Page 52

No one can take their eyes off the bride.

He forgets she’s even there.

He forgets there’s even a wedding.

He forgets everything that isn’t the third bridesmaid to glide down the aisle.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Luna Evans is the perfect bride.

Luna Jackson -Evans, I guess I should say now, since her Internet-ordained, best-friend-turned-officiant said the magic words about five seconds ago.

And about five seconds after that, I averted my gaze as my new sister launched herself at her new husband for their first kiss, risking the wellbeing of her silky, elegant dress as she damn near knocked him to the ground. And as it roams over the cheering crowd, it lands somewhere it shouldn’t.

Second row. Aisle seat. The man in the simple, black suit who’s been staring at me the entire time I’ve been standing up here—except for whenever I happen to glance his way.

Finn looks good. God, he looks good. Clad in all black except for the collar pins proving he got the memo about the color scheme, two pendants the same delicate shade of blue as my dress and connected by a chain the same gold as the pearl-adorned ones around my neck and my wrist.

We match. Of course we do, considering we’re at the same wedding of the same anal bride. I don’t get why my mind fixates on it. Why it insists on pointing out that we’d fit quite well, standing beside each other. That we’d look good together.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. Blinking rapidly, I shift my gaze and abruptly realize that everyone else has already walked back down the aisle cutting a path between the two sections of chairs taking up most of the tent.

Only a smirking Cass Morgan is left behind. “Something catch your eye, little Jackson?”

I would scowl, if I didn’t think one of the many cameramen roaming the ranch would choose that exact moment to direct a lens my way. Instead, I grit my teeth and take the escorting arm my brother’s groomsman extends to me, pinching the inside of his elbow with my blue-painted nails. “Shut up.”

He does. At least, for the first bit of our jaunt back down the aisle—at least he waits until we’ve passed the second row before whispering, “He is very handsome.”

I briefly glance over my shoulder, huffing when a familiar head abruptly faces forward. “He’s all yours.”

Cass sighs dramatically, tutting disappointedly.

“Unfortunately, I think he’s partial to angry redheads in skimpy bridesmaids dresses.

” As we reach the end of our journey, ducking out of the heated tent and into the cooling temperatures that make me wonder why the fuck Luna chose a winter wedding, he kisses the back of my hand while letting his gaze roam the length of me. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

“I know.”

Cass laughs loudly, his touch drifting to the middle of my bare back—a touch I’m sure he only dares because my brother has momentarily disappeared with his bride to celebrate their nuptials in ways I’d rather not think about. My escort, it seems, has celebratory plans of his own.

The moment Cass tilts me in the direction of the second tent only a stone’s throw away that already bustles with life and reeks of merriment, I slip out of his grip. He turns to me, brows raised, face slapped with false offense. “You don’t wanna get a drink with me, honey?”

Huh. Surprising. I kind of figured Jackson told his friends about my little problem the second he found out I was in rehab. “I’m good. I’m gonna go find my sisters.”

With a shrug, Cass walks away, quickly melting into the crowd of people also seeking a drink as the ceremony quickly rolls into the reception.

Not as many people as I expected, though.

No one from town, actually, except for the girl who works at the local florist—who, I find as I slip inside the tent and keep far, far away from the bar nestled in one corner, my twin seems to be doing an exceptionally terrible job at not staring at.

Grace jolts as I prop my chin on her shoulder. Oh-so-subtly, she angles the glass in her hand behind her back—like that would stop me from snatching her champagne if I really wanted it.

Which I do.

But I’m not thinking about that.

Instead, I’m going to ease a different, meaner addiction by mocking my sister. “You should ask her to dance.”

A nervous laugh escapes pink, glossy lips. “What’re you talking about?”

Oh, how the tables turn. “Nova, dummy. Dance with her.”

Grace shifts, rolling her shoulders back and effectively rolling me off of her. “Why would I do that?”

“Because the stench of your desperation is giving me a headache.”

Eliza splutters as she arrives just in time to catch the tail end of that sentence, choking on her own tall glass of not-water. “What are we talking about?”

I bluntly fill in the blanks. “Our sister’s a coward.”

“No one’s even dancing!”

“Excuses, excuses,” I tease, but I’m right.

It is an excuse. As the night drags on, as the happy couple reappears and shares their first dance, as Eliza then gets swept up in our brother’s arms and Lux is poached by Cass and Luna embraces her mother and pretty much everyone pairs off, my twin doesn’t budge.

Neither do I. I don’t have anywhere else to be—I certainly don’t have anyone to freaking waltz with—and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else other than at Grace’s side, huffing and puffing and hopefully pissing her off enough to spur her into action.

Eventually, it works.

Eventually, she downs her drink and grunts oh-so-romantically, “ Fine . I’ll ask.”

I steal her empty glass and sweep an arm towards the dancefloor. “Great.”

“ If .”

Oh, God.

With a smirk curling her mouth and her brows crooked smugly, I don’t think my twin has ever looked more like me. “You dance with Finn.”

I’m not going to lie; I panic a little. My heart pounds an erratic beat and my spine locks and my palms get kind of sweaty, but still, I narrow my eyes.

Because I know exactly what Grace is doing.

Her sneaky ass thinks that I’ll refuse, point-blank, zero room for argument.

She’s thinking that there’s no way I’ll agree, that my pride and my stubbornness simply won’t allow it.

She’s thinking she’s going to get off scot-free, that she can blame me for her missed opportunity.

Which is exactly why I shrug nonchalantly despite feeling real fucking chalant. “Okay.”

Her face drops. “Seriously?”

“Uh-huh.” Eyeing the champagne flute clutched between my fingers, I briefly consider licking the rim in search of a lingering liquid before I realize that is, in fact, unhinged behaviour. “It’s just Finn. No big deal.”

It’s just Finn , I repeat to myself as I turn on my heels—my fucking stiletto heels because apparently, curb-stompers on a wedding day is where Luna draws the line—in search of Finn. No big deal.

Though I don’t look particularly hard, I still find him easily. While most guests litter the dancefloor, he and Adam linger on the sidelines, nursing drinks.

I swallow. I hike up my metaphorical big girl pants. I summon a whole lot of fuck it energy, and I march in their direction.

Two gazes watch me approach, the darker one abruptly flitting away.

A large hand moves to an unbuttoned collar, tugging at it in what I easily recognize as a display of discomfort because I’m doing the same thing, yanking on the soft fabric flush tight against my chest like it’s the reason my breaths aren’t coming as easy.

By the time I reach the guys, I’m not breathing at all, and it seems like Finn isn’t either.

He doesn’t greet me like Adam does. He doesn’t smile at me like Adam does.

He doesn’t say that I look pretty like Adam does either.

He just stares into the distance, looking…

distressed. Like he’s dreading something, whatever comes next—as if he already knows what I’m about to do.

When I wrap my fingers around his wrist, wide eyes drop to me. Shocked eyes. Wary eyes.

But when I tug, he doesn’t hesitate to come. As I move towards the dancefloor, he follows, and my back burns as his tangible gaze roams over it. I weave through the crowd, burying us in the middle of it, sucking in one, two, three deep breaths before finding the guts to turn around.

I put a hand on his shoulder.

He drops one to my waist, his fingers so long, they reach the seam where my dress becomes skin, and I have to fight tooth and nail to stem a shiver.

Swallowing, I slide my left hand into his right one.

His fingers close gently around mine. The ones grazing my back dig in slightly, urging me closer, making it so I would have to reel my head back to meet Finn’s gaze—which I don’t do. Like the very coward I accused my twin of being, I stare steadfastly over his shoulder.

And even though I think it’s pretty obvious, Finn quietly asks, “What’re we doing?”

I pull back just enough for my gaze to skate across a defined jaw. “Don’t tell me the Finn Akello doesn’t know how to dance.”

That jaw drops an inch, bringing a pair of full lips into view. “Don’t tell me the Lottie Jackson does.”

“I don't look like I know how to dance?”

“Oh, you do.” The tiniest hint of a dimple dents his cheek, and I stare at it like it’s an oasis and I’m parched. “Slow dance, though…”

I huff a laugh, eyes tracing the slope of a fine cheekbone. “Don't let this dress fool you. I am an extremely classy girl.”

“I like your dress.”

“Bet you do.”

Finn chuckles and the noise rattles me, the fingertips blindly tracing the outline of delicate, inky wings rattle me, this rattles me because how is it so easy?

The last time we spoke was nothing short of tragic, we’ve barely interacted since, yet we melt into familiar, quippy roles with no real effort to speak of.

It’s just that simple. It’s comfortable.

Just like that, it’s as though nothing happened at all.

Except it did. I haven’t forgotten.

And evidently Finn, despite my pleas, hasn’t either.

“Am I allowed to tell you that you look beautiful or will you think I’m confused about that too?”