Page 8 of A Little Crush (The Little Things #6)

JAXON

I ’m anxious. I shouldn’t be, but I am. Ever since my chat with Rory, she’s been on my mind.

Okay, ever since I saw her in the pool, she’s been on my mind, though I refuse to analyze why.

Add in the disastrous video and the fallout afterward, and I feel…

bad. The problem is I don’t know how to make it right.

How to tell her it was an innocent childhood crush.

That I never looked at her like she was a babysitting gig.

I think that part hurts the most. How she thinks I never cared about her.

She was my friend, too. My little side-kick.

My shadow most days. One I enjoyed having around.

Honestly, I’ve missed her over the years.

More than I’d like to admit, especially with how things played out.

I’d like to go back to being friends, if she’s up to it.

But she won’t even give me a chance to express that.

To tell her we’re good. That I’d like to be friends again—real friends—and fuck knows I could use a few more of them.

Instead, she closed the door in my face and has been absent ever since…

until twenty minutes ago, when I arrived at the country club and saw her in a silky dress talking with Tatum.

I’m still not sure if she noticed my ar rival or if she chose to pretend I didn’t exist. I’m not sure I want to know, either.

Not that it matters. Clearly, that bridge is burned, and I don’t know how to erect a new one.

With a sigh, I tug at the top button of my suit, unsure how much longer I can stand being here.

Not that there’s anything wrong with the country club Ophelia and Maverick chose for their wedding venue.

The place is insane and a familiar backdrop for multiple Buchanan events, including the yearly B-Tech Enterprises company retreats.

It’s part country club and part hotel with a massive reception area perfect for hosting any event, including a wedding.

Add in the polished marble floors, giant pillars, and pristine glass doors and windows allowing you to take in the rolling hills and expertly manicured foliage, and the place looks straight out of a storybook.

So much so, I’m almost surprised they chose to have the actual wedding outside instead of in the main reception area.

Not that it matters. Even the incredible backdrop isn’t enough to make me want to stick around.

There’s nothing wrong with weddings or love or rehearsal dinners. Honestly, I never minded them before. But after my own marriage burst into flames, it’s hard pretending I still believe in happily-ever-afters and shit.

I roll my shoulders as Finley cuts off the wedding coordinator’s instructions.

“Okay, so you need everyone to pair up, right?” Finley asks the wedding coordinator.

Without waiting for her response, Finley rubs her hands together and does a quick headcount of the wedding party.

“Perfect. Tatum, you’re the maid of honor, and since Paxton’s now in the wedding, you can pair up with him, then we’ll go Dylan and Reeves—the best man—then Raine and Ev, Griff and me, and…

” Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, Finley looks at me like I’m nothing but a loose end.

“You don’t mind walking with Rory, do you? ”

My attention cuts to the woman in question. The light, flowy dress reaches just above her knees, and her long, ashy-blonde hair is left straight down her back. She looks pretty today, even when she’s staring at the ground.

Fuck, she won’t even look at me.

“What about Dodger?” I ask.

“He’s not in the wedding party,” Finley explains, turning to Maverick’s little sister. “Rore, are you okay with that? Being paired up with Jax?”

She says it like the idea of standing next to me and walking down an aisle is torture or something.

What am I, chopped liver?

“Sure thing,” Rory squeaks. She looks about as comfortable as a woman purchasing a prescription for crabs—the STD, not the food. Despite her discomfort, she sidles up next to me and crosses her arms.

And yeah. This is awkward. I can feel the tension radiating off her.

Like she’s afraid to stand by me, let alone touch my arm or look me in the eye.

Is this Rory’s attempt at moving on from our past?

Because it seems like she’s shit at it. We’re good, my ass.

Then again, she’s always been bad at hiding her emotions.

Clearly, it hasn’t changed over the years, unlike her hair, body, and height.

I fight the urge to check her out and keep my eyes glued to the wedding coordinator in front of me.

“Okay, Groom, we need you up front,” she starts, motioning to the front of the path lined with rows of wooden folding chairs.

“And Bride, we need you at the very back with Mom and Dad. And then, the music starts, and once the bridesmaids and groomsmen have walked the path, you slowly walk toward your respective positions. Ready for a dry run? Perfect. In three, two, one.”

The three-man orchestra set up on the north side begins playing as Tatum loops her arm through Paxton’s, and they walk down the cobblestone aisle to a wooden arch covered in peach and white flowers.

Dylan and Reeves follow behind, obeying Finley’s suggested order, then the rest of the couples slowly traipse down the makeshift aisle as I look down at Rory, er, the top of her head, since she refuses to acknowledge me.

Keeping my voice low, I say, “You look nice.”

Her chin drops to her chest, and a quiet huff of derision slips out of her. “Thanks.”

Her sarcasm is as thick as molasses. I fight the urge to shake her.

“You ready?” I prod.

She forces herself to nod but doesn’t look at me.

Why won’t you look at me, Squeaks?

I offer my arm. She loops her own through it, raising her chin, though I don’t miss the slight tremble of her body. The realization hits like a wrecking ball, and I glance down at her hand folded around my bicep. Wait. She isn’t shaking. She’s tapping.

One, two, three. Pause. One, two, three. Pause. One, two, three.

It’s a compulsion. A subtle one, but a compulsion nonetheless.

She started this one after Archer’s death. When she was nervous or overwhelmed or scared. I don’t think anyone else noticed. Not at first. I did, though. Considering her degree, I assumed she’d be over these kinds of ticks. Clearly, I was wrong. Or maybe I wasn’t. Maybe she’s regressing.

Fuck, I hope that isn’t the case. After she was diagnosed with OCD, I did a shit-ton of research, anxious to help any way I could, even if all I could offer was understanding.

It helped that her dad was diagnosed with the same disorder after his best friend was arrested a few decades ago.

Apparently, a traumatic experience can trigger it, and the death of a family member seems like a pretty solid traumatic experience to me.

Then again, maybe Rory never stood a chance, since OCD’s genetic and all. I guess we’ll never know.

Tap, tap, tap. Pause. Tap, tap, tap. Pause. Tap, tap, tap.

The familiar rhythm seeps through my suit as I stare at her pale fingertips and light nail polish.

I thought she was getting better. And maybe she was. Maybe this is all too much, though I’m unsure if it’s my presence or the lack of her brother’s at an important event like this one that’s triggering her. I’m not sure it really matters.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I squeeze her hand softly but don’t call her out for giving in to her compulsion, well aware it won’t help.

Not in the big picture. Her manicured nails dig into my bicep, but the tapping stops as the wedding coordinator motions for us to start walking.

So, we do. One step after another. Until we reach the end of the line.

With a little too much enthusiasm, Rory lets me go, rushing toward the line of bridesmaids, so I take my place on the opposite side.

Yeah…we’re not good, are we?

It’s Ophelia’s turn, or at least I assume.

I’m too busy analyzing Rory from across the grassy lawn to check to see if the bride is walking down the aisle.

Rory seems calmer now that she’s not forced to hold my arm.

Or maybe I’m only seeing what she wants me to see.

What she wants everyone to see. A girl who’s cool, calm, and collected.

Maybe she’s harder to read than I initially gave her credit.

The realization stings. She’s always been an open book. But now? Now, she’s nothing but a prop on a bookshelf. No pages to be read. No pictures to be appreciated. Just a closed hunk of leather I’ve yet to access. Or maybe I’m incapable of it altogether.

A tender, sweet smile softens the divot between her brows. I follow her gaze in time to notice Dodger at the back of the area. He gives Rory a gentle wave as he sits down on one of the folding chairs, spreading his legs wide.

So, he’s not in the wedding party, but he’s here anyway?

Why? And who invited him?

“Perfect!” the wedding coordinator announces. I realize I’ve been blocking her out for at least a solid minute.

Shit. What’d I miss?

With a single but jarring clap of her hands, she adds, “Then the officiant performs the wedding, Ophelia says her vows, Maverick says his, he kisses the bride, and bam. The two live happily ever after, and we exit the way we came. Ready?” She claps her hands again.

“Bride and groom, you two first. Then, you and you.” She points to Tatum and Paxton, and they do as they’re told, meeting at the center of the path before striding down it.

Dylan and Reeves go next, then Everett and Raine, and Finley and Griffin.

And then, there were two.