Chapter Five Ruby
“Ruby, you realize you’re in the wrong spot, right?”
I stare at Lola in confusion. It’s been a long morning full of primping and polishing and princess treatment for the bride and her bridesmaids. Plus, I woke up extra early so that I could fit in a full exercise routine in the makeshift dance studio I made for myself on Gram’s front porch.
Gram had absolutely nothing to say for herself when I confronted her about the rose quartz and raw ruby she slipped into Ben’s pocket. I don’t even know how she knew about him. She’s always claimed that the wind whispers secrets to her, and I guess this is yet another reason to believe such a thing is possible.
The weirdness of it all kept me awake half the night.
So, basically, I’m exhausted. Thankfully, the magic of concealer and shimmery powder has made me look as bright-eyed and fresh-faced as the other girls.
We’re all gathered right outside the conservatory. In a matter of minutes, the double doors will swing open, and we’ll make our way down the aisle as part of Eva’s bridal procession. I can already hear the music, courtesy of a classical string quartet, and the buzzing crowd of guests. It’s a lot like what I might hear just moments before the curtains open.
Except, instead of an elaborate costume, I’m wearing a chic, floor-length gown made of deep gray satin. My hair is curled and pinned away from my face with sparkling clips, and I’m wearing heels so high that they might be bothersome if I wasn’t already used to imprisoning my feet in pointe shoes.
Lola is still waiting for an answer.
“What?” I repeat.
She gestures to Erik beside her, who is smiling with the sort of lazy masculine ease that grates my bones. Her hand is already tucked into the crook of his elbow, though I realize I’d just been reaching for him automatically as the preferable option to what my reality is.
“You’re with Ben, silly,” Lola continues, offering the man in front of her a wink.
Only then do I realize that she’s reminding me who my partner is for our march down the aisle. As the maid of honor and the best man, it’s traditional for me and Ben to lead the procession.
I wish I could say no. The last thing I want to do is rest my hand on Ben’s arm and venture down a wedding aisle with him.
But I’m not going to do that. Because that would be ridiculous. Eva doesn’t need to deal with me having a stupid temper tantrum mere minutes before her wedding is about to begin.
So, I plaster a smile on my face and say, “Of course.”
Lola grins and tugs Erik closer against her. Trying to look like I don’t want to smash the stained-glass doors to pieces, I take my place in front of them.
“Hello again,” Ben murmurs.
“Hi,” I grumble.
“You look beautiful.”
I roll my eyes and refuse to give in to the mischief in his tone that tells me he’s trying to bait me. He can tell I don’t like him, but he doesn’t even know why. It makes me want to kick him in the shin.
“I know I do,” I answer.
“Won’t you say I look nice too?”
I glare at him out of the corner of my eye. “I’m sure you’re already well aware of how good you look, Hawthorne.”
He chuckles, unbothered by my use of his surname. “True.”
I swear he wasn’t this ridiculous that day at the Strand. Back then, he was just a normal guy. Easygoing and relaxed. Confident and well-mannered in the way that the old money types are, but that’s not out of the ordinary in Manhattan.
Apparently, a lot can change in eleven months.
Maybe I was just having an off day. I’m usually a very good judge of character.
The music changes and the doors glide open as if on an enchanted wind. The conservatory of Blakeley Manor is a famous wedding venue, and for good reason. The space is spilling over with delicate tendrils of ivy and dripping with wisteria. The entire ceiling and the majority of the walls are made of glass, allowing for a sweeping view of the cliffs and the ocean beyond. Sunshine pours into the space.
For a few heartbeats, I forget whom I’m standing next to. It’s all just so… beautiful. So perfect. Exactly what someone like Eva deserves.
Then Ben holds out his arm for me to take. I have no choice but to tuck my hand into the inside curve of his elbow and walk alongside him. I try not to focus on the fact that the photographers will be immortalizing this specific situation: me and him.
Still, it’s hard not to notice that his arm is noticeably firm and muscular underneath the fabric of his suit jacket. Despite his broad shoulders, however, he’s fairly slim. Maybe he’s a swimmer. Not that it matters. I don’t care what he does in his spare time… when he’s not kissing girls and then forgetting about them a day later.
Whatever. Whatever.
We’re halfway down the aisle before I know it, and it’s easy enough to focus on the altar ahead and pretend that I’m holding on to anyone other than Ben Hawthorne.
When the time comes for the groomsmen and the bridesmaids to go our separate ways, I step away from him without a single backwards glance. I take my place at the front and turn my attention to the doors, where Eva will soon make her entrance.
It’s a beautiful day for a wedding. Bright and balmy. There’s a soft breeze—just the perfect amount for all the outdoor photo sessions that will happen later to turn out flawlessly windswept without ruining anyone’s hair. The venue itself is stunning, bursting with flowers and silk ribbons. Eva floats down the aisle like a goddess—a true vision in white. It’s no surprise when Sebastien has to wipe away a few tears as she approaches the altar.
The ceremony itself is dreamy and sweet. Their vows are personal and tender without being corny. Not a single person fidgets impatiently or checks the time while the officiant recites words in English, French, and Russian to honor Eva and Sebastien’s respective families. Everyone is happy to be here.
I’ve never given much thought to my future wedding—never really figured I’d bother to get married in the first place—but I think I’d like it to be like this. I wouldn’t dare to spend the time planning a wedding until after retirement, but maybe if I did end up falling for someone…
It doesn’t matter. It’s not important. Not right now.
The ceremony drifts gracefully away into cocktail hour, which flows artfully into a delicious four-course dinner and then melts away into a lovely reception in the historic manor’s ballroom.
Miraculously, I’ve managed to avoid Ben for all of it. After we walked back down the aisle together, I immediately put distance between us and he didn’t fight it.
Unfortunately, now that the romantic day is starting to dissolve into stylish, star-studded, drunken debauchery, I think my luck has run out.
Because now he’s walking right toward me, where I’m perched on a chair at the very edge of the dance floor.
I gulp down the remainder of the white wine in my glass and angle my body away from Ben’s approaching figure, desperately looking for someone else to quickly engage in conversation.
Yet, I’m alone. Everyone else is dancing or mingling by the open bar, or admiring the elaborate cake that will soon be cut and served.
He pauses before me. I don’t bother standing up. Not even when he holds out his palm toward me, not quite like a handshake, but rather like a prince inviting a princess to join him for a fairytale dance.
I glare at his hand. He smiles.
“Will you dance with me?”
I hate that his deep, whiskey-roughened voice makes my stomach flip. I saw him, Sebastien, and Pierre sampling the strong liquor just a few minutes ago before I swiftly averted my eyes.
“No, thank you.”
Ben is not easily deterred. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t feel like it.”
“But you’re a professional dancer.”
“And so therefore, I should dance whenever and wherever the opportunity arises?”
Ben shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”
I roll my eyes. “Like you said, I’m a professional dancer. Nobody is paying me right now.”
His lips curve slowly into an amused smirk, the gesture so smooth and casual that it makes me want to scream and drool at the same time. How does he do that?
Man, I hate him.
“Come on, Ruby. This is a great song. Lower your standards for five minutes and offer a mere civilian the chance to dance with a real ballerina.”
“I’m not a ballerina.”
“Apologies. A real ballet dancer, I meant to say.”
I’m vaguely aware that several people have noticed the small scene I’m making by so blatantly refusing to take the hand of the handsome, oh-so-wonderful Ben Hawthorne. Which would be worse? Standing up and walking away, or accepting one single dance?
I wonder if Gram slipped any more stones into his pockets. I wonder if he even knows that one of those stones was a ruby and the other was a crystal known to attract love and romance. It’s a pretty clear sign, and very obvious meddling on Gram’s part. With any luck, he chucked the stones onto the beach at the picnic yesterday and hasn’t thought of them since.
He’s good at things like that.
With a heavy sigh, I choose the path of least resistance and place my hand into his waiting palm. He smiles victoriously and guides me to the center of the dance floor, where numerous other couples are swaying to the rhythm of an old James Taylor song.
Eva, wrapped in Sebastien’s arms, catches my eye and winks when she notices me with Ben. I roll my eyes.
Ben rests his hand on my waist and clasps my hand with his other. I place my free hand on his shoulder, unable to stop myself from having impeccable waltzing posture, and then I let him guide the dance.
Unfortunately, dancing with him isn’t horrible. He smells nice. Whatever cologne he’s wearing is smoky and spicy and heady without being too overwhelming. Plus, his hair is doing that annoying thing where it looks all mussed and handsomely tangled.
He’s dreadfully gorgeous. It makes me sick.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“Being sick to my stomach.”
To my surprise, Ben laughs. Loudly. “Ouch.”
“Why do you always laugh when I insult you?”
“What else should I do? Cry?”
“That would be nice.”
Annoyingly, he pulls me closer. Even more annoyingly, I let him.
“I know exactly who you are, Ruby Sullivan,” he murmurs, his mouth close to my ear.
I tense in his arms, ready to bolt the second he reveals the mortifying truth that he’s been pranking me this entire time. That he actually does remember everything about that day at the Strand and he thinks I’m adorably pathetic for still being so upset about it. How sweet and sad I am for thinking that I could actually keep the attention of Ben Hawthorne!
I take a deep breath. “Really? Who am I?”
“You’re a woman who has worked extremely hard to get where she is. You’re ambitious and focused, and maybe a little cutthroat. You don’t like being told what to do, unless, of course, you’re in the studio and adhering to the critiques of the premier ma?tre de ballet. You value rigorous work ethic above all else, Ruby, which is exactly why you hate me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You look at me and you see a man who has had everything handed to him. Even my position on the Board of Directors was handed to me, albeit grudgingly, thanks to my family legacy. I haven’t worked nearly as hard as you have, and I’m not too proud to admit it.”
“That’s not—”
“But,” he interjects gently, still holding me so unbearably, wonderfully close. “I want you to know that I admire you for the way you dislike me. It’s refreshing. It reminds me that I’m not nearly as impressive as others believe I am, and I’m grateful for that healthy dose of humility. That’s why I smile when you insult me. Because it means that there’s at least one person out there who sees me for what I am, and yet can still tolerate sharing a dance with me. I must not be that bad, after all. It’s good to know.”
“You certainly love to hear yourself talk,” I mutter.
He chuckles. I pretend to ignore the way his hand on my waist dips ever so slightly lower.
The song changes, but it’s still mellow enough that the couples around us keep dancing at a slow tempo. For some reason, I don’t let go of him.
I’m trying to keep my breathing steady. For all his pretty words and grand speeches, Ben still has absolutely no idea who I actually am. He’s spouting nonsense—the sort of foolish word vomit that might make another girl dizzy and dazzled, but not me.
“You think you have me all figured out,” I tell him. We’re so close that our cheeks are within an inch or two of brushing against each other. I’m finding it hard to remember that there are other people in this room—other people in this world.
“Am I wrong?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“I don’t see you for what you are, Ben,” I admit. “In fact, you’re incredibly difficult for me to figure out. You make absolutely no sense, and I don’t like it when things are senseless. That’s why I hate you.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. I take a moment to curse the fact that, despite his apparent lack of formal dance training, he has a decent sense of rhythm. We move well together.
Ben lets out a breath. The warmth of it tickles my collarbone.
“Fine,” he murmurs. “Fair enough. I’m a senseless fool and that’s why you hate me. How can I fix that?”
By walking out of this ballroom and straight off the cliff, I’m tempted to say.
Instead, I step fluidly out of his arms and say, “You can’t.”