This whole fucking day sucks. I mean, the wedding itself is enough to make me want to vomit. I figured Ella would have been over the Senator by now, but I guess the prospect of eventually being First Lady is good enough for her. Sell-out. Of course, I can’t blame her too much for that part, considering with the fact that I agreed to play along with all of this to make sure nothing happens with my trust fund.
The minister is talking, and I’m looking at Kate the entire time. Earlier, she told me she had to stop by her mother’s grave before the ceremony, and that she wanted me to go with her. I thought I couldn't possibly feel more protective of her than that night at the party, but it took everything I had not to go out there and hold her hand as she stood at the grave.
But I didn't want to intrude if she needed to do it alone. When she got back in the limo, there was a heaviness that seemed to weigh on her, and she was silent during the ride here, looking out the window the entire time.
It's impossible to take my eyes off her, where she stands across from me, sandwiched between the other bridesmaids. The other women are Ella’s vapid Hollywood friends; those girls have nothing on her. Kate makes them look like hags.
Even with the smile plastered on her face that does nothing to hide the sadness behind her eyes, she’s fucking gorgeous. Her hair is pulled up, these little pieces falling down around her face, and the strapless dress she wears exposes her collarbone and makes her look regal. Bridesmaid dresses are supposed to be ugly, aren’t they? Not on Kate.
The minister drones on and on, and my mind is stuck on what Kate said yesterday about how the two of us have to stop doing what we've been doing. It was hard to take her seriously when she followed that statement up by screwing my brains out in every position imaginable the rest of the day, but still.
The fact that she said it is bugging me. I’ve never been so hung up on a chick that I wanted to keep sleeping with her. And now, I can’t imagine not having Kate around.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Katherine
“Are people looking at us?” I lean over and whisper to Caulter, who sits beside me at the wedding party table. “I feel like people are looking at us.”
“Of course they are,” he says. “We’re at the wedding table in front of everyone. Everyone is fucking staring at us, or our parents.”
“I’m not being crazy,” I insist. I feel like people can see right through us. Like they know.
On the other side of me, one of the groomsmen leans over to talk to me. “So, Harvard in the fall, eh?”
I want to tell him to fuck off. I want to tell Caulter to fuck off, too. I am so incredibly on edge and irritable, but I swear that this is not in my head. People are looking at their cell phones a little too much. Laughing a little too much. “I’m not sure,” I say absently.
“Not sure?” he asks. “You're unsure about Harvard? Your father says you’re going pre-law.”
“Yes. Yes, of course I am.” I shake my head, completely fixated on the woman at a table toward the front who is checking her phone and showing the girl next to her. They both look over their shoulders in our direction and giggle, covering their mouths with their hands. Okay, I am not crazy here. I reach down to my bag on the floor beside the chair and open the clasp, pulling out my phone onto my lap.
Caulter glances over at me. “So rude,” he scolds.
“I’m not delusional here,” I hiss. “People are staring at us.” And it’s not just a few people, either. It’s multiple people, looking at their phones in the middle of the reception dinner. It’s like some kind of disease spreading through the crowd.
“They're probably just staring at your tits,” he whispers.
“That's funny, asshole.” I check a few of the news websites, glancing up every so often to respond to some lame question the groomsman beside me asks. There is nothing --no major terrorist event, no war that’s broken out since we started the reception.
“Why are there phones here anyway?” I ask. “Don’t celebrities hate that?”
Caulter leans over. “Your father and my mother aren’t exactly trying to avoid media attention.”
I ignore him, clearing out my internet search engine.
“And?” Caulter whispers. "What did you find?"
Then I check one of the gossip sites. And there it is, the headline emblazoned across the screen in bright red letters, just in case anyone might miss it. My heart sinks. I think I’m going to be sick.
SIBLING LOVE: HAS CAULTER STERLING MADE KATE HARRISON THE NEWEST NOTCH ON HIS BEDPOST?
It’s just a tabloid, I think. My head is swimming. It's just a stupid online tabloid with no evidence of anything. It’s nothing. Just a rumor. There were bound to be rumors.
I scroll down. There’s a photo of us, from yesterday, in the car where we’d parked, Caulter’s hand on my shoulder. Okay, at least it's not a photo of what came right after that. It's not entirely incriminating.
Damn it, I told him to not be so fucking stupid and careless. I knew I shouldn’t have been so careless.