Chapter 31
Thirty-One
River
The problem with Thorn Wilkenson is that he’s an idiot.
A wonderful, protective, gorgeous idiot.
But an idiot, nonetheless.
I chase him into the shadows, but it’s like he’s disappeared, and eventually I stop, not wanting to venture further away from the house.
The last thing I need is to get kidnapped again.
So I go inside, slip up to my room, and pull out my phone.
The call goes straight to voicemail—which isn’t exactly a surprise.
“Stupid man,” I whisper, typing out a text. Okay, more like a series of them.
RIVER: Please come back, honey.
RIVER: Or at least call me so we can talk.
RIVER: What you told me changes nothing.
RIVER: Please call me. I love you.
But the idiot man doesn’t answer.
Sighing, I walk back downstairs, force a smile through the cake cutting—that peaches and cream cake was definitely the right choice—and spend the rest of the night accepting glasses of champagne Rory passes me and dancing with Marie and Mia and Tiff and…
Pascal.
Who takes one look at my eyes and murmurs, “He told you.”
I nod.
“What happened?”
“That’s not really any of your business,” I murmur.
“You rejected him?” There’s a thread of frost in Pascal’s normally gentle tone.
“No,” I say. “But he didn’t give me the chance not to.”
Pascal stills. Then tilts his head back and sighs heavily up at the ceiling. “The man can’t get out of his own way now, can he?”
My temper spikes. “He’s been through a lot,” I snap. “Too much,” I add.
His head drops back down.
“So cut him some slack,” I grit out.
Pascal’s quiet for a moment. Then his mouth quirks.
I narrow my eyes at him. “What?”
“You’re perfect for him.”
That takes the wind out of my sails, and I exhale. He guides me off the dance floor as the song ends, lightly squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll help you get his head on straight, River. Don’t you worry.”
“I—”
“Time for the bouquet toss!” Rory shouts.
“Don’t worry,” he semi-repeats.
I look back at him then freeze with a frown. Because he’s gone.
Almost like he’s melted into thin air.
Ugh.
Annoying.
And now I know where Thorn got his disappearing skills from.
Sighing, I turn back toward the party, and—
“Oof!” I grunt as the bouquet flies right for my face, scrambling to not get beaned and also to not let it hit the floor.
“She caught it!” Rory cries.
“Less caught than it hit her in the face,” Marie points out.
“Po-tay-to. Po-tah-to,” Rory says. “Because as soon as Thorn stops being a dumb-dumb then he’ll be putting a ring on that finger and you all know it.”
King grins at his wife’s antics then stares down at his big, hockey-playing feet.
Rome chuckles and kisses the top of Chrissy’s head, Mia clinging to his beard.
Jean-Michel holds Tiff close.
Jace and Marie exchange amused glances.
And Brooks and Briar look most confident of all.
“Right,” I mutter, moving toward them and kissing their cheeks. “I’m off to bed. You two newlyweds enjoy your honeymoon.”
“We’ll see you for the fantasy ball when we get back.”
“You know you could always just extend your honeymoon and not rush back.”
“And miss you in that dress?” Briar grins then stage whispers. “Plus, I can’t wait to see the men in their outfits.”
“I think I made it clear that the only outfit I’ll be wearing is a suit,” Brooks mutters.
“We’ll see,” Briar says brightly.
Brooks groans.
And he’s not the only one.
Okay, not the only man groaning.
She just waggles her fingers. “Night, sweetheart.” A wink. “Enjoy the powers of that bouquet.”
I snort, shake my head, and make the rest of my goodbyes.
But, it needs to be noted, that I do it with the bouquet in my hand.
A week later, Brooks and Briar are home from their honeymoon…
And Thorn is still MIA.
Sighing, I roll to my side, thinking about my trip to his apartment today. It was empty, silent, as though all the life had gone out of it.
And his phone is shut off.
The only one who can reach him is Pascal…and all he’ll tell me, tell any of us, is that Thorn is alive and working on the stuff with the Lyons.
But alive doesn’t mean okay.
I roll to my back, stare up at the ceiling, wide awake and miserable and worried as hell.
And pissed.
Because he told me everything. Everything.
Not the sanitized version.
His ugly, shameful truth.
And then—
He left.
Like I had weeks ago.
Groaning, I bury my face in a pillow, wanting to scream.
But it’s the middle of the night and Briar and Brooks are sleeping, so I resist the urge. I do toss back the blankets and head downstairs to the kitchen, though.
If I can’t sleep, we may as well have freshly baked goodies with our coffee in a couple of hours.
I get out the butter, the flour, the milk and yeast, the sugar and salt.
And I start making croissants.
They’re finicky and time-consuming and the perfect distraction from the worry eating at me.
It’s only when I’m putting the first batch in the oven to bake off that I hear Briar through the audiobook I’m playing on my earbuds. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I lie, pausing the book.
It’s a good one.
Probably my favorite to date.
And I’m not enjoying a second of it.
She snorts. “You’re so full of shit.”
I shrug. “Yeah, well, I’m living in fantasyland where everything’s fine so…”
Silence. Then, “Do you want to talk about it?”
I make a sound that hopefully translates to absolutely not.
Briar ignores it. “Okay, I’ll rephrase. Tell me about it.”
Sighing, I start to shake my head. “What’s there to say? He told me about his past and it’s as horrible as I expected and…”
“And what?”
My throat tightens.
Because I don’t know how to explain this.
How do I explain that every horrible thing Thorn confessed somehow broke my heart for him?
And made me understand him better in the worst possible way?
And that I spent half the conversation wanting to cry and the other half wanting to throttle him?
So much blame. So much pain.
So much trust.
And—
“He thought I was afraid of him.”
Briar’s eyes go wide. “Oh no.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He surprised me and reached out to fix my hair and I freaking flinched. I didn’t mean to. I was just…”
I was shocked and overwhelmed. Heartbroken and devastated and aching for him. And I was feeling all of that and more, so much more—a hundred freaking emotions all at once.
“Then, before I could explain what was going through my head, he just took off. And now he won’t return my—or anyone’s—calls, and I only know he’s okay because Pascal is Pascal and—” I sigh and lean back against the counter. “It’s a mess.”
“He left?”
“Yup.”
“He told you all of his deepest darkest secrets, and he just left?”
I nod.
She falls silent for several long moments. “Oh, my God. He’s an idiot.” Briar rubs both of her hands over her face and groans. “I mean, of course he’s not an idiot. He’s scared and hurt and has been through hell like the rest of us—”
“Worse,” I correct.
Her brows fly up. “Worse?”
I nod.
A sigh. “Damn.”
“I know.”
She comes over, leans back against the counter beside me. “He’ll come around.”
I’m not so sure of that.
But all I say is, “I know.”
Because, God, I hope it’s true.