Chapter 3
Marie
W ho doesn’t love a wedding?
It felt like the whole town was excited—and they’d all turned out today. Everyone was dressed in bright colors, just like Lucy had asked. I couldn’t wait to see her.
I stepped into the small church's bridal suite, and there she was. Elegant, glowing, impossible not to stare at. Her gown hugged her frame like it had been sewn onto her body, every detail—lace, satin, pearls—designed to turn her into a fairytale. I sucked in a breath when I saw her, surrounded by bridesmaids in pastel dresses who were fussing over the angle of her veil.
"Marie!" Lucy turned, her smile a bright flash that softened everything in the room. “Come help with this thing. It’s driving me nuts.”
I moved closer, careful not to step on the train pooled around her feet. “You look . . . incredible,” I said, trying not to sound as choked up as I felt. My fingers brushed hers as I adjusted the edge of the veil for her.
"Yeah?" She tilted her head, studying herself in the mirror. "I feel like I might pass out."
"That's normal," I said, swallowing down the weird lump in my throat. “If you didn’t feel like that, I’d be worried.”
She laughed, but it came out shaky, her hands twisting together. I caught her wrists gently, steadying her. "Deep breaths, Luce. You’ve got this."
Her eyes met mine in the mirror, gratitude shining through the nervousness. “Thanks. I don’t know how I’d survive without you.”
The words hit me harder than I expected. For a second, I just smiled and nodded, but inside, something twisted. There was no denying how happy I was for her, but . . . yeah, it stung. Watching her have this moment, this love, this support—it stirred up something raw and unspoken in me. I pushed it down, fast, before it could sit too heavy.
"Alright, ladies!" someone called from the hallway. "We’re out of time! Let’s get moving!"
Lucy took one last look at herself in the mirror, then turned to me. “Ready?”
"Are you kidding? Been ready since we were kids pretending to marry our stuffed animals.” I winked, earning another nervous laugh from her.
We filed out of the room, the bridesmaids leading the way. As we moved toward the chapel, the faint hum of voices carried through the walls. My heart kicked up a notch. It wasn’t even my wedding, but the energy in the air buzzed enough to make me feel like it was. A welcome distraction, I told myself. Anything to keep thoughts of Dwight Wilkins and his stupid bakery far away.
The ceremony started the second Lucy appeared at the end of the aisle. Music swelled, and everyone turned to look at her. I couldn’t help glancing at Marcus standing near the altar, his back straight as a fencepost, his jaw tight until he saw her. His whole face melted, softening into this expression that made my chest ache. That kind of love wasn’t just rare—it felt almost mythical.
I found my seat near the front, squeezing between two older women who smelled like lavender and baby powder. From here, I could see everything: Lucy’s trembling hands clutching her bouquet, Marcus shifting his weight like he was ready to run down the aisle and scoop her up. The officiant started speaking, but it was the vows that really hit me.
“I promise to be your partner in all things,” Lucy said, her voice cracking halfway through. “Your safe place, your biggest fan, and the one who always steals the blankets.”
A ripple of laughter went through the crowd, but Marcus didn’t so much as blink. His gaze stayed locked on hers, unflinching, like nothing else existed in the world but her. When it was his turn, his words were quieter, steadier, but they carried the same weight. By the time he finished, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house—not even mine.
Then came the part that caught me off guard. Marcus pulled something from his pocket—a collar. Sleek, simple, with a single silver charm dangling from the center. He held it up like it was the most natural thing in the world, and Lucy’s eyes lit up. No hesitation, no embarrassment. Just pure trust.
My breath hitched as he clasped it around her neck, his fingers brushing her skin with a tenderness that made my stomach flip. The crowd murmured softly, a mix of surprise and admiration. To them, it was probably just a quirky addition to the ceremony. But I knew better. This was more than symbolic—it was a declaration. They weren’t hiding who they were, not on today of all days.
The applause was thunderous, but all I heard was the thudding of my own heart. Lucy and Marcus moved together like they’d choreographed this moment down to the second, their smiles wide and unguarded as they turned to face the guests. I clapped along, though my palms stung from how hard I was hitting them. It wasn’t just the joy radiating off the newlyweds—it was everything about this day that felt so perfectly, maddeningly right.
As the crowd started to settle, I let my gaze wander over the pews, faces blurring into a sea of familiarity. Small-town weddings had a way of bringing everyone out, even those you’d rather not see. And then there he was. Dwight Wilkins.
I almost didn’t recognize him at first. His jawline seemed sharper, his shoulders broader, but there was something else—something heavier in the way he held himself. He stood near the back, clapping politely, though it looked more like muscle memory than genuine enthusiasm. His eyes darted around, not quite finding a place to land, and for one brief moment, they locked on mine.
My stomach flipped, and not in a good way. Or maybe it was. Damn it.
He looked . . . older, I guess. Worn. Like life had sandpapered away whatever cocky charm he used to wear so casually. But the devilishly handsome thing? Yeah, still there. Infuriatingly so. The kind of handsome that made you want to smack him just to see if he’d flinch.
For a moment, a dangerous moment, I wondered whether he had Daddy Dom tendencies, like his brothers.
I snapped my focus back to Lucy and Marcus before he could catch me staring, but the image of him lingered, unwelcome and persistent. I was kind of surprised that he was here. Everyone knew Marcus invited him—"olive branch" or some such nonsense—but seeing him actually show up felt like someone pressing a bruise I hadn’t asked to heal yet.
The church emptied out slowly, a procession of happy chatter and clinking heels against the old wood floors. I trailed behind the crowd, reluctant to leave just yet. Lucy and Marcus paused at the exit, greeting well-wishers with glowing smiles and soft laughter. I hung back, watching them soak up the attention.
"Marie!" Lucy’s voice lifted above the hum of conversation, breaking through my thoughts. She waved me closer, her hand resting lightly on Marcus’s arm. Her smile was brighter than I’d ever seen it, a beam of pure light cutting through the noise. "Come here! Don’t hide in the back like that."
"Not hiding," I said, stepping forward. "Just letting you two have your moment."
"Please." She rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her tone melted any teasing edge. Up close, she was radiant—veil slightly askew, curls slipping loose from their pins, but still every inch the perfect bride. "You’re part of this too, you know. Couldn’t have done it without you."
"She’s right," Marcus said, his voice low but steady. His hand rested possessively at the small of her back, a silent declaration that she was his now, fully and completely. "Thanks for being here, Marie."
"Wouldn’t miss it for the world," I replied, meaning every word.
We headed toward the reception hall together, the three of us moving as one until Lucy and Marcus were swept up by another round of congratulations at the door. I slipped inside ahead of them, needing a moment to breathe—or at least pretend to.
The town hall was unrecognizable. Fairy lights crisscrossed the ceiling, casting a soft glow over white-draped tables and neatly arranged centerpieces. It was simple, sure, but there was something almost magical about how it all came together. Like a scene from a movie, except this wasn’t fiction.
"Lucy, hold still," I said, moving closer as she finally broke free from the crowd. A stray curl had worked its way loose, brushing against her cheek like an unruly child. "Let me fix this before it drives me crazy."
"Always looking out for me," she teased, but she stood still, letting me tuck the curl back into place. Her hand brushed mine briefly, a fleeting touch that carried more gratitude than words ever could. "Seriously, Marie. Thank you. For everything. Coffee, late-night planning sessions, keeping me sane when I was ready to call the whole thing off—"
"Don’t get sappy on me now," I interrupted, though my throat tightened unexpectedly. I stepped back, smoothing the fabric of her dress instinctively. "It’s your wedding day. You don’t owe anyone anything, least of all me."
"That’s where you’re wrong." Her eyes held mine, steady and sincere in a way that made my chest ache. "You’ve always been there for me, Marie. Always supported my dreams, no matter how big or small. I don’t know what I’d do without you."
"Well, lucky for you," I said, forcing a grin to lighten the moment, "you’ll never have to find out."
***
The soft hum of piano keys mixed with the clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter. I stood by the refreshment table, swirling my half-empty glass of champagne while Rebekah doubled over beside me, laughing hard enough to snort.
"She colored outside the lines!" Rebekah wheezed, clutching her stomach. "Can you believe that? I told Lucy it was abstract, but she still looked at me like I’d just committed a felony."
"Abstract coloring," I said, feigning a solemn nod. "A bold new frontier for our Little League coloring nights."
"Revolutionary," Rebekah agreed, grinning as she nudged me with her elbow. The two other women from our group giggled along, their laughter warm and easy, blending into the chatter around us.
It was lovely to get to know Rebekah a little better. I was hoping that it would help me relax a little a the next Little’s League.
For a moment, it felt perfect. Just small-town gossip and harmless teasing, no heavy thoughts creeping in. But then I spotted him again.
Dwight Wilkins.
He lingered near the far wall, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was carrying the weight of every pair of eyes in the room. Not that many people were actually looking; most were too wrapped up in their own conversations or the newlyweds to pay him much mind.
I watched as he sidled closer to a cluster of older men near the bar. One of them—Doug from the corner store—turned to say something polite, maybe even friendly. Dwight nodded, muttered a reply I couldn’t hear, then drifted away before the conversation had a chance to stick. It was like watching a cat try to approach a group of dogs, cautious and calculating, always ready to bolt.
"Marie?" Rebekah’s voice snapped me back. "You okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"Not a ghost," I said, forcing a smile. "Just . . . someone who doesn’t belong here."
Rebekah’s gaze followed mine, landing squarely on Dwight. Her lips twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace. "Oh, him . Yeah, that’s awkward. Why’d Lucy even invite him?"
"Marcus insisted." I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t need to. Rebekah rolled her eyes, understanding enough from the tone of my voice.
"Well, he’s definitely not winning any popularity contests tonight," she said, grabbing another cookie from the table. "But hey, at least it gives us something to talk about."
"Yeah," I muttered, though my curiosity wasn’t exactly idle. Something about the way Dwight carried himself—it wasn’t just awkwardness. It was heavier than that, like he’d walked into this wedding expecting to get knocked down but showed up anyway. Why?
Before I could spiral too far into wondering, the music shifted gears. A gentle waltz filled the room, and all eyes turned to the center where Marcus and Lucy stepped onto the dance floor. The crowd broke into applause as the newlyweds came together, their movements slow and tentative at first, like they were savoring each step.
"Here we go," Rebekah whispered, nudging me again. "The part where everyone cries."
"Speak for yourself," I shot back, though my chest already felt tight. Watching Lucy beam up at Marcus, her face glowing with unfiltered joy, was enough to make anyone misty-eyed. She deserved this. Every bit of it.
I let out a quiet breath as the couple twirled, the fairy lights above them casting a soft shimmer over Lucy’s curls. Marcus held her like she was the most precious thing in the world, his hand firm on her waist, his eyes never leaving hers. The room seemed to shrink around them, the crowd fading into a blurred backdrop of smiling faces and camera flashes.
My throat tightened. I clapped along with the others when Marcus spun her once, making her laugh, but the ache in my chest wouldn’t leave. Because while I was genuinely happy for Lucy, there was something else tangled up in that happiness. Longing. For what, exactly, I wasn’t sure. Maybe just the idea of being looked at the way Marcus looked at her—like nothing else existed.
"Are you crying yet?" Rebekah teased, leaning close.
"Shut up," I said, elbowing her lightly. "I don’t cry at weddings."
"Yet," she added with a wink.
I laughed, but it was weak. My eyes wandered again, scanning the circle of guests that had formed around the dance floor. Most were smiling, lost in the magic of the moment. But not Dwight.
He stood at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, his jaw tight. For all the world, he looked nervous. His gaze flicked between Lucy and Marcus, then dropped to the floor like he couldn’t bear to watch anymore. For a split second, something passed over his face—a flash of something raw, unsettled. Regret? Jealousy? I couldn’t tell, but whatever it was, it hit him hard.
His fingers drummed against his bicep, restless. Then he glanced up again, catching sight of Lucy’s radiant smile, and his expression shifted. Softer now, almost wistful. Like he wanted to be happy for her but didn’t quite know how.
"Marie," Rebekah said, snapping her fingers in front of my face. "What is with you tonight? You keep zoning out."
"Sorry," I murmured, shaking my head. "Just . . . thinking."
"About Dwight?"
"God, no," I lied, draining the rest of my champagne. But my eyes betrayed me, flicking back toward him one last time. He still hadn’t moved, still looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself. And for reasons I couldn’t explain, I couldn’t stop wondering why.
The DJ’s voice crackled over the speakers, smooth and cheerful. “Alright, folks! Who wants to share a toast with our beautiful bride and groom? Don’t be shy—step right up!”
The chatter in the room quieted. A few people shifted awkwardly, glancing at one another. Then Rebekah shot her hand in the air like she was answering a pop quiz. “Oh! Me first!” she called out, practically bouncing toward the microphone.
I chuckled into my champagne glass as she grabbed the mic, her grin wide enough to light up the entire room. She launched into a story about how Lucy had once sworn off dating entirely, saying she’d rather adopt a dozen cats than deal with men again. The way she told it—with dramatic flair and plenty of hand gestures—had the crowd eating out of her palm. By the time she got to the punchline about Marcus being the “exception that proved the rule,” the whole room erupted in laughter. Even Marcus cracked a rare smile, pulling Lucy closer like he couldn’t stand to let her go.
I clapped along with everyone else, warmth blooming in my chest. Lucy looked radiant, glowing from head to toe. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes sparkling as she leaned into Marcus. For a moment, I let myself get lost in the sweetness of it all—the sheer hopefulness of two people finding their person in this messy, complicated world.
Then, to my surprise, Dwight stepped forward. He was hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His hand gripped the back of a chair, knuckles white against the wood, and a cold knot formed in my stomach.
Oh no.
Before the applause fully died down, he cleared his throat. The sound sliced through the room, sharp and jarring. The crowd stilled, every head turning toward him. My pulse quickened as an uneasy hush fell over us, thick and heavy like storm clouds rolling in.
“Uh . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes scanning the floor before daring to meet the sea of faces staring back at him. “I’m not great at this sort of thing, and, uh, I know I’m not exactly Mr. Popular around here, but . . . I just wanted to say something.”
God. Why now? Why here?
My grip tightened around my empty glass as I watched him struggle to find his words. His voice was low and rough, like gravel underfoot, and it wavered slightly when he started again.
“I know I haven’t been around much the past . . . well, the past several years.” He paused, swallowing hard. “And because of that, I don’t really know the couple you’ve become. Not the way I should.”
A ripple went through the crowd—soft murmurs, exchanged glances. I caught Lucy’s face in my peripheral vision, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. Marcus’s expression stayed stone-cold, unreadable, but his jaw clenched ever so slightly.
Dwight sucked in a breath and straightened his posture, shoulders stiff like he was bracing for impact. “Still,” he continued, his tone steadier now, “watching the two of you today . . . it’s clear how much love there is between you. It’s inspiring.”
His gaze darted briefly to Lucy, then back to the floor. “It gives me hope." His voice faltered. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to reset himself. "And makes me happy.”
The weight of his words hung in the air, pressing down on all of us. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t need to. The regret in his tone said everything he wouldn’t. It was raw, unpolished, and vaguely heartbreaking in a way that made my chest ache despite myself.
I glanced at Lucy. Her hand crept into Marcus’s, squeezing tight. Marcus’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing just a fraction as he stared Dwight down. There was something flickering there behind the cool exterior—pain, maybe. Or something harder to pin down. Resolute acceptance, perhaps. Whatever it was, it didn’t budge.
“Here’s to the couple. May they live happily ever after.”
The silence stretched long and taut until someone—probably Rebekah—started clapping softly, breaking the tension. Others followed suit, though the applause sounded cautious, polite at best. Dwight nodded once, barely acknowledging it, before stepping back toward the shadows where he seemed more comfortable lingering.
I realized I’d been holding my breath. Letting it out felt like finally surfacing after treading water too long. But the knot in my stomach stayed firmly in place.
Dwight stepped back from the microphone, his shoulders tight as he retreated toward the edge of the crowd. He didn’t look at anyone directly, but I caught the slight clench of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed open and closed like he’d been holding something too heavy for too long.
Lucy leaned into Marcus, her face softening as she whispered something against his shoulder. Whatever it was, it earned a small nod from him, though his expression didn’t change. His hand covered hers, squeezing once, then returning to its rigid grip on her waist. Around them, conversations picked up again, laughter bubbling in pockets, but it all felt muted somehow, like someone had turned the volume down on the whole room.
I headed toward the refreshment table, aiming for the punch bowl and maybe another slice of cake I didn’t need. The smell of frosting and slightly burnt coffee grounds mingled in the air, familiar and oddly comforting. But before I could grab a cup, one of the caterers practically flew into my path, wide-eyed and clutching an empty coffee carafe like it might combust.
"Marie," she hissed, her voice low but frantic. "We’re out of coffee."
"Out?" I frowned, glancing at the line of mugs waiting to be filled. "That doesn’t make sense. We brought plenty." When I’d offered to handle the coffee for the day, Lucy had practically bit my hand off.
"Apparently not," she said, waving the carafe for emphasis. "Everyone’s drinking it faster than we can brew, and we’re completely out of beans. Like, gone ." She shifted nervously, eyes darting around the room like someone might overhear. "What do we do? There’s no backup plan for this."
"Of course there isn’t," I muttered, rubbing my temple. The turnout was bigger than expected, sure, but running out of coffee at a wedding in this town? That was not okay. I glanced toward the kitchen, hoping maybe there was some forgotten stash tucked away in a cupboard, but the caterer shook her head quickly, already crushing that hope.
"Great," I mumbled, the irritation simmering in my chest. "I’ll need to grab more from The Daily Grind. We’ve got extra stock there, but—"
"Problem?"
The voice came from behind me, smooth and low but with just enough edge to make my spine stiffen. I turned, and there he was. Dwight Wilkins, standing a little too close, hands shoved into the pockets of his perfectly tailored suit like he had all the time in the world. His dark eyes flicked between me and the caterer, sharp and curious.
"Nothing you need to worry about," I said quickly, my tone sharper than intended.
"Didn’t sound like nothing," he said, raising one eyebrow. His gaze settled on me, steady and unflinching, and I hated how it made my skin feel too warm.
"Just a coffee situation," I said, crossing my arms. "We’re short. I’ll handle it."
"Short on coffee at a wedding?" His lips twitched, almost into a smile, but not quite.
"Thanks for the commentary," I snapped, stepping past him toward the kitchen. Or at least, I tried to.
"Hang on." His hand brushed my elbow—not grabbing, but enough to stop me in my tracks. "If you need help—"
"Why would I need your help?" I cut him off, spinning back to face him. My pulse kicked up a notch, though whether it was anger or something else, I didn’t want to know.
"Because you look like you're about to strangle someone," he said, deadpan. "And I’ve got a car. Unless you were planning to carry a hundred pounds of coffee beans back here on foot?"
“You have a car? In that case, why don’t you use it to drive to another town and open your dang bakery there?”
He looked at me with surprise, then understanding dawned on his face. “Fuck. I hadn’t thought that my bakery might effect your business.”
"Why doesn’t that surprise me?" I crossed my arms tighter, glaring up at him. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. Damn the man and his stupid calm exterior.
"Look," he said, his voice dipping lower, quieter now. "You don’t have to like me, Marie. But I can help with this. Let me. And we’ll talk about my bakery later. I promise."
His promise hung there between us for a moment. Something in the way he said it—firm but . . . almost gentle—made my resolve wobble, just for a second.
"Fine," I bit out, finally breaking the stare-off. "But don’t slow me down."
"Wouldn’t dream of it." The corner of his mouth quirked up, just enough to drive me crazy, and he gestured toward the door. "After you."
"Don’t push it," I muttered, brushing past him. Even as irritation bubbled under my skin, I couldn’t ignore the way his presence changed the air around me—charged, electric, and maddeningly hard to define.
We reached his car, some nondescript sedan that looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks. He unlocked it with a chirp and opened the passenger door for me without a word. It wasn’t chivalry; it felt more like a challenge. I slid in, stiff-backed, and slammed the door harder than necessary. He got in on his side, glanced at me once, and started the engine.
"Where am I heading?" he asked, voice clipped now, matching mine.
"Main Street. You know where The Daily Grind is," I said. I couldn’t help the edge in my tone. Mentioning my café to him tasted bitter on my tongue.
"Yeah, I know," he muttered. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles whitening for a second before he forced them to relax. “Looks like a great place.”
“For now,” I replied, with an edge in my voice.
The hum of the engine filled the space between us, drowning out everything else. I stared out the window, arms crossed tight over my chest, refusing to look at him. This was ridiculous. A wedding reception coffee crisis was not the time to get lost in whatever awkward, simmering tension Dwight Wilkins carried around like luggage.
"About earlier," he said, breaking the silence. His voice sounded strained, like pulling words out hurt. "I know you haven’t seen me for a while, and maybe this is out of line, but, my toast. Do you think it went okay?”
He actually looked vulnerable. It surprised me. "I think it was fine. No one left, let’s put it like that.”
He flinched, just barely, but enough that I noticed. His jaw worked like he was chewing over his next words before finally spitting them out. "I know people weren’t exactly thrilled to see me up there. I didn’t mean to make it uncomfortable. For anyone."
"Well, it’s Lucy’s day," I said, keeping my tone flat. "Not really about you, is it?"
"Right. Of course not," he said quickly, his voice quieter now. “Wow. I’m really not very popular, am I?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his shoulders sag, just an inch, but enough to shift the energy in the car. He looked down at the steering wheel, his fingers flexing once before settling back into place.
For a second, guilt pricked at the edges of my irritation, but I shoved it aside. He didn’t get to play vulnerable now, not when his bakery was set to open and potentially gut my livelihood in the process. Whatever regret he carried wasn’t my problem.
I didn’t reply.
We reached The Daily Grind, and I didn’t bother holding the door for him. My keys jingled as I unlocked it and flicked on the lights, the familiar hum of fluorescents filling the silence between us. I strode toward the storeroom without looking back, knowing he’d follow. He always did seem to hover, like a shadow I couldn’t quite shake.
"Coffee’s this way," I muttered over my shoulder, more to fill the dead air than anything else.
"Lead the way," Dwight said, his voice low and calm, like he wasn’t walking into enemy territory.
The storeroom was cramped, shelves stacked high with supplies that smelled faintly of roasted beans and paper packaging. I crouched down, pulling open a plastic bin where I kept the emergency stock. Behind me, I heard his boots scuff against the floor, and for some reason, the sound set my teeth on edge.
"Here," I said, grabbing a box of beans and shoving it in his direction. "There should be enough in here."
He caught it easily, barely flinching at the weight. His hands were big—scarred in places, calloused—and for a stupid second, I wondered if they were still rough from the army, or from playing his guitar. Then his fingers brushed mine when I passed him another box of filters, and the thought evaporated like steam off a hot latte.
"Nice setup," he said after a beat, glancing around the room. "Efficient."
"Thanks," I said flatly, turning to grab another stack of cups. I didn’t want his compliments or his observations. This place was mine, my livelihood, and the last thing I needed was him poking around like he had any right to approve of it.
"How’s business been?" he asked, his tone casual but probing, like he was testing the waters.
"Fine," I said shortly. "Not that it’s any of your concern."
"Fair enough." His voice dipped, softer now. He shifted the box in his arms, his shoulders tightening just slightly. "Didn’t mean to pry."
"Then don’t," I snapped, spinning back to face him. The words came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t about to play nice with a man who could run me out of business in a heartbeat.
For a moment, he just stood there, holding the box like it was a shield. His expression flickered—something fragile and raw behind those dark eyes—but then it was gone, replaced by that careful, guarded mask he wore so well. Without another word, he turned and hefted the boxes toward the door. His silence felt worse than any argument could’ve.
By the time we loaded everything into his car and headed back to the reception hall, the tension between us was thick enough to cut with a butter knife. He parked near the back entrance, and we worked quickly, unloading the supplies in strained silence. It wasn’t until the last box was in my hands that he finally spoke.
"Marie," he said quietly, his voice barely louder than the muffled music drifting out of the hall.
I stopped, looking up at him warily. "What?"
"Save me a dance later," he said, his gaze steady but cautious, like he expected me to bolt. "To repay me for the ride."
I stared at him, stunned for half a second. For a moment, a dangerous moment, I imagined what it might feel like to push against his hard body, his strong body, and move with him to the music. Then, my good sense took over. "No."
"Figured you’d say that," he murmured, almost to himself. His jaw tightened, and he looked away, the corner of his mouth twitching once before it flattened again. “But I also figured you hate me so much, it couldn’t possibly make things any worse.”
As I pushed past him, I muttered “Idiot,” under my breath, though I wasn’t sure if I meant him or myself. Either way, I didn’t have time to dwell on it. There was coffee to serve, a wedding to celebrate, and no room in my life for distractions like Dwight Wilkins. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
But as I watched him retreat to the far end of the room, something in me twisted—a tiny knot of curiosity and frustration that refused to unravel. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite ignore it.