts her glass in agreement, then downs the shot. “He is, but that’s not the worst of it, Harlan.”
“Oh, you remember my name?” I tease before I knock back my drink too.
She narrows her eyes, shoots me a c’mon look. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I’m just happy you did . . . Katie.” It comes out flirtier than I expected. But maybe flirting is what she needs tonight?
Her blue eyes widen. “Are you trying to impress me by remembering mine?”
“Did that impress you? If so, check out the other details I remember.” I count off on my fingers. “You’re from Texas, you love fashion and flirting, and I sorely missed the chance for a second date with you.”
I put that last nugget out there because . . . why the hell not? Maybe tonight is the perfect time to let the woman know she was wanted something fierce.
Katie shoots me a skeptical glance. “Now you’re just blowing smoke up my skirt.”
“I assure you, no smoke is being blown. But I do like your skirt.” I curl my fingers to beckon the rest of the story from her. “Go on. You were about to tell me what is the worst part of today. Also, if you need to punch anyone or anything, my chest is a brick wall.” I pat my pecs, inviting her to toss her fist my way. “Feel free to take it out on me.”
Another small laugh falls from her lips, and I feel like I’m winning at something—at making a woman who’s had a terrible day feel a tiny bit better.
Katie breathes deep, yoga-style, like she’s inhaling a namaste to form the next words: “I walked in on the groom kissing the mother of the bride.”
What?
The revelation spins my head around, horror-movie style, with shocked disbelief.
That can’t be true.
“Tell me that’s a joke,” I say. Because how could it be anything else?
She sighs and shakes her head, her lips quivering slightly. My heart lurches toward her.
“I’m not joking,” she says in a terribly sad whisper.
I can’t resist giving her some comfort. I reach for her arm, squeeze it, rub my palm along her soft skin. “That is the worst. People say things are the worst—bad parking spot, terrible coffee. But this scenario is the actual worst, and I am so damn sorry it happened to you.”