Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Winnie
“Who knew you were a secret party animal,” I say, squeezing James’s hand. Then, because I’m taking full advantage of the fact I’M HOLDING JAMES GRAHAM’S HAND, I give his fingers another squeeze.
We’re walking back to the hotel— strolling is a more apt word—and I’m trying to avoid feeling like Cinderella at the end of the ball.
Instead of a nonexistent carriage turning into a pumpkin, I’m fully expecting the James who has been touching me nonstop since he carried me out of the awards show to turn back into the James who runs away after giving me the best kiss of my life.
He gives me a playful side-eye. “I hate parties.”
“Let’s not forget people,” I add.
He grunts and nudges me. “Not all people. Some of them I actually like being around.”
Though it’s a roundabout compliment, I can’t fight the goofy grin on my face.
I bump him right back. “Still, you seemed to mildly enjoy socializing back there.”
“ Mild being the operative word.”
After he won his award and carried me off like a less hairy King Kong, Tank suggested we all catch a late dinner.
And wouldn’t you know it? The pub we walked to was hosting the conference afterparty.
More like a during party, since it was already in full swing with conference-goers like us who had skipped out early.
James looked for a moment like he was going to bolt, until a few guys walked over to offer congratulations.
I watched his face move from suspicious to a little more open and maybe even pleasant.
His family bowed out pretty quickly, as the Grahams all together can’t help but make a scene.
They tower over normal humans and carry a sort of unignorable gravity with their presence.
Even I felt inexplicably starstruck. Harper must have noticed because she smiled and said, “You should see how it is when Pat’s here too.”
I could only imagine. Of all the Graham men, Pat has the biggest personality.
Not to mention the size of his mouth. I could picture him pausing at various tables to autograph napkins without being asked, posing for photographs, kissing babies.
Not that there are babies in the bar, but the point stands.
After they left, I thought I’d fade into the background, watching James. But his gaze sought me out, landing on where I stood against the wall. He held out a hand to me, I took it, and he hasn’t let go since.
His possessiveness turns to awkwardness when we arrive back at the hotel. For the first time in hours, James takes his hands off me, putting them in his pockets, giving me distance I don’t want. And there goes my pumpkin carriage.
“I should probably see if there’s an available room,” he says.
James looks unsure. I feel unsure.
I consider telling him to forget it, just to stay in the room with me. But I don’t. I’m not that brave or sure of what I want. I’m torn between wanting to follow this wherever it takes us or running for the hills.
“Okay.”
We’ll let fate decide. If there are extra rooms, that’s that. And if not … we can be adults. Adults who kissed the night before, don’t regret it but also may or may not do it again. No problems or complications there.
I realize I’m staring at his mouth (not for the first time today) and jerk my gaze away. “I’ll just be in the room, watching your bag.” Well, that sounds weird. “Not that it needs watching. It’s not a dog. Or a child.” Even weirder, Winnie. Well done. “I’ll be upstairs.”
A more normal thing to say, but my tone sounds more like someone who will be waiting upstairs to ax-murder you.
James looks mildly alarmed. Rather than risk saying more embarrassing and nonsensical things, I wave and start to walk away.
That’s when I step into a sci-fi movie. Or, at least, a sci-fi movie is the best explanation I can think of for what I see just across the lobby.
It’s Dale … except not Dale. This is where the sci-fi part comes in, because the first leap my brain makes is that I’m looking at an alien in some kind of body-snatching scenario.
First of all, alien Dale is wearing tight jeans and a Henley—a HENLEY—with all the buttons open, revealing a sickly pale swath of his upper chest. When we were dating, Dale had exactly two looks.
Work Dale, which meant a suit, complete with jacket and tie, and Casual Dale, which meant a polo tucked into jeans or khakis with a belt that matched his shoes.
I didn’t think the man owned jeans or a Henley, a kind of shirt that acts like catnip to women—when worn correctly.
I take a tiny bit of pleasure in the fact the shirt looks terrible on Dale.
Then there’s the woman with him, who must be the other woman he mentioned in our breakup conversation. She has waist-length chestnut hair and a dress that someone’s going to have to cut her out of at the end of the night. Based on the room keys in Dale’s hand, it’s going to be him.
I swallow, waiting to feel some kind of hurt or jealousy. Instead, I’m just perplexed. Dale doesn’t look like himself—or who he was with me—and this woman is certainly nothing like me on the surface.
She inspires so many questions. Like: is it hard for her to sit down without actually sitting ON her hair? And if she does accidentally sit on it, does it strain her neck? Also: is she part of a religious sect where hair-cutting isn’t a thing? Or is this a stylistic choice?
While I’m watching—because I couldn’t stop watching if I tried, just like with every Real Housewives franchise—she hitches her leg up over his hip in a way that does not scream religious sect and does scream yoga practice five times a week for flexibility.
Alien body snatchers aren’t really a thing.
What about doppelg?ngers, like in The Vampire Diaries ?
Because, just like Dale never wore anything like what he’s got on now, he definitely never kissed me with that kind of passion or intensity.
Or slobber. There is some serious wetness involved. Ew, ew, ew!
As though he feels me watching, Dale’s eyes fly open, his gaze landing directly on me. I swear I can hear the sound of their mouths pulling apart with a wet smack. Dale blinks, his mouth opening and closing like a caught fish.
There’s no need for this to be uncomfortable. Awkward, sure. But seeing him with another woman solidifies exactly how little of my heart he ever held.
I draw in a breath and start toward them. With every step closer, Dale looks slightly more ill. But I’m determined. Be mature. Be the bigger person. Get in, get out, then walk away.
They’re standing next to a potted plant which an alarming number of people have used as a place to deposit their chewed gum. It’s a perfect way to set the scene for this conversation.
“Winnie, hey,” Dale says, looking sheepish and apologetic and ridiculous in his Henley.
The woman with him, on the other hand, looks strangely ecstatic. Which I quickly realize is due to James, who is standing right behind me.
I tilt my head up, surprised he followed me over. His eyes, which I’m coming to realize are capable of expressing much more than grumpiness, are asking if I’m okay. I give a slight nod, and he steps forward, placing a hand on my lower back.
I could have done this alone. But it’s so much better feeling his warm palm through my shirt.
“I’m Celia,” the woman says, looking right through me as she holds out her hand to James.
He simply stares down at it like he’s never seen a hand before, then nods. Just nods . I love him for it.
Celia wilts a little, then wraps an arm around Dale’s waist, like she wasn’t just turning flirty doe-eyes on another man. I give her an awkward wave.
“I’m Winnie.”
Celia holds out her hand again, much less enthusiastically than she did to James. Unlike James, I shake her hand, which feels wilted and slightly damp, like a lukewarm cafeteria-style fish filet.
“I’m Dale’s ex. Not like a creepy stalker or still obsessed ex. A very peaceful, no-drama ex.”
I attempt to appear and sound nonthreatening. I’m not sure I succeeded based on Dale’s stricken expression and Celia’s narrowed eyes.
“I’m happy for you both,” I add, wiping off her fish filet handshake on my jeans.
This brightens Celia’s expression, and she beams at Dale, who seems to find the carpet especially fascinating. “Thank you,” Celia squeals, again holding out her hand.
Another handshake? What is her deal with hand-shaking?
But then I notice the very large, very sparkly ring on her finger. Her left ring finger. The diamond’s size falls somewhere between one carat and better-do-some-arm-exercises-to-hold-that-thing-up.
My entire body goes taut. James’s chest rumbles behind me.
His hand slides from my back to my waist, gripping me like he thinks I’m going to launch an attack or maybe drop into a faint.
I don’t particularly feel like doing either thing, but I settle back against him, needing the stable feel of his chest.
“Oh,” I say, fighting for normalcy. Why is my mouth suddenly the Sahara? “Congrats on the engagement.”
Celia laughs brightly, adjusting her hand so maximum sparkle levels are achieved by the angle. I swear a beam of light coming off it just pierced my retina.
“Well, the engagement is old news, but we’ve finally chosen a date and a venue.”
Words link together to help my slow, slow brain understand: finally, old news, date, chosen .
I pin my eyes on silent, Henley-wearing Dale. “How long?” My voice sounds small yet deadly, like one of those tiny species of octopus who live in Australia and could kill you within minutes of their venom hitting your bloodstream.
“Winnie,” Dale says. It’s a placating voice. A coward’s voice. A guilty man’s voice. He looks at me, but his gaze slides right off and back to the floor.
Celia steps in again, looking between us like she’s just starting to get the picture. I hope, for her sake, she does. “We’ve been engaged for six months. Together for … well, it seems like forever. In a good way. Right, babe?”
Zero math is needed for this equation. I barely register the way James presses even closer, his hand banding tighter around my waist until there is no space left between us. He becomes a human splint, the only thing keeping me together.
It’s not the revelation of the cheating, at least not solely that. There’s the reality of being the unwilling other woman in this situation, which makes me want to hurl all over Dale’s shoes. Or hurl my shoes at Dale’s face.
But there is an even deeper betrayal to this, one Dale of all people would understand.
My own pulse creates a deafening whoosh in my ears. “You knew,” I say. “You were the only one who knew, and you still did this?”
Dale looks miserable, but not miserable enough. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” James says, repositioning us so he’s between me and Dale. “You do not get to speak to her.”
Though his protectiveness makes something swoop in my belly, the humiliation of James witnessing this moment is intensely, keenly painful. I remove his hand from my waist, and without looking back, I bolt for the escalator.