Chapter 3 #2
My stomach ties into a knot when I think about coming face-to-face with Beau.
Thanks to our Maid of Honor and Best Man duties, I know we’ll have to spend some time together this weekend.
And I’ve been praying he’s forgotten all about the last time we saw each other almost ten years ago.
If he looks at me with the same hurt in his eyes, I’ll feel like I need to apologize all over again and that’ll be way more awkward than just pretending like it never happened.
“I really don’t want to impose,” I tell Jackson.
Petra groans. “Stop with the ‘I don’t want to impose’ shit,” she says, her husky voice like a growl.
“You are our friend, and it’s not an imposition to help you.
For either of us. You’d do the same for one of us in a heartbeat.
So stay at Jackson’s or stay at my place, but stop feeling bad about it. ”
“Maybe I don’t want to impose on Beau. I assume he isn’t planning on having a roommate?”
Jackson sweeps her hand through the air like she’s brushing away my argument.
“I didn’t promise him the whole place to himself.
Besides, you used to live there. In fact, your bed and dresser are still in the spare bedroom.
” I hadn’t taken those with me when I moved into Peter’s apartment after we got engaged because he had a one-bedroom place that was already furnished and there was no room for my furniture.
“Why don’t you check with him and make sure he’s okay with me staying there too?” I suggest.
“If he’s not,” she says, “he can find somewhere else to stay. There’s no way I’m leaving my best friend homeless so Beau can crash there for a few weeks. Nope. The place is yours, Sierra, and he can stay too if he wants.” She tilts her drink back and takes a sip.
“Just talk to him, okay? I assume he’s here?”
“Yeah, I saw him earlier today, but haven’t seen him yet tonight,” she says. “He actually went and picked up Nate’s ring for me. Would you believe I almost forgot to pick it up from the jeweler after having it engraved?”
“You’re juggling a lot,” I remind her. “It’s a miracle you haven’t dropped anything big yet.”
“At this point, I just can’t wait to get married,” Jackson says. “I think everything is in place. Now I just want to enjoy the next couple days.”
“Cheers to that,” Petra says, raising her glass. Jackson raises hers to the toast, but I’m empty handed. “How do you not have a drink?” Petra says, a distinct ring of disappointment in her voice.
“I don’t know, I just came right to you two when I got down here. I didn’t stop at the bar.”
“Go get a drink,” Jackson says, smiling at me. “We’ll be here all night.”
The bar’s a little busy when I arrive, which is to say that the one bartender is having trouble keeping up with the twenty or so people who all want drinks at the same time.
I give her a sympathetic smile as she deals with a group of older men who are shamelessly flirting with her. Who are these people?
I grab one of the cocktail plates sitting on the bar and collect some hors d’oeuvres from the passing servers.
After the late lunch with my mom that left my stomach turning sour, I wasn’t in the mood for dinner.
But I’m already feeling that one glass of wine I had in my hotel room and know that if I don’t put food in me now, the alcohol will hit me hard.
I don’t need to add a hangover to the list of reasons this weekend already sucks for me. Nope, it’s only up from here.
Think about how far you’ve come, I remind myself. Think about the job you love and the life you’ve built for yourself. The wonderful life you’ll continue to build without Peter, because fuck him. I spear an olive with my toothpick, wishing it was Peter’s heart.
I’m furious at myself for not seeing the signs. I’m embarrassed and ashamed that I let someone deceive me like Peter did. But, I’m not heartbroken. Maybe that part comes later, after the anger fades?
Another bartender comes through the swinging door behind the bar with a fresh rack of glasses. After setting them on the bar, he turns his attention to me.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
“Prosecco?” I could really use something bubbly.
He pops the cork out of the already open bottle and gives me a heavy pour. “Have a great night,” he says as he slides the glass over to me.
I thank him and shove the last of my hors d’oeuvres, a goat cheese stuffed fig, in my mouth so I don’t have to carry my plate back to our table. I realize—too late—that I really should have taken smaller bites. It’s so large I can hardly chew it.
“Hey,” I hear from beside me. The voice is smooth and rich, deep without being raspy.
I glance up, and holy shit, he’s even more gorgeous up close.
The eyes that looked almost black from across the lobby this afternoon are a dark brown with flecks of amber around the pupil.
His skin is pale with olive undertones, and if the thick scruff on his face is any indication, it’s been a few days since he’s shaven.
I didn’t think I liked facial hair, but man was I wrong.
And he’s so close—sitting on the barstool right next to me—though I have no idea how he got there.
Was he there the whole time? Or was I so lost in my own thoughts that I didn’t even notice when he sat down?
I give him a closed-mouth smile, then point to my mouth as I start chewing. This is humiliating. Why can’t I just be normal and not have shoved a huge fig in my mouth before the hottest guy in the place started talking to me?
He takes a sip of his drink. “I hope it’s good,” he says as I chew.
I lift one eyebrow and nod. I can feel myself turning red from the embarrassment. But after I swallow about half of my bite, I recover with “Oh, it’s good.”
His resulting smile is blinding. Seriously.
And the seductive laugh that follows is like a hit of adrenaline to my system.
After I finally swallow the rest of my food, I take a sip of my Prosecco, set my elbow on the bar, and rest my chin on my palm as I lean toward him. “I highly recommend the stuffed figs.”
“Interesting choice,” he says, and his eyes track from my face down my body.
“Why is that?” I ask, analyzing his face closely. There’s something so familiar about him, but I can’t figure out how I know him.
“Well, figs have a long history of being linked to human sexuality.”
“Do they, now?” Clearly I’m skeptical.
“In the Western world, fig leaves are often used in art to cover, or represent, men’s and women’s”—he glances down where my dress folds in my lap—“genitals. According to several ancient texts, Adam and Eve gained their knowledge of good and evil from a fig tree in the Garden of Eden—thus the fig is the ‘forbidden fruit.’ And in some Eastern religions, the fig represents feminine sexuality. They’re often used to symbolize the yoni, which in Hinduism is a symbol of the divine procreative energy and is a representation of the goddess Shakti. ”
“You know an awful lot about”—without even meaning to, I lean toward him like he’s a magnet—“figs.” I try not to laugh. He’s got to be making this up.
“You don’t believe me,” he says, but his voice is teasing. He’s not offended in the least.
“Do you specialize in figs?” I tease as I pull a lock of my hair back behind my ear.
“Not exactly,” he says.
I tilt my head to the side like I’m considering his story. “Is knowing about figs part of your job?”
“Not really.” The hint of a smile plays at his lips.
“Do you grow figs?”
“Can’t say that I do.” His low voice is somehow familiar, an eerie yet comforting sound.
“So why would I believe you?”
“Care to place a little wager on this?” he asks as he moves his hand so it rests on the back of my barstool. I’ve never felt more comfortable being boxed in by a man.
I take another sip of my Prosecco and the glass is nearly empty. When and how did that happen? My brain reminds me that he wouldn’t want to wager on this unless he actually did know a thing or two about the topic. If he was blatantly making shit up, he wouldn’t offer up a bet. Unless he’s bluffing?
“What do you have in mind?” I ask, eyeing him over the rim of my glass.
“If I’m right, you have to really try to catch the bouquet at the wedding.”
I roll my eyes right in his face. “No, thanks.”
“Why not?” His face is only a foot from mine, and I don’t remember how we got quite so close.
“I don’t want to catch it.”
“Fair enough,” he says, sitting back in his seat. “But look into figs when you have a minute, just so you’ll know if I was making all that up.”
“Were you?”
“I guess you’ll find out.” He shrugs.
I take my last sip of the Prosecco and set my empty glass on the bar, hoping the bartender will notice I need a refill. “So, do you live around here, or are you in town for the wedding?”
“Just in town for the wedding,” he says, but the way his lips curve up on one side makes it seem like there’s more to his words than I’m understanding.
“So, how to do you know Jackson and Nate?”
A silent laugh makes his shoulders shake.
A fact that barely registers because I can’t stop looking at his ridiculously gorgeous smile and those full lips surrounded by closely trimmed facial hair.
They are stupidly kissable, and that’s all I can think about as I gaze at them.
“I’ve known the Shanahans my whole life. ”
“Then why haven’t we met before?”
“What makes you think we haven’t?”
Is he fucking with me? “I think I’d remember if we’d met.”
“And why’s that?” he asks, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
Fishing for compliments, I see. Obviously, I’m not going to tell him he’s too hot to have forgotten about. “I have a good memory.”
He starts to lean toward me again, but then there’s a hand on his shoulder and one on mine, and I turn to find Jackson literally in my face.