Hugo stands in a throng of bridesmaids with his usual charm, making the women blush. He even disarms the men with that grin, the one that invites you to share in some undefined secret, looking old-world debonair in a tailored tux, his black hair in artful disarray.
We have that in common, the ability to make friends in any room. The ability to charm our way through every woman and most of the men. While meaning none of it, feeling nothing.
The relief in his dark eyes, that’s real enough. “Thought you might not come.”
“I said I would.”
He gives a soft huff of laughter, looking away. “You left early last night.”
Lust. Anger. They merged into something ugly last night, something that had almost made a young woman the target of my revenge. I could have turned into my father. Maybe I did. “I made an appearance. Same as I’m doing now.”
He glances at my tux. “I suppose you visited Mrs. Cheung.”
Someone should alert the media. The next diet craze—alcoholism, thanks to the research by Sutton Mayfair. Six weeks of bingeing stripped away every spare centimeter of space, leaving my frame lean and hard. “She didn’t appreciate me showing up without an appointment.”
“I’m sure she didn’t,” Hugo says, his voice mild.
He’s the one who discovered Mrs. Cheung when we were broke as hell and trying not to look that way. The tailor shop squats between a dumpling house and a Chinese movie theater, mostly hidden by gnarled bamboo plants allowed to run wild.
We can afford Italian designers and bespoke suits now, but we like to remember where we came from.
“She charged me a ridiculous amount of money. And tried to set me up on a date with her niece.” She also gave me a rather colorful setdown in Cantonese while she tucked and trimmed my tux yesterday. A small price to pay to appear presentable today.
That’s the whole point of this, pretending nothing is wrong. Helping the happy couple get married without knowing they tore me apart.
“Her niece can do better. Did you tell her you’re one step away from liver failure?”
“Now, that’s a goddamn dirty lie. My father drank for forty years, and his liver was just fine. It was the tree that got in the way of his truck that did him in.”
“Your father was a drunk and a bastard. He should have been put down like a rabid animal.”
“Funny. Christopher said the same thing once.”
“Well, Christopher is my friend, too. Even if I’m very angry at him.”
“Because he had the fucking audacity to fall in love?”
“Non. He was in love with her for many years. He only decided to do anything about it when you expressed an interest in her. That’s why I’m angry at him.”
“Don’t be,” I say, my voice flat. “I asked her out first to get a reaction from him.”
“Then you’re both assholes.”
“Yes. Only, he’s better at it. But you know what? Even knowing that, I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“Well, I’d have started drinking sooner. That’s the important thing, recognizing where I went wrong. And making up for lost time.”
Christopher Bardot and I were business partners first.
We became both friends and enemies. In one night, with the woman we both loved between us, we almost became lovers. He’s going to marry that woman, and I have to smile and laugh and pretend like my stomach isn’t ripped into shreds.
Something shifts in the air. I feel the change echo inside me. I turn.
Ashleigh stands there, wearing that pale gold dress, wobbling on cream-colored Louboutins, looking like a lost lamb. If there were any mercy in this world, some priest would come to shield her from sinners like me. Maybe they’d lock her up in a nunnery where no one could touch her, no one could hurt her.
There isn’t mercy in this world.
There are only wolves like me, and we love to tear lambs apart.
“Introduce me to your friend,” Hugo murmurs as she approaches.
“Don’t be an ass,” I say, but it’s too late. Of course he’s going to be an ass. The very specific Hugo Belmont kind of ass that charms women out of their panties.
“Magnifique,” he says, his hands fluttering around her like butterfly wings. “You look like an angel standing here beneath the stained glass window.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “Thank you.”
“This is Hugo. My friend.” Though the word friend feels like an overstatement when he smiles at her and she smiles back. I consider dunking him in the baptismal pool. I want all her smiles. Which is strange. I’ve never been jealous with my lovers before. Even with Harper and Christopher, I wanted them together. I just wanted to be with them.
Hugo kisses her hand with outsized chivalry, as if they’re in royal court in the eighteenth century. “And what is your name? Sutton has been keeping you in hiding, I think.”
“We haven’t known each other long. I’m Ashleigh.”
That earns me a meaningful glance from Hugo. First name only. Ashleigh. Only a small step up from what do you want my name to be? “I’m going to leave her with you,” I say, a warning in my voice. “During the ceremony. Don’t scare her off.”
“Me?” Hugo gives a wounded look. “I think you are the scary one between us.”
A musical laugh that belongs to Ashleigh. It sounds young and innocent. And I realize that I’ve never made her laugh. Only Hugo’s done that. Jealousy burns my throat.
Blue appears at the front door. He’s wearing a tux and a discreet earpiece, which means he’s working the wedding. He owns a security company in Tanglewood. We’re good friends. More than that, we’re brothers. Dear old Dad sired a handful of bastards. Most of them had to grow up with their mothers—or in Blue’s case, with a resentful father who knew he’d been cuckolded.
There’s sympathy in his pale blue eyes. “We need your help.”
Maybe Christopher got cold feet after all. “Where is he?”
“Not him. The bride. Harper’s asking for you.”
My heart slows to silence for one disbelieving beat. Followed by a rapid rat-tat-tat pulse. She’s asking for me, when she picked some other man. I should tell her no. I should tell her to go to hell. Harper’s asking for you. “Isn’t that Avery’s job?”
She’s the maid of honor. There are also a handful of bridesmaids who can help, surely. I shouldn’t even be a guest at this wedding, but somehow I’m the best man. Now this.
Blue gives a slight cough. “She’s locked herself in the steeple. Alone. She says the only person she wants to talk to is you. Of course we can break the lock, but—”
“Christ. I’ll go.”
A featherlight touch on my arm stops me. Ashleigh looks uncertain and painfully brave in the jeweled light of the stained glass window. “Should I come with you?”
Relief whispers through me. I’m going to plunge into cold, black water, and here’s this beautiful rope to hold on to, waiting for me to find my way back. She doesn’t know what she does to me with her fragile courage and pale skin. I can see the veins at the hollow of her neck. I can see the throb of her pulse. I want to swallow her whole. “Nah. You wait here.”
Her peach-tinted lips reveal her intentions before she speaks, and I learn something else, this girl is stubborn. That’s even more alluring than her bravery. “It’s no trouble. And besides, you might need help.”
The realization hits me like a freight train. Two hundred thousand pounds going at the speed of sound. She’s trying to protect me. Homeless and battered. She’s trying to protect me.
I’m humbled in front of her. Destroyed. “Sure,” I manage to say without choking on the word. Sure, I’m going to see the woman I love. Sure, I’m bringing the woman I throat fucked last night. Everything is upside down and broken, but sure sure sure. “Come, then.”
Blue directs us to a narrow spiral staircase tucked into the northwest corner. The metal rail groans when I climb the steps. It doesn’t w
ant to hold my weight. In contrast it’s almost silent when Ashleigh follows behind. She’s light as a goddamn butterfly.
When I get to the top of the stairs, I find the door wedged open. Through the slit in the door I see a woman in a puffy white dress. She has her back turned to me, her feet slung over the edge of what must be the bell tower. I’m half-surprised she didn’t do a fireman’s slide down the rope into the congregation. She could play some rock-amped version of the wedding march. Everything about this wedding screams traditional, which isn’t Harper—is it? Or maybe I didn’t really know her. Maybe I never walked through her metaphorical house, touching the statues and the books.
Harper doesn’t move as I step into the small space. We’re alone here. I glance back. Ashleigh stops at the threshold, leaning against the doorframe—either reluctant to intrude or wanting to give us privacy. “Hey,” I murmur, shoving my hands into my pockets.
She doesn’t look at me, but I can see her pretty lips twist in some unnamable emotion—regret? Anger? Guilt? “I’m surprised you came. I thought you wouldn’t want to.”
“There’s a rule about brides. You can’t say no to them on their wedding day.”
Her hazel eyes are beautiful. Mysterious. “So I should ask for the moon?”
Part of me knows she’s goading me. The other part’s ready to be goaded. “I gave you the moon, Harper. You didn’t want it. Not from me, anyway.”
A sad twist of her lips. “You hate me.”
Three words, and I’m undone. “Of course I don’t hate you.”
Then what’s your excuse for fucking Ashleigh like that? A dark voice in my head sounds like my father. Hating Harper wouldn’t have been an excuse, but it would have been something. I have no reason for using her like that, no way to redeem myself.
I gently push aside the lace of her wedding train so I can sit on the hand-scraped bench. “And even if I did, that would say more about me than you. You’re allowed to love someone else. You’re allowed to choose someone else. You deserve to be happy, Harper.”
A notch forms between her eyes. “Could I have been happy with you?”
“No.” A note of surprise coloring my voice.
It’s not the realization that she wouldn’t be happy with me that’s a surprise. It’s the realization that I couldn’t have been happy with her. Harper’s gorgeous and glamorous and complex. Everything I thought I wanted in a woman. But she didn’t know me. She’d never run her fingers over the metal mane of a horse. She’d never stretched hard enough to shiver in my bed.
That’s the woman waiting on the stairs.
I glance back and find her leaning on the railing, a look of sympathy in her liquid brown eyes. God, she’s pitying me. I fucked her mouth raw, and she’s standing there feeling bad because I love another woman. I really am a bastard.
“Why did you want to see me?” I ask, without breaking eye contact with Ashleigh.
Harper gives a huff of laughter. “I suppose I didn’t want to start my marriage with something dark at the core. That’s what I told myself. But maybe I thought you would… be with us. Weren’t we good together, all three? I was surprised when you didn’t join us last night.”
Ashleigh’s eyes widen in shock. Weren’t we good together, all three? Yes, that’s right. I fucked a woman. I fucked a man. A big part of me wants to do it again. Forever and ever, amen. Except I wouldn’t be the one standing in front of the altar. It would be Christopher and Harper, the real couple. And me, the dirty little secret in their bed.
Harper turns and goes still. “You… brought a date.”
She doesn’t just mean I brought a date to the wedding. I brought a date to the steeple. I brought this woman, whether shield or comfort or both, when facing the woman I lost. “Yes.”
“She’s very pretty.” The words sound assessing. “No wonder you didn’t want to play last night. Why didn’t you bring her with you? We could have shared.”
Fuck no. The response rips through me, primal and violent. No one touches Ashleigh, not even Christopher. Not even Harper. “Be nice.”
That earns me a small smile. “I thought you had to say yes to the bride on her wedding day. What if I want a little kiss? It would be a nice present for Christopher.”
“No.”
Her expression turns speculative. “How long have you been together?”
“A few weeks,” Ashleigh says, which is a lie. She’s saying it to spare me, so I don’t have to explain that I picked her up on the street sixteen hours ago. Or maybe she’s saying it to spare herself. Either way, she looks convincing. “It was love at first sight.”
Harper blinks, taken aback for a moment. Then she looks at me—searching, searching. For what? Whatever she finds makes her grin, lopsided and unrepentant. “I have a wedding to get to, you guys. What are we waiting for?”
She hops up, almost tripping over her white frothy gown. I lean down to yank lace out of a splintery clutch. On her way out of the steeple, she gives me a sly glance. Then she leans to whisper something to Ashleigh. A second later she’s whooshing down the rickety stairs.
I frown at Ashleigh. “What did she say to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Ashleigh…”
She pushes up on her toes and gives me a kiss on my cheek, the warm brush of her lips unbearably soft. It feels impulsive and caring. Affectionate, when there should only be filthy sex between us. “Don’t worry,” she says, her mouth an inch from mine. “I’m not going anywhere. For I have promises to keep.”
“And miles to go before I sleep,” I say, reciting the poem.
“And miles to go before I sleep.”
That’s when I realize I’m grasping her wrist. Only intense willpower forces me to let go of her, finger by finger. Then she’s skipping down the stairs. I follow her, bemused and hungry, wondering why I’m more focused on getting Ashleigh naked again than the woman I love walking down the aisle. She’s like some addictive substance. The more I have her, the more I want her. The more I need her.
11
Ashleigh
Sutton leads me back to his friend Hugo, the charming man who’s now holding a small child. A woman with pale skin and a wild spray of red hair leans against him. She looks like a fairy sprite with a dark satyr. “Hugo told me we had a guest,” she says to me, smiling.
My stomach clenches. What would she think of me if she knew the truth? There are so many people here, it feels like at least someone might recognize me. I should probably be struck by lightning for entering a church, except I stopped believing in God a long time ago. My father was a religious man. He donated money. The priest called him a close friend. It stopped feeling like a betrayal when I accepted that it was all make believe, as real as fairy sprites.
“Hi,” I say, feeling shy. “I’m Ashleigh.”
“Beatrix. You can call me Bea.” The child squirms, and she takes the little girl with a soft clucking sound. “Darling. Won’t you relax? Teething,” she confides to me. Her friendly manner makes it easy for me to calm down. No one will recognize me.
“I’m sorry. Can I do something to help?” Except Hugo has already produced some half-frozen toy from his suit jacket, and the toddler grabs for it greedily. She sucks on the blue plastic with an expression of intense relief. “Honestly, I need one of those.”
Bea laughs. “I think we’ll get along fine.” She glances at Sutton. “You can go.”
A queen couldn’t have dismissed someone better. Still, Sutton doesn’t leave right away. He turns to me, a notch between his golden brows. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
He’s beautiful. It’s like looking up at some old Roman statue made flesh and blood. The fact that he’s also kind and smart... how did Harper leave him? The fates always liked to play tricks. “What will you do if I say no?” I murmur. “Insist that I stand next to you at the altar?”
A slow smile. “Maybe so. You don’t think the priest would mind, do you?”
“No way,” I say, feeling brea
thless. “I’m sure he’d let me pass out communion, too.”
“So you were raised Catholic,” he murmurs to himself, and I realize I’ve let something slip past my defenses. While we were talking—or would that be flirting?—he saw through me.
“Of course,” I say with forced nonchalance. “All the good Catholic girls are slutty. We’re rebelling against authority and all that.”
He frowns. “You aren’t slutty.”
I turn away, embarrassed and babbling. “Aren’t I? It doesn’t matter. Shouldn’t you be with Christopher already? The ceremony will start without you.”
“Hey.” When I don’t quiet, he lifts my chin so I’m facing him. Stormy blue eyes study me. It feels like he can see right through my secrets, past my religion and my profession, into the broken heart of me. God, the irony. That’s what Harper whispered to me. Don’t break his heart again. Again, because she knows what she and Christopher did to him. I don’t have that kind of power, but I think he might break my heart.
He leans down and brushes his lips against mine—once, twice. A third time, which sends sparks of latent pleasure through my limbs. He’s going to pull away; I feel the intention in his hold. I’m not ready to release him. I press my mouth fully against his. It’s a clumsy, childish kiss, but it’s one I’m giving freely. He stills, as if I’m a wild animal. Yes, yes, that’s me. A doe. Why are they made so defenseless? All we can do is run. We stand together in unnatural stillness, connected only by the kiss. His breath brushes my skin. When I step back I feel dazed. His hand steadies me.
“Take care of her,” he murmurs to Hugo. He leaves without a backward glance.
Slowly I become aware of my surroundings—the large baptismal pool with water gently lapping, the profusion of royal blue calla lilies in elaborate, artistic arrangements. My cheeks heat with embarrassment that they saw our kiss.
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