“Perfect then. Saturday, you say?” I ask.
Holt smiles. “Yes. The ceremony starts at six. Prepare to dance all night. This is going to be one big party.”
I squeal and get to my feet. “Thank you for the invitation. I would be thrilled to come. And thank you for considering a fabulous networking opportunity too. I’m just … wow.”
“Not a problem.”
I look at Wade. He’s not smiling, but when is he ever?
“You,” I say, pointing at him, “can pick me up at four. I’m going to go find a dress and leave you two alone to … whatever it is that you came here for,” I say, waving goodbye. “Thanks again, Holt.”
He puffs out his chest. “Not a problem at all.”
I stop at the door and turn around. “Wade?”
He’s sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. He looks up at me like a sad puppy.
“Don’t worry. We’re going to have fun,” I say, tossing him a wink.
He nods ever so slightly.
That’s good enough.
I let myself out the door, unsure what Wade even wanted, and nearly skip down the hall.
SIXTEEN
WADE
“What. The fuck. Was that?” I narrow my gaze at my brother. “Please, explain.”
Holt sits back with a smug grin. “What?”
His cheekiness is fuel on a fire that’s erupting into an all-out blaze in my chest. I clench my hands at my sides to keep from smashing them on my desk.
Be calm, Wade.
I uncoil my fingers. Blood rushes to my fingertips.
The past few minutes replay through my mind so quickly that I can’t keep up. And I always keep up.
“Can you please explain to me what the hell you were thinking by inviting Dara to your fucking wedding?” I ask, my voice wavering with the anger I’m trying desperately to hold back.
Holt’s unaffected. He crosses a leg over the other and stretches an arm over the back of the chair that Dara just vacated.
“Well, I was thinking that it could be a good opportunity for her,” he says breezily. “She said she wanted to get into landscape photography and the Bartholomew Gardens—”
“Holt? Shut the hell up.”
He chuckles. “You just asked me to explain what I was thinking.”
I get to my feet. The suddenness of the movement sends my chair rolling backward until it hits the wall.
This is my fault. I held out from seeing her for a whole week. Why did I call her today? Why?
I knew having her come by was bullshit, but I did it anyway. I didn’t need to see Dara this morning. Nothing about her project was pressing or demanded that I summon her to my office. And when I sent her the text to come by, I was already conjuring up an excuse that she … and I … would buy.
This is why I don’t let my guard down. It’s never worth it.
This situation—one I can’t even start figuring out how to negate—is a product of my failure. Had I just focused on the multitude of projects on my desk and not on the sparky little brunette, then Holt wouldn’t have met her, and she wouldn’t be going to his wedding.
With me.
Fuck!
“Did you have a date?” He raises a brow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had already acquired someone to—”
“You know I didn’t have a fucking date. Stop patronizing me.”
My words don’t affect him, but he pretends they do. He leans back and presses his lips into a thin line.
“Do you not think she’s hot?” he asks. “Because she’s gorgeous, Wade.”
“No fucking shit.” I groan in frustration. “She’s my client. I can’t take a client to your wedding. When did we start mixing business and pleasure?”
He grins cheekily. “I’d correlate her with pleasure too.”
I turn away from him before I blow up.
Holt knows my reaction has nothing to do with Dara being a client. Hell, Boone has mixed business and pleasure every day since he was old enough to come to the office and pretend he was working. And Oliver? He married his executive assistant, for heaven’s sake.
Clearly, that’s not the issue.
The real issue is something that Holt doesn’t understand.
I tug at the collar of my shirt. I feel trapped—in my clothes, in the office, and in this fucking situation.
“Hey, if I overstepped …” Holt says.
When I glance at him over my shoulder, my gaze locks with his. His eyes are wary, full of concern, and a streak of sympathy rips through me.
There’s no way he could know.
I pull my chair in front of me and grip the headrest as if my life depends on it. My brain scrambles to unearth an excuse that will make sense.
“She told you that she is Bowery’s granddaughter,” I state.
Holt shrugs. “Yes. So?”
“So what’s going to happen if I take her to this family event, she reads too much into it, and then the project falls through? What happens then? What happens to your relationship with Bowery?”
He sighs and wanders around my office. I’d tell him to stop touching everything if I wasn’t afraid it would distract him from our conversation.
“She’s an adult, Wade. You didn’t invite her. I did.” He blows out a breath and stops next to a fig tree in the corner. “Look, by all accounts, I just did her a favor. She wanted an in to the gardens, and I just handed that to her. And she expressed feeling awkward, and I pointed out you would be there. She won’t be in a sea of people she doesn’t know.”
Dammit.
“Unless something is going on between the two of you that would give her some impression that there’s something more there, I think she’ll understand that this was a professional opportunity. And,” he continues, “if you think about it like that, this will probably help our situation with Bowery, if anything.”
Not what I wanted to hear. I wanted him to panic and help me find a way out of this.
“I think it’s a terrible idea,” I say through gritted teeth. “And if this does get ugly, you are handling shit with Oliver and Bowery. I’m not.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” I say back.
My brother stands tall. “I came by to ask you if you’d be up for giving a speech at the reception. I didn’t choose a best man, but I need someone to do the honors before dinner. I thought maybe you would help me with that.”
I release the air out of my lungs.
The hope in Holt’s eyes shines, and I hate that I see it—especially now. And I hate even more that this is happening on the heels of the Dara debacle because it feels like he gets one over on me. Twice.
“Do you think I want to give a speech?” I ask.
He grins. “No.”
“But you asked anyway?”
“Yes, Wade. I asked anyway.”
I hum.
“Just tell me that you’ll do it so I can get back to the office,” he says. “I’m sure you have shit to do too.”
This visit has been nothing but manipulation in its purest form.
“You opted out of being in the wedding,” Holt says. “Surely, you can find it in your cold, black heart to give a speech and pretend you’ve enjoyed being my brother for the past few decades.”
I sit at my desk. “You know, Blaire is making you soft. You used to drive a hard bargain. Now you just get sappy and expect everyone to capitulate to your wishes.”