Chapter 17 Rhea
SEVENTEEN
RHEA
Down the stairs. To the right. Open the doors. Just keep breathing.
There is music coming from the wedding room, and conversation, but softer tones than the cocktail room. I smooth the front of my dress, square my shoulders, and push through the double doors.
Carter spots me immediately.
“Rhea,” he says, striding over. “I was starting to worry you’d gotten lost.”
Only emotionally, I think.
He leans in, lowers his voice a little. “Hey, I still haven’t had the chance to introduce you to Cash.
He should be here any minute. Great guy—bit of a mystery man, though.
Keeps things close to the vest. And I’ll warn you—he’s also a dancer.
But don’t you two try to outshine Serena and me on the dance floor, or she’ll ban you both from the premises. ”
I smile tightly. “No worries, there.”
But my mind flashes—sharply, unexpectedly—to the last time I danced.
At the gala. With Spencer.
Who may have been the best dancer I’ve ever partnered with—confident, easy, like the music was something he understood on a cellular level.
I briefly, stupidly, entertain the idea of dancing with him again. Just once. Maybe just long enough to make his little blonde tulip squirm. Just long enough to remind him what it felt like. What he might have had.
And then, Carter turns toward the door.
“Speak of the devil,” he says brightly. “There he is now.”
And I follow his gaze.
Oh god. No.
And for the second time in less than an hour, my heart slams to a dead stop.
“Cash” is not Cash Banks.
“Cash” is Spencer Devereaux.
My mind can’t even begin to process what is happening.
Carter claps him on the shoulder. “Cash, buddy! Finally, you get to meet my sister. Rhea—this is Cash. Cash - Rhea.”
Spencer—Cash—whatever the hell this man’s name is—extends a hand toward me.
I take it before I can think. His fingers wrap gently around mine, and the heat surges instantly up my arm.
“Rhea,” he says, his voice smooth. “Actually, it’s Spencer. ‘Cash’ was your brother’s idea of a joke back in college. Unfortunately, it stuck.”
We all laugh. At least I try to make a sound that passes for laughter.
And then Spencer looks at me, his eyes sharp with meaning. “You look exactly like someone I once knew.”
What is he doing? Calling me out? No—he wouldn’t. He has no reason. No right.
But then I realize, he’s not exposing anything. He’s giving me a choice.
An opening.
A moment to decide how we play this.
Do we pretend we’re strangers?
Claim our roles as grantee and grantor?
Ghosts and regrets?
I shake it off, draw a breath, and somehow find a smile.
“Well,” I say, lightening my voice, “I’m not sure if that’s good or bad—but it’s nice to finally meet the mysterious Cash Banks.”
I make myself flash him a smile.
I can do this. I can play this game. I stay in control of myself and the situation.
Even if my hand is still tingling where he touched me. Even if my stomach is twisting in ways I don’t have words for. Even if I’m standing face to face with the man who broke me open in a single night and never looked back.
Even if he is the mystery father of my daughter, Esme.