“Thank you. I really appreciate that. My friends and my dad tried to help comfort me today. They were helpful, but even though I asked them to leave, when they did I discovered I didn’t want to be home either. So I wandered around the city alone until I stumbled across this place. It seemed”—she stops to survey the retro room—“fitting in some way. It’s the complete opposite of my wedding.” She plucks at the fabric of her dress. “Maybe that’s why I left this on. To wear it for a completely opposite purpose. Just for me on a random night.”
What she’s saying makes perfect sense. “You’re reclaiming it in a way.”
She seems to consider that, then nods. “Yes, maybe I am.”
I point to the door. “Did you want to be alone? It’ll be hard for me to go, because there’s a part of me that doesn’t feel like I can abandon you. But if you need to be alone, I’ll leave.”
Her eyes drift down to my hand on her arm. “No. Actually, I don’t want to be alone.” Her voice dips quieter. “I can’t believe this is even real.” Katie drops her forehead into her hand, drawing a shuddery breath.
I slide my arm around her, rubbing her back. “Sweetheart, he doesn’t deserve you. She doesn’t deserve you. You are light years better than those two. Look at you.”
She lifts her face, curious. “What do you mean?”
I gesture to the bombshell sitting next to me in her yards of white finery and bright pink boots. “Your ex-fiancé should have to wear a sandwich board for the rest of his life that says I lost out on a fantastic woman because I’m a stupid, shit-for-brains numb nut. Also, those boots are hot.”
With a small smile, she kicks out her right foot, showing me the fuchsia boots. “Thank you. Suffice to say, they were not part of my official wedding costume.”
That gives me a fantastic idea. “How about we call this your bowling dress?” I say, gesturing to her outfit.
She smooths a hand along the white fabric. “Why yes, this is, indeed, my bowling costume.”
I eye her dolled-up hair. “And I see you did up your hair for a night of fantastic tequila drinking with a football player.”
She rolls with the make-believe without missing a beat. “I so did.”
The smile that sneaks across her face makes me feel damn good. That is my job tonight—to cheer her all the way up.
Hell, I feel like a superhero, an agent called in for a vitally important duty. My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to cure Katie of her getting-left-at-the-altar blues.
If anyone can do it, it’s me. And if anyone deserves to feel a helluva lot better, it’s this gem of a woman.
I slap my palm on the bar. “I’m declaring it. We are having a just saved from the dickhead party. How about that, Katie? Are you in or out?”
She rolls her eyes but laughs lightly. “I’m all the way in.”
“It’s a congratulations on not marrying a flaming pile of dog shit event,” I add with an emphatic bump of my fist on the wood counter.
She gets in on the game, raising her glass high in the air. “It’s a celebration of freedom from a backstabbing, lying, cheating, awful, terrible groom and his brand-new snake of a girlfriend as they enjoy my honeymoon.”
Oh, no. Say it isn’t so. I grimace. “He took her on your honeymoon? Today?”
Katie lets out a resigned sigh. “He sure did. And I hope she enjoys taking boring, moody pictures of the Irish countryside or what-the-fuck-ever.”
That’s it. There’s nothing I won’t do to take her mind off her Officially Awful-est Day. I sweep my arm out. “Then we are celebrating you being Indiana Jones and escaping from that fiasco of a marriage one second before the boulder came rolling down on you and locked you up with a ring.”
She considers that, her brows knit. The bartender strolls by, waggles the bottle, and we lift our glasses, asking for refills.
“If I’m Indiana Jones,” Katie counters playfully, “I need a hat, don’t I?”
This woman. Even on a terrible day, her spark and fire haven’t left her. “You sure do. We’ll make it our mission to procure an Indiana Jones hat for you,” I declare.
She hums, tapping her chin. “Do you think there are any hat dealers open in the city right now?”
Where there’s a will there’s a way. Plus, we aren’t living in the middle of nowhere. Presuming she lives here again. I can’t resist finding out, even on her not-wedding night. “Are you back in the Bay Area?”
“I sure am. Moved back seven months ago.”
That makes me happy, but a little sad too. I growl, crossing my arms. “And you didn’t even look me up.”
She waggles her hand, showing me her engagement diamond. “I met him a week after I moved. Also, I’m going to sell this and donate the money. Plus, hello! You have a kid. Jillian mentions you from time to time.”