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Prologue
Three years ago
Always the bridesmaid…
This was the fourth wedding where Sasha had been forced into a horrific, frothy, itchy gown that looked terrible on her and she would have never chosen to wear.
If she was ever the bride, she wouldn’t make such awful choices.
She shoved the thought aside. The way her dating life looked, she would never receive a proposal.
Leah, today’s bride, insisted there was a reason Sasha found every man lacking. She was measuring them against an impossible standard, one that had been set more than a decade ago.
Sasha had shaken her head as she’d informed Leah she was wrong. But deep down, in a place she didn’t want to acknowledge, Sasha knew she was lying to herself.
Around her, the ballroom of the upscale boutique hotel in downtown Denver buzzed with conversation and laughter.
A band played in the corner. Obviously, the quartet with their smooth melodies had been chosen by Leah’s grandmother, who was paying for the whole shindig. Sasha hadn’t recognized a single tune yet, and the music was too refined for her tastes. She craved something with a beat, something she could lose herself in. Right now, she would even settle for a line dance.
Nursing a glass of champagne, she stood at a tall, round table off to one side.
Her whole life, she’d been a misfit. She wouldn’t be here tonight if she hadn’t been paired with Leah on a college project, when they’d become fast friends.
With a sigh, Sasha took a sip, and the bubbles tickled her nose. The stuff was okay, no doubt uber expensive, but she had little appreciation for life’s finer things.
On the dance floor, the bride and groom swayed together, oblivious to everyone. They looked so happy, so in love. What would that be like?
Part of her envied them—a little.
But not enough to settle or give up the life she’d chosen.
“Sasha. Would you…would you like to dance?”
She glanced up at Tristan, the groomsman she’d been matched with for the festivities.
He sidled up to her, his shoulder brushing against hers. His expensive cologne was even more cloying than it had been earlier. How was that possible?
Tristan seemed harmless enough, even if all he talked about were his trips and cars. They had less than nothing in common, and in other circumstances she doubted he’d do anything other than look down his patrician nose at her.
Still, what harm was there in spending a few minutes in the arms of a man good-looking enough to pose for the cover of a Hampton’s fashion magazine, something he’d managed to mention twice?
“Sash?”
Maybe it was the sudden melancholy, a longing for something she might never have or the urge to hurry time along, but she gave him a fake smile. “Sure.” She slid her glass back onto the table.
The itchy fabric chafed her inner arms. With a sigh, she attempted to adjust the bodice of the gown.
“Let’s go.”
Instead of waiting for her, he headed to the dance floor. She trailed, seemingly an afterthought.
A pity dance for the wallflower?
Had Leah or her new husband put him up to this?
With a movement that wasn’t as smooth as she’d expected, he turned to her then pulled her into his arms, a little too close for her comfort. His breath smelled of something much stronger than champagne. Whiskey, maybe, or tequila. No wonder he’d taken a second bath in his cologne. Something had to overpower the scent of alcohol.
How much of this song was left, anyway?