16. Sienna #2
He stood beside me near the rail while boats moved through the harbour below. His shoulder brushed mine once when the terrace became crowded.
He pointed toward one of the racing boats. “That one belongs to Elias.”
“The black one?”
“The one currently losing.”
“I can hear you.” Elias called from behind us.
Weston smiled. “Good. It’s an embarrassment to the dynasty.”
I took a sip of the cocktail.
Weston leaned closer so I could hear him over the music and conversation.
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
I stared at him a moment longer, before I nodded.
“Yes.”
My gaze moved across the terrace.
That was when I saw Emmie.
She stood beside Marcel near the Crow table with one hand wrapped around her champagne flute. Marcel’s fingers touched the rose gold diamond collar absently while someone spoke to him, sliding over the metal in that familiar little ritual of his.
Emmie was looking at me.
I lifted one hand in greeting.
She lifted hers too. Harrison noticed and glanced toward me. He raised his drink.
My eyes found Jamison. He stood beside them.
Weston noticed the direction of my gaze.
He said nothing. I handed him my glass.
“I’ll be back.”
His eyes searched mine briefly. “All right.”
I crossed the terrace.
The closer I got to Jamison’s table, the more my confidence thinned. It was ridiculous. Four nights ago, his mouth had been on mine.
Today, he looked furious that I existed within sight.
Emmie smiled as I approached.
“Sienna.”
“Hi.” I looked between her and Marcel, trying to keep my voice light. “The event is beautiful.”
“It is,” Emmie said softly.
Marcel nodded once in greeting. Harrison looked toward the St. Cross table, then back at me with an expression I could not read.
Jamison said nothing.
His black shirt and dark trousers made him look severe against all the summer linen. His whiskey glass was nearly empty.
I tried to smile.
“Jamison?”
“What?”
I swallowed. “I’m sitting with Weston.”
“I can see that.”
“I thought…” I glanced at Emmie because I suddenly felt childish. “I thought I was sitting here. With everyone.”
Jamison’s mouth tightened. “Your name is on the St. Cross table.”
“Yes, but I don’t understand why.”
“Then ask whoever placed you there.”
“I thought maybe you knew.”
“Why would I know?”
The answer hurt more than I expected. I looked down at the grass for a second, trying to gather myself before the expression on my face became embarrassing.
Because you’re my fiancé, I wanted to say. I thought, after the car, maybe we were better.
“The dress came in a Crow box.” Heat touched my face. “It was from Weston.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
His gaze sharpened. “Is there a problem?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe—” My throat tightened. “I thought perhaps it was sent because of you.”
“Because of me,” he repeated.
I hated how stupid I sounded. I had come over here with a heart full of questions and all of them suddenly seemed too small to survive his attention.
“You sent the last dresses through Crow styling,” I said quietly.
“That doesn’t mean every dress with a Crow crest is from me.”
“I know. I just…” I drew in a breath, trying again. “I don’t understand why Weston sent one. Or why I’m sitting with him. Did I do something wrong?”
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Jamison’s jaw clenched.
“For fuck’s sake, Sienna.”
I flinched.
He saw it. For one second, something moved across his face, but it vanished beneath irritation before I could understand it.
“I’m not here to walk you through seating arrangements,” he said. “Sit where your place card tells you to sit.”
I nodded too fast. “Okay.”
But I didn’t move.
Because there was still the kiss between us. Four nights where I had wondered if I had imagined how he held me. I needed to know if it mattered.
Even a little.
“Jamison,” I said softly.
His eyes flicked to mine.
“What now?”
“I thought things were better between us.”
“Better,” he said.
I wished I had not said anything. Stayed at Weston’s table, drinking pale pink cocktails and laughing at jokes from men who did not make me feel foolish for hoping.
“In the car,” I whispered.
“Sienna.”
“You kissed me.”
“I was drunk.”
The whole back seat, the heat of his hands, the way I had felt chosen for the first time in years.
I was drunk.
Of course Jamison kissed women when he was drunk. He probably kissed women without thinking.
Maybe he remembered and wished I had forgotten.
My cheeks burned.
“I know,” I said quickly. “I know you were.”
His mouth tightened. “Then don’t make it into something it wasn’t.”
The truth, delivered in Jamison’s usual brutal way.
I had taken one drunk kiss from a man who had spent three years showing me exactly how little he wanted me and turned it into a reason to hope.
My eyes stung.
I looked down at his whiskey glass because it was easier than looking at his face.
“I’m sorry,” I said, then remembered he hated that too. “I mean… I understand.”
I could feel everyone around us holding still. That made it worse. I had not only misunderstood the kiss. I had misunderstood it publicly, in front of his family, at a harbour event where half of Harlan already knew how to watch women fall apart politely.
I forced a smile.
“I didn’t mean to make it uncomfortable.”
“That seems to be a habit.” Jamison’s expression turned unreadable.
The tears came so fast I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop them.
Emmie’s hand touched my arm. “Sienna—”
“It’s fine,” I said brightly. I smiled anyway because stopping would be worse. “I’ll go sit where I’m meant to.”
Jamison’s eyes sharpened, but he said nothing.
I stepped back.
“Enjoy the evening,” I said to no one in particular.
I walked away…my face felt too hot. The silk dress suddenly seemed too fitted, obviously chosen by another Crow while the man I had thought might want me there could barely tolerate a question.
The worst part was the kiss.
That was what I understood as I crossed the terrace.
Before, Jamison’s cruelty had been familiar. I had a place for it. It hurt, but it made sense. He was grumpy, and busy. He did not like being touched. He had never wanted the merger.
But the kiss had made me believe there was another version of him beneath all that.
A version that one day… might of wanted me.
A version I could reach. I held back the scoff. Maybe there was lots of women had reached him for a night and learned better than to call it anything else.
Weston watched me approach.
He did not ask what happened. That kindness nearly made the tears harder to control. Instead, he offered my cocktail back to me and shifted slightly so his body blocked me from the worst of the terrace, from the people pretending not to watch, from Jamison’s table behind me.
“Ready to leave?” he asked.
I blinked. “Leave?”
“If you want to.”
I looked toward the table. “Dinner isn’t finished.”
“Dinner ended twenty minutes ago. We’re in the part of the evening where men repeat the same business conversations louder because they’ve had whiskey.” Weston leaned a little closer. “My brothers have a better plan.”
Elias appeared behind him with his jacket thrown over one shoulder and a grin that suggested the plan would be a terrible idea.
“Midnight surfing,” he announced.
I stared at him. “In suits?”
“Absolutely not.”
Lucille joined us, holding her heels in one hand. “We keep clothes at the St. Cross beach house.”
Amara appeared beside her husband, smiling. “Swimsuits. Towels. Food. Dry clothes. Everything civilized enough to keep this from becoming an actual disaster.”
Callum looked toward Elias. “That is optimistic.”
Weston’s eyes returned to mine. “Come with us.”
The invitation felt reckless.
I looked down at my champagne dress, then toward Emmie, then back at Weston.
“Surfing?”
“You don’t have to surf,” Lucille said. “I mostly float near the shore and judge everyone else.”
“She is excellent at it,” Elias added.
Amara touched my arm gently. “You can swim. Sit on the sand. Whatever feels good.”
Whatever feels good.
I had spent the entire afternoon doing what looked right. I wanted to go.
“I’d love to,” I said.
Weston smiled.
We collected our things from the table. Lucille linked her arm through mine while Amara made a side bet with her husband.
Weston walked beside me as we moved through the crowded terrace, his hand touched the small of my back briefly when someone stepped into my path.
We had almost reached the pavilion entrance when the air behind me changed. I felt it before I saw him.
Weston’s hand slipped away from my back.
I turned.
Jamison was walking toward us. He moved through the guests without needing to ask anyone to step aside. People simply did.
Jamison stopped in front of Weston.
“Move.”
Weston’s brows lifted slightly. “Excuse me?”
“I want a minute with my fiancée.”
The word landed heavily.
My fiancée.
After everything he had just said, it made me feel like a title he remembered only when another man stood too close.
Weston did not move immediately. His gaze slid to me. That made Jamison’s expression darken.
“I said move,” Jamison snapped.
“Sienna can decide whether she wants a minute.”
Jamison’s jaw flexed. For one frightening second, I thought he might hit him.
Then his gaze returned to me.
I saw the effort in it. The way he dragged himself back from the edge of violence and forced his voice into something almost controlled
“Sienna,” he said again. “Please.”
The attention of strangers were on us. I couldn’t afford any more attention on their relationship.