Page 24 of Mating Theory
“Well, he does. But he only lets them get so close. It’s always smiles and good times and easy charm. He keeps the hard stuff locked deep inside.”
The hard stuff? That wasn’t deep inside last night. It was hovering under the surface of his skin. It was control and force and sex. I give a nervous cough. Because this isn’t going to last. “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression about me. We aren’t… serious.”
“No? That kiss he gave you looked pretty serious.”
“That’s what I mean. That’s all there is between us. The… physical stuff.”
It’s her turn to flush. “Sometimes it starts that way. That’s how it was with Hugo and me. But when you let someone in, I mean really let someone in, it can never be purely physical.”
Purely physical. Is that how I’d describe what happened between us? No. It felt soul-deep. Searing. I’m not sure that changes anything. “It will be over soon.”
“Okay,” she says, sounding unconvinced. “Because he hasn’t taken his eyes off you.”
The wedding song plays its familiar opening strands, and everyone stands. I stand up too, but I don’t turn to face the back of the room. Sutton’s staring at me, and I’m staring back. We’re both caught in this moment, even as a different story plays out in the aisle. A bride and a groom. Sacred vows. Those things have nothing to do with the fiery ice in Sutton’s gaze. He makes a thousand carnal promises to me as the people he loves stand before God. Yes, yes, yes. That’s my answer back. Because I don’t want him to hurt. At least that’s the story I tell myself. The truth is much more disturbing. The truth is I want to be hurt.
Chapter Twelve
Sutton
I’m too busy watching Ashleigh remember what we did last night and blush to worry about the couple being married in front of me. Until I have to hand the fifteen-thousand-dollar ring over to Christopher from my jacket pocket. Until they kiss.
The chemistry is enough to singe me, standing only a few feet away. I have to watch as Christopher cups her beautiful face. I have to watch as Harper’s eyes turn damp. He lowers his head, and I’m jealous of her. She reaches to put her hand around his neck, and I’m jealous of him. It tears me up inside, a thousand different blades. I’m jealous of the goddamn air between them. Loving one person is bad enough. Loving two is pure hell.
Loving three would be enough to break me. I can’t let myself fall again. That’s the only thing I’m sure enough of as I watch Christopher bend Harper back for a deeper, more passionate kiss.
The audience stands and claps, a riot of joy. I feel numb.
There’s a cold hollow where my heart should be. It’s a relief, that empty space. Much better than the pain that I’d feel if it were full. I let Avery take my arm and guide me gently down the aisle after the happy couple. One foot in front of the other.
Limos idle outside the church, and I glance back to the crowd, looking for Ashleigh. I don’t see her. Avery tugs me inside the car. “You’ll see her at the reception,” she murmurs.
I glance at her, and it feels like I’m seeing her for the first time.
Avery Miller is something of Tanglewood royalty. She came from old blood, the St. James family, and married Gabriel Miller under a cloud of scandal. Her expression is soft with sympathy. “You did great in there.”
A harsh laugh. My amusement abruptly ends. “It wasn’t a particularly hard job.”
“Wasn’t it?” She smooths her satin dress, its royal blue a perfect complement to the flowers inside. Everything perfect for the wedding of the year. The ride seems to pass in a moment. It seems to take an eternity, my eyes hungry for the sight of Ashleigh.
We arrive at the reception before the happy couple.
“Where’d they go?” Avery muses.
A quickie, my mind helpfully supplies. They’re probably tumbling about the back of a limo. Maybe even with a professional boudoir photographer to capture a few blessed shots.
I feel blank as I cross the room, search the room. There she is.
Ashleigh looks fresh and pretty. She leans against me. “Are you okay?” she murmurs.
“Of course.” Except I feel sick.
Everyone’s standing around watching me. Normally I don’t give a fuck what people think of me. That’s from growing up a Mayfair bastard. I’m used to sideways glances while I count out pennies at the grocery store. I’m not used to standing in front of five hundred of the most rich and powerful people in the city while they watch to see if I break down.
“Come on,” Ashleigh says, tugging me towards a parquet floor.
A band plays a lively tune, which everyone in the room seems determined to ignore. They’re hugging the sides of the grand hotel ballroom, whispering and generally looking like they’re at a middle school dance. With more expensive clothes.
