by J. R. Ward
“Let’s sit here.” Thank God Deandra hadn’t done place cards. “It’s close to the exit.”
“Good call.”
As others arrived, his old fraternity brothers got rowdier and rowdier until their voices rang in his ears and his temper got short. The other firefighters and SWAT guys seemed to agree with him, the crew becoming quieter and quieter.
And then Deandra and Moose came in.
The bride’s eyes went directly to Danny, and then narrowed on Anne.
Don’t you dare, Deandra, he thought.
Turning to Anne, he said, “So . . .”
She took a sip from her glass of wine. “So?”
When their eyes met, the other people disappeared. The waiters filling water glasses dematerialized. The restaurant became as fog, something vague and indistinct.
Her stare was all that he saw.
As she shook her head, he told himself it didn’t mean anything. He knew better, though. She was closing the door on what had been started the night before in her living room—but he didn’t think it was going to be so easy to set that electricity aside.
Genies out of bottles, and all that.
Except then he thought about his reputation. Anne was not the kind of woman who’d let herself get used—not that that was his intent with her.
Far from it.
Food came in waves, great platters of pastas and meats set in the center of the table. From time to time, Danny looked down the way at the bride and groom. First they were arguing, then Deandra gave the guy the silent treatment.
But just before dessert came out, Moose started to talk at the woman urgently.
Next thing anyone knew, she was stroking his face and kissing him like she was checking the structural integrity of his molars with her tongue. After that? The bride held the groom’s hand and sparkled like she was a disco ball. All apparently was well . . . for the next foreseeable ten minutes.
“Dannyboy?” Moose called out from across the table. “You ready for your speech?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Danny stood up and clanked his dessert spoon on the side of his water glass. As people kept talking, he shouted, “Shut up.”
Pin. Drop.
As all eyes swung in his direction, he cleared his throat. But then his mind went utterly blank—which made sense, he guessed, given that Anne was in his peripheral vision, and the only person he truly saw.
Picturing her eyes as they stared up at him the night before, he started to speak, the words not coming from his brain, but somewhere behind his sternum.
“Many of you know that I lost my twin brother, John Thomas, in a fire three years ago.” All of the firefighters around the table twitched in their seats—and Anne jerked to attention. “I don’t talk a lot about it. But he’s with me every day and night—or the fact that he’s not here with me is more like it. For those of us in this dangerous profession, we live with the possibility of loss every time we go out on an alarm. We know we can walk into a building or a home and not come out. It gives you a lot of perspective on how short life is, and that means good times and good people—and a good woman . . . is a rare thing that should not be wasted. I never believed in love. For the longest time, I thought it was just a word, a title folks gave to daydreams and misconceptions about destiny, a lie folks told to themselves to make them feel solid in this imperfect, unreliable, and mean-ass world.”
He took a deep breath and focused properly on Anne. Then he looked away so people wouldn’t catch on. “Now, though, I know it can happen between two people. And it doesn’t have to make sense because it’s not about logic. And it doesn’t have to have good timing because forever is like infinity, without beginning or end. And it doesn’t have to be defined because truth is like faith—it just is.”
Abruptly, Danny realized he was talking to Anne instead of the intendeds, so he got himself back on track and raised his glass. “So, let’s toast to Moose and Deandra. I can’t think of a better guy to have my back, and I wish the both of you the best of luck.” Because they were going to need it. “And happiness, too.”
“To Moose and Deandra,” a number of others chimed in lackadaisically.
“To a wedding night on all fours,” one of the frat boys shouted.
“Is that Moose or Deandra you’re talkin’ ’bout!” another of the drunks added.
As Danny sat back down, he was aware of the bride shooting daggers in the direction of the Barstool Sports peanut gallery—and he was willing to bet Moose was going to catch another round of pissed off from her.
But that wasn’t his problem. All he cared about was Anne.
Tonight was the night. He was going to tell her how he felt. One way or another . . . he was going to lay his cards on the table and pray she felt the same.
Or at least didn’t slam the proverbial door in his face.
Don’t miss the next installment of
the wedding from hell
Coming August 2018 from Piatkus!
Anne Ashburn is a woman consumed: by her troubled past, her family’s scorched legacy, and her current case: chasing a deadly killer.
Find out what happens next for Anne in Consumed, available October 2018 from Piatkus!
Consumed
* * *
ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY!
COPYRIGHT
Published by Piatkus
ISBN: 978-0-3494-2218-3
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Love Conquers All, Inc.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Cover photography © Alfonse Pagano/Taxi/Getty Images
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