Page 23 of Sucker For You

“I’m not asking you, Frizzy. Ethan, we’ll talk later,” and Wes closed their call. Then, still very neutral but implacable too, pushing Isabel’s phone back toward her, before interlacing his fingers on the tabletop and dropping his gaze to study the tide passing by the boardwalk’s pylons beneath them, “So. You’re engaged to Ethan’s brother.Chase. The party that Erin and Ethan were at last night in San Francisco? It was some pre-wedding event. But today the guy’s off in Las Vegas, alone. While you’re here in Monterey. Right?”

Yes.

He was right. He was also continuing not to look at her, was so calm, his hands immobile despite the muscle jumping in his cheek, and. . .

“L-last night,” she heard herself say.

He dragged a napkin over his chocolate-smeared mouth and picked up his fork again. But he didn’t glance back in her direction. Maybe he wasn’t listening.

“You’re right,” she told her parfait. Somehow her spoon was in her hand, shifting and sifting yogurt and berries for. . .something.“Last night was the. . . was our wedding shower. A cocktail party. It was going—well. I could feel a headache coming on, though. From the cameras. The noise. I went to the bathroom. I might’ve been gone for fifteen minutes, and I should’ve remained with Chase. Like I was supposed to. Maybe I would’ve been all right. I just. . . I thought I needed a little time alone, away from the flashes and the alcohol. But if I hadn’t gone, maybe he wouldn’t have—”

Maybe.

Wes took a large bite of his French toast.

She rasped her spoon against her glass. “Fifteen minutes was too long. He’d been drinking. He came into the bathroom after me, w-with a caterer. I ran out. So did he. Everyone saw. Ethan gave me his keys and the beach-house address. I ran again. But I should’ve stayed. Because now I’m. . . here and. . .”

Wes’s knuckles whitened on his fork. “Jesus, he sounds like afu—” Almost immediately, however, he paused again, slowed again. He exhaled. “He sounds like a jerk, Isabel. He probably is, but—that actually doesn’t matter right now. Just—how. . . how are you feeling?”

The correct answer was obvious.

Heartbroken.

She didn’t say it.

Honestly, she’dappreciatedChase. She’d appreciated how no one ever questioned why they’d gotten engaged only eleven months after meeting at the San Francisco Medical Center, the hospital that ran her clinical trial. To anyone wondering, the answer was self-evident on her side:handsome, charming, doctor. Even a neurologist. On his? She was useful at his networking events, quiet and attractive. A conversation piece, if not a conversationalist. Evidence of the efficacy of BioPulse’sCeretobicin as well, which he endorsed and promoted. An engagement ring secured her time for his increasingly busy schedule of dinners and promotional conferences. She knew this. And. . . he liked her body, too, while she liked the simplicity of his routines. Gym, coffee, sex. The security of expectations, and of knowing that there would be nothing suspicious about their relationship to flag during her spousal visa application.

Being with him was—no,is,present tense, you can still fix this somehow—easy.

Mostly.

The coldness of her skin under his hands was her problem, not his. She’d tried to love him. A perfect man by so many standards, aspirational? She’d known she couldn’t—child exhibits attachment issues—but she’d tried.

She’d tried hard to be happy. . .

She must have spoken some part of those awful thoughts; Wes nodded. “What’s your plan?”

If he wasn’t recoiling, though, maybe she hadn’t confessed the worst of herself?

That was something.

But as for her plan: realistically, she didn’t have many options. Not now that Chase had left the state. That made her choice simpler. She told him, “There’s no point in my returning to San Francisco. Not when he’s in Las Vegas.”

“You could go to Vegas. If—you’re seriously still planning to marry him?”

Thewhy?shimmered over their table, silently.

It was nothing to the heat mirage of Nevada:dry, scorching air searing her skin, her blood, her skull—

“Yes, and—no. Not Nevada.”

“Why not go back to San Francisco, though? Don’t you live there?”

“Chase has a condo in Pacific Heights.”

“. . . right. Let me guess: you have a key, but you’re not on the mortgage?” Wes raised a last forkful of French toast with a metallicclang. He didn’t bite into it, just watched her for a moment over the cold chocolate and bananas. Then, “If you won’t head north to the city, will you stick around Monterey for a while? Or stay with family?”

“—scared the other children—returning her to a government home—”