“Holt has always been someone I can count on,” I say into the microphone, trying my best to focus on the task at hand—and not the woman sitting right beside me. “He’s superbly intelligent, decidedly rational, and an incredible businessman. He values logic and wisdom, and if there was a problem with anything, Holt could find the solution.”
I take another breath and glance at Holt. He’s a damn good man.
I know what has to be said next.
“I have admired this about him throughout my life,” I say. “But when he told us that he was going to hop on a jet and fly to Chicago to convince Blaire to marry him, I thought he was out of his mind.”
A chuckle ripples around the greenhouse.
“But now, as I watch him with Blaire, I realize something,” I say.
My eyes lock with Holt’s, and an understanding passes between us—something of respect and loyalty—that only we understand.
“I realize that he was right,” I say. “He was right to go to Blaire because she fulfills something in his life that only she can.”
Dara’s hand flexes against the back of my thigh, and whatever I was going to say next is gone.
“With that,” I say, finding a way to wrap up the speech, “I would like to welcome Blaire into the family.”
I hand the microphone back to the woman who brought it to me and sit back in my chair. Holt and Blaire’s family and friends clap, cheering on the newlyweds.
On cue, dishes are placed in front of us. Glasses are filled. Silverware clinks against the sides of china as the reception dinner kicks off.
I gather myself, grateful no one is staring at me after that show, and can breathe again.
Dara leans in, filling my senses with her presence.
“Hey,” she says, her hair swishing against my suit. “That was a great speech.”
“Yeah.”
“It was.” She giggles. “I think you should be a professional speech giver.”
I look at her warily. “Do you now?”
She grins.
I stretch my arm across the back of her chair. Sitting this way, she appears nestled in the crook of my arm, and even though I try not to dwell on it, I can’t stop.
She looks beautiful cozied up to me and completely natural in the midst of the Masons and our friends. If only I wasn’t me …
“Wade?” she asks, her voice quiet.
“Yes?”
Her grin turns from sweet to sinful. It heats my blood as I pull my arm away, needing distance again.
“Are you going to dance with me tonight?” she asks.
Damn this woman.
I face the table. “How about you drink your wine and stop talking?”
Her laughter mixes with the weight of her hand on my forearm.
Maybe it’s the festivities.
Maybe it’s the whiskey.
Maybe it’s her.
But something tells me that tonight is going to get out of control.
Fast.
TWENTY-TWO
DARA
I still can’t believe this is real.
Dinner has been whisked away. The cake has been cut. Wade commented on the extravagance of the dessert, making it clear he wasn’t a fan. I, on the other hand, argued that it was beautiful and a once-in-a-lifetime thing. It should be extravagant.
We agreed to disagree.
The sun has set, and golden-hued lights glow from strands strung overhead. Brilliant chandeliers adorn the center of the venue, casting a radiant sparkle on the glass walls. The ambiance creates a sophisticated, beautiful vibe. It makes me feel beautiful by association.
Wade catches my eye as he stands with a group of men, all of whom hold a glass of liquor. He nods in the slightest way as if acknowledging and answering the question rolling around in my head—has he been watching me this whole time?
I swear that I can feel his gaze following me around the room with every move I make. If we’re together and conversing with someone, he stands close to me. They might be talking about the stock market or acquiring real estate—things I know nothing about. But when I speak, Wade listens as though I’m the resident expert. He has treated me with a marked preciousness that I didn’t expect. That I’m not complaining about. But despite all of the attention and respect he’s shown me, he’s made an infuriating effort to keep just enough of a distance.
My core burns as his gaze sears into mine from across the room. The heat that’s built up in my body from the moment I saw him standing on my front porch might make me melt. I can’t understand Wade Mason. I can’t fathom why he holds himself back when I know—I’m almost positive—that the energy he’s giving is anything but platonic.
And that was fine for a while. Platonic totally worked for me in a past-tense sort of way because right now, seeing him in that bespoke-fit suit and looking at me like that—I’m over platonic.
Fuck. That.
I narrow my gaze at him. The corner of his lip quirks. To hide it, he lifts his glass to his mouth and takes a sip of his drink.
Good-looking bastard.
“What are they doing?” Larissa stands beside me, amusement etched in her voice. “Tell me they’re not.”
I pull my gaze away from Wade and look at his cousin who introduced herself just before Wade’s rant about the cake.
“Who is they and tell you they are not what?” I ask, switching my brain back to the present.
“Them.”
She points at the dance floor just as I hear the first few notes of Ginuwine’s “Pony” being blasted through the otherwise prim and proper event.
Everyone turns toward the commotion on the dance floor. A crowd has gathered around the edge, making space for the three men in custom-fit tuxedos to … dance.
Larissa turns to me. “Aunt Siggy is going to kill them,” she says, laughing. “I can’t believe Boone had the guts to pull this off.”
I look at Holt. Amusement meets mortification is written on his face. He shakes his head and holds up a glass toward the dance floor.
“Who is that with Boone?” I ask, taking in the other two.
“Lincoln Landry and Peck Ward. Lincoln is a family friend, and Peck is Blaire’s cousin, I think.”
I gasp. “Lincoln Landry as in the Lincoln Landry? The baseball player?”
She nods, confused.
“Of course, he’s here,” I mumble, my mind blown.
Lincoln is tall, dark, and lean—definitely an athlete’s body. The third man, the one who must be Peck, has lighter-colored hair and is not quite as tall with a trim and strong I do physical labor physique.
Both are absolutely gorgeous.
The blond one undoes his tie as he gyrates toward the crowd. He takes a woman’s hand and pulls her into the circle with them, much to her embarrassment. A circle of people near them start shouting, “Peck! Peck!” This only encourages him.
Lincoln turns toward us, making eyes at a woman near me. An older, polished lady shakes her finger at him. “Lincoln Landry—behave yourself!” She then turns to the woman he was making faces at. “Your husband is out of control. I didn’t raise him to act like this.” And then, after a long pause, they both laugh.
Not to be outdone, Boone hops onto a chair.