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"Tess?" I look directly at her, daring her to meet my eyes.

She glances up briefly. "No, thank you."

"They have that Pinot Grigio you like," I add.

"I'm fine with my champagne." She lifts her nearly empty glass and turns back to Mrs. Roberts.

I retreat to the bar, ordering a double of Macallan. The bartender slides it across the polished surface, and I take a larger sip than I should have.

"Woman troubles?" he asks, with the knowing look of someone who's witnessed countless wedding dramas from behind the safety of a bar.

"Is it that obvious?"

He shrugs. "Only to those of us who've been there."

I down the rest of my drink and order another, turning to observe Tess and her horse friends. They've been joined by a fourth woman, younger, wearing a red dress cut low enough to catch the attention of several nearby men. But it's Tess whodraws my eye. The way she uses her hands when she speaks about something she's passionate about. The slight tilt of her head when she listens intently.

I finish my second scotch and decide that enough is enough. I make my way back to the group.

"Ladies," I say, forcing brightness into my voice, "I hate to interrupt, but they're about to cut the cake, and I promised Jack’s mom I’d take some candid photos. Tess, would you mind helping me? You've got a better eye for composition than I do."

It's a thin excuse, but a reasonable one. Tess hesitates, clearly trying to find a way to decline without seeming rude.

"Oh, you must!" Mrs. Sullivan insists. "We've monopolized you long enough, dear."

Tess's shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly. "Of course," she says tightly. "Excuse me, ladies."

She follows me toward the center of the room, maintaining a careful distance. When we're out of earshot, I stop and turn to her.

"Are we going to talk about what's going on?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

"There's nothing to talk about," she says, scanning the room as if looking for escape routes. "And they're not cutting the cake yet. The photographer is still setting up."

"I know. I just needed an excuse to get you alone for five minutes."

She crosses her arms. "Charlie?—"

The DJ's voice booms through the speakers, announcing the cake cutting, and Tess's expression shifts to relief.

"Show time," she says, already moving away from me.

I stand there for a moment, watching her weave through the crowd, putting as much distance between us as possible. The frustration that's been building all day flares into somethingsharper. I'm not imagining this. She's deliberately avoiding me, shutting me out, and I have no idea why.

What I do know is that I'm done playing this game. Whatever is going on with Tess, it's time she tells me directly instead of treating me like some stranger she's stuck with at a wedding. I follow her, my patience wearing thinner with each step.

Chapter 14

Tess

My fingers dance across the strings, muscle memory taking over as Brahms flows through the air. I'm lost in the music when I look up and see him—Charlie Astor—sitting in the front row, his blue eyes fixed on me, a bouquet of pink peonies resting on his lap.

My bow stutters across the strings, a momentary falter, as my heart slams against my ribs like a drum. Why is he here? After how I treated him at Jack and Sky’s wedding, I figured he'd written me off completely. I force my focus back to the score.

The conductor's baton arcs through the air, pulling us through the third movement. We've rehearsed this piece for weeks, but I’m having a hard time focusing.

Soft pink peonies. My absolute favorite. How could he possibly know that? Jane. It has to be Jane.

A memory flashes, sharp and uncomfortable: last weekend, the wedding in San Francisco. The gorgeous hotel with its sweeping view of the bay. Charlie in a tailored suit that made his shoulders look even broader, approaching me with two champagne flutes and that smile…damn, that smile.