Chapter 6 #4
Maybe we both do, because the din of party has almost completely disappeared and for a second, I’m tempted to take this moment one step further. I can tell he wants it too. Panic and something more dangerous arise in me.
I move closer to him so that the gap between us is almost completely closed. If anyone were to walk in they would see us, but as far as everyone knows, we’re a couple. So the only people who would bat an eye would be us.
My not-so-distant past life feels like an eternity ago. But the moment I think of Jack, and the promise I almost made to him, I prepare to take a step back, the reality of the situation hitting me like a truck.
I should be married right now. I should be with Jack. I shouldn’t be here, with a strange man, about to indulge in a delicious kiss at his ex’s wedding.
But then I draw in a pull of Ryan’s cologne, I drink in the wanting in his eyes, and now I’m part panic, part primal. For the past few years, I’ve done things for us, because I should. This? I want this for me.
Just as our lips are about to meet, the door swings open, and there’s the bride. The triumphant expression on her face fades slightly as she realizes what she’s walking into. “Oh, hey, you two,” she says, overly cheerful. “We’re about to do the full group shot outside!”
Her maid of honor trails behind her. The woman, blue-eyed with freckles and a neatly angled bob, clearly hasn’t been executing her duties as intended. Her pink cheeks and slightly glazed eyes suggest that either she finds this job a lot, or she’s been enjoying the open bar a little too much.
Calista straightens her shoulders. Her wedding dress really is lovely. I think I tried on the same one. And her makeup is striking, but the amount of it surprises me. Ryan strikes me as someone who appreciates women in their more stripped-down form.
I shift my gaze to him, and he’s back to being buttoned up. Retrained.
“Well, don’t let me interrupt,” Calista says, as her attendant picks up her train.
She’s about to brush by me, but pauses slightly. “He did always have a thing for brunettes,” she murmurs, before disappearing in a cloud of tulle toward the bathroom beside the bar.
I wait until they’re out of earshot before I look at Ryan. “What was that all about?”
Ryan shakes his head. “She’s just…jealous.”
“I thought she was the one who broke things off.”
“She was. But she’s also the type who doesn’t want anyone to have anything, even if it’s something she doesn’t want.” He raises an eyebrow.
“Territorial?” I ask. I can hear them chatting in the bathroom.
“Something like that,” Ryan says.
The run-in has done nothing to quell my desire. If anything, it’s strengthened it. Ryan was treated badly. I want to be the one who treats him well.
Without thinking, I lean forward, my cheek brushing against his. “What do you want? Do you want to see what’s upstairs?” I ask.
He barely pauses before nodding. “Absolutely.”
***
RYAN
What do I want?
The question is a good one. As a warm-blooded male, the most basic answer to that question is obvious. But what I really want is to ditch the rest of this ridiculous parade and be back home alone with Sloane.
It’s crazy how just a few days of having her around has solidified my desire for Sloane to be my every day.
To wake up in the morning to the sound of her making coffee in my kitchen.
To walk the beach in the evening with Marshall trailing us.
To hear the sound of her laughter as he frolics in the sand.
To do all the things we haven’t done yet, but which I’ve imagined in my mind’s eye.
And strangely, at the fancy venue for Calista’s wedding, which for so long was going to be my own, I can picture Sloane and me being here one day together.
“There you are!” my mother’s voice calls, and suddenly, like all adult children in the company of their mothers, I’m ten again, and Sloane and I are being dragged outside to be in a ridiculous photo that will inevitably be turned into a puzzle or put on someone’s Christmas card or Instagram feed in the July section of their year in wrap-up.
“I should probably bow out of this one,” Sloane murmurs as the wedding planner, in her authoritarian voice, barks out commands about where people should stand.
Clearly, she’s been briefed about the hierarchy of importance, because I’m relegated to the side—not at the very end, but close enough to solidify my role as peripheral family. I’m okay with it.
Because the less in the spotlight I am, the less attention there is on me as I drink in the smooth tan skin of Sloane’s shoulder. The light curl of the strands of hair that surround her face, blowing in the ocean breeze.
When she looks up and catches my eye, I’m undone. Calista breezes by and says something to the wedding planner about the photo, but I decide I have no intention of being a part of this scene in my ex’s wedding album for years to come. I duck out of the lineup and walk determinedly to Sloane’s side.
“Upstairs,” I murmur. The only place we can truly be alone save for leaving this occasion, which, while tempting, would only lead to more problems in the long run than I’m willing to deal with.