by Ryan, Lexi
Marston cuts his gaze to me for a beat, and I see the question there. What does she know about Vegas?
Seeing as how I can’t even remember half the night, Abbi got more details from Savvy than from me. I drain the martini and shrug.
Marston treats Abbi to a full smile. “We didn’t do a lot of reminiscing. You know how loud Vegas clubs are.” He winks at her, all sexy, smooth charm, and jealousy rises so hot and brilliant in my chest that I wish Abbi had a second martini for me to steal.
“Right.” She nods. “That makes sense.”
“Are you still living in Orchid Valley or just visiting?” Marston asks.
I’m glad they’re hitting it off so well, but I’d really love for them to hurry past the pleasantries and get to the part where Marston explains what brought him back to Orchid Valley for the first time in ten and a half years.
“I left for a couple of years, but I’m a lifer. What’s kept you away so long?”
If that question causes him any angst, Marston doesn’t show it. “Work’s been good. It keeps me busy.” He flashes me a smile. “But I’m here now.”
“I didn’t expect to see you . . .” I’m not sure how to finish that sentence. I didn’t expect to see him before the wedding? I didn’t expect to see him at all. I didn’t really think he’d come, but why did I send the invitation? “Why are you here?”
He scans my face for a long moment. “We need to talk.”
“Oh. Right, of course.” Abbi hops off her chair and steps away from our table then nods toward where her brother and his friends are gathered at the back of the bar. “I’ll go. I’ll see if the guys have any room for me at their table so you two can just—”
“You don’t need to go,” I say at the same time as Marston says, “Not here. In private.”
“That’s not necessary.” I wave to Abbi’s now-vacant chair. “Have a seat.”
Abbi’s worried gaze ping-pongs between us—it’s only now occurring to her that maybe she shouldn’t leave me alone with my greatest weakness since salted caramel gelato. She puts her hand on my arm. “Do you want me to stay?”
“Yes,” I say, and at the same time, Marston says, “No.”
“Considering I’m engaged to another man,” I say, trying to appeal to Marston’s reason, “I think it would be more appropriate for us to have someone with us as we talk.”
Marston’s jaw tightens. “I thought it might be more comfortable for us to talk privately about that engagement.” The word seems to detonate when it hits the air, and his eyes flash, exposing his first real sign of emotion since he approached us.
Okaaaaay. So he’s pissed about the wedding. On the one hand, this is unreasonable. He and I haven’t been a couple for eleven years. I can marry whomever I want. On the other hand, I was wearing Marston’s ring just six months ago, and if you don’t consider the fact that we were drunk off our asses and only engaged for a matter of hours, it’s understandable that he might take offense to me getting married so soon after.
He looks around the room. “This isn’t the place.”
I stiffen when I realize how right he is. There are already eyes on us, and I’m sure the gossip mill is going nuts with news of Marston Rowe being back in town and talking to me. Any second, someone could walk up and ask about my daughter. Or Julian could drop by Smithy’s for an after-work beer. If Marston saw us together, would he immediately know my relationship is a sham? Marston knows what I’m like when I’m in love, and I can’t begin to fake that level of connection with Julian.
So talking here is a bad idea, but I can’t leave with him without causing a stir, either.
Why did I send him that invitation? What was I thinking?
Nausea washes over me, and my skin feels too hot. “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.” I sway a little as I push to my feet.
Marston steadies me with a hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”
“Want me to go with you?” Abbi asks.
I shake my head. “No. I just need a minute.”
I feel like every person in Smithy’s bar has their eyes locked on me as I walk to the restroom. Keeping my steps slow and measured, I don’t let my face fall until the door closes behind me.
I run the water cold and brace myself on the sink.
Everything is okay. This is just one moment. Inhale and exhale, and move your way through it.
Once my breathing evens out, I splash cold water on my face and blot it dry with a paper towel. I’m definitely overreacting. There are a thousand reasons he could be in town and want to talk to me alone. Thousands of reasons that don’t begin with the words “You’re the love of my life. Please don’t marry anyone else.”
Because I’m almost positive I don’t want to hear those words. Mostly.
When I step out of the bathroom, Marston is waiting there, leaning against the wall across from the ladies’ room, arms folded, jaw twitching with aggravation. The picture of tall, dark, and pissed off.
When Marston sets his mind to something, he gets it, and tonight, apparently that something is talking to me alone.
“Sorry.” I smooth down my pencil skirt. “That vodka didn’t sit right.” I turn toward the main room.
He catches me around the waist and spins me so fast that I’m trapped between the wall and him before I can blink. “Give me one minute.” He braces his hands above my head and leans forward.
I swallow hard. Not because I’m scared. Marston’s never scared me. But looking up at him when he’s this close is stirring up all kinds of memories. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look at him without part of me wishing for the future I longed for at sixteen. I place a firm hand on his chest. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Was Vegas a joke to you?”
Of all the questions I expected him to ask, that wasn’t anywhere on the list. “What? Of course not. Vegas was . . .” Hot. Impulsive. Crazy. Amazing. Wild . . . everything.
He dips his head until his lips hover right above mine. “Don’t you dare call it a mistake,” he growls, his warm breath tickling my skin.
I ache to close the distance between our mouths, ache to feel his kiss again. I’d never call Vegas a mistake. Maybe I should, but I can’t.
“Fuck, you smell so good. I couldn’t get the smell of you out of my mind for weeks after you left me that damn note. Do you know how crazy that made me?”
My hand is still against his chest. If I pushed, he’d back off. He’d give me the space to clear my head. But when he shifts his mouth from above mine to my ear, I don’t want to push him away. I want to pull him back. “Marston—”
“Is this why you sent me that invitation? Did you want me to come here and remind you what it’s like between us? How it feels when we’re close?” He takes a full step back, and my hand falls to my side. His cold gaze settles on my ring finger and the diamond winking in the low light. It’s a family heirloom, given to Julian by my mother and father when he asked them for their blessing. My grandmother wore this ring until the day she died.
“I don’t know why I sent it,” I admit.
“Do you really love him?”
“I . . . I mean, he’s . . .” I swallow. “Of course.”
The corner of his mouth curls into a sneer. “It’s a wonder more men aren’t fighting for your affection with declarations like that.”
I lift my chin. “I love him. I wouldn’t be marrying him if I didn’t.” The words taste like lies on my tongue and send a new wave of nausea rolling over me. I shouldn’t have chugged that martini.
“And such a faithful heart, too. Did you even have a full day between being in my bed and putting on his ring? Or were you already with him when you tracked me down in Vegas?” He surveys every centimeter of my face. “I thought you were better than that.”
His implication is like a smack in the face. “I don’t care what you think.” I sidestep him to return to my table, but he takes me by the shoulders before I can get far. In a breath, he has me pinned
against the wall again, and his mouth crushes against mine.
Fireworks explode in my stomach. All at once, the floor is falling out from under me and I’m floating.
The kiss doesn’t last long—I don’t let it. I tear my mouth away before it can swallow me whole.
I shove him back, my lips tingling. “You can’t do that.” The kiss was everything I remembered, everything that’s missing when I kiss Julian. Everything I’ve been trying to convince myself I don’t need. But if someone would’ve seen us, it would be a mess.
He cups my jaw in his warm hand and strokes the rough pad of his thumb across my bottom lip. “That’s not what you said in Vegas.”
A sob rises in my throat, hot and insistent. I have to close my eyes to try to steel myself against his touch, but it doesn’t help. I don’t want to pull away. I want to lean in. “That’s not fair.”
“You want to talk about not fair? How do you think I felt when my wife sent me an invitation to her fucking wedding? I’m surprised you didn’t save yourself the postage and include it with the divorce papers.”
My head swims. Note to self: guzzling vodka when you’re on a strict low-cal diet is bad news. The room seems to tilt on its side. The floor is a little wobbly beneath my feet, and I could swear he just said . . .
“I let you go when you ran out on me the morning after our wedding.” His lips brush mine with each word. “But last I checked, bigamy is illegal in this country, and if you think I’m going to give you up without a fight, you don’t remember me at all.”
Wife. Divorce. Wedding. “What are you talking about?” Vegas. All those missing hours. The ring on my finger when I woke up in his bed. Did I really . . .? Could I have?
He straightens, his eyes narrowing. “Vegas? Ring shopping at midnight? That sweet little chapel you said reminded you of the church on Lake Blackledge?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I . . .” I dig through my memories of that night, but everything gets fuzzy at the second club—blips and blurry images of Savvy dancing and laughing, of Marston watching me with hot, hungry eyes as I did a thigh hold-spin on the pole. And I have no memories after that.
“You really don’t remember?” He staggers back a step and drags a hand over his face. “You’d had a few drinks, maybe had a good buzz a couple of times, but you never seemed drunk.”
“No, but I . . .” I shake my head. “I have bad reactions when I mix alcohol with my anxiety meds. Some people get sleepy, but I just . . . get happy and then forget everything from the night—sometimes even stuff that happens before I take my pills. It happened at Christmas, and I realized I can’t drink at all on my meds.”
He turns away and tucks his hands into his pockets. “And you took anxiety medication that night?”
“I don’t remember,” I admit, though I can imagine needing it. I was on an emotional rollercoaster seeing Marston again.
“You woke up with my ring on your finger. What did you think that meant?”
“I thought I’d lost my mind in Vegas and gotten engaged.” Apparently, I was half right. “I have to go,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “No. We need to talk about this.”
But I’m already running toward the door.
Chapter Two
Marston
Brinley doesn’t remember our wedding.
As hard as it’s been to wrap my mind around that, it explains a lot, and maybe—just maybe—it means I haven’t lost her yet.
I park in front of The Orchid and climb out of the Bentley I rented after my plane landed in Atlanta. Tucking the package from Aunt Lori under my arm, I grab the two coffees I bought at the local coffee shop on my way here—black coffee for me and a butterscotch latte for Brinley.
I would’ve liked to chase after her when she ran out of the bar last night, but I knew she needed space to digest the news. I resisted the urge to show up at her place and demand she talk to me, knowing it’d end badly—likely with my fist in her unsuspecting fiancé’s face. I imagined him answering the door and looking at me like all the rich pricks around here used to do. Julian, pronounced the American way, with a hard J—even his name makes him sound like some rich asshole born with a silver spoon in his mouth. As anxious as I was to talk this out, I didn’t want to see the evidence of the life she’s built with him or risk losing my shit if I had to watch him touch her.
Maybe it makes me a callous asshole, but I don’t want Julian to be part of the conversation Brin and I need to have.
I still can’t quite wrap my head around the idea that she forgot that night. It’s a gut punch, even if what she says makes sense. Xanax and alcohol don’t mix, and after about five minutes with Dr. Google, it became clear to me that she’s not the only one who loses chunks of time when she mixes the two. But why did she take Xanax in the middle of everything? Was she already engaged? Or at least in deep enough with Julian that guilt had her reaching for her prescription? Bottom line is she doesn’t remember, and I can’t do anything to get those memories back for her.
After deciding against showing up at her door, I drove around town and kept driving until after midnight. Some part of me assumed Orchid Valley would be the same as it was the day I drove away, frozen in time, but of course it’s not. The city’s grown, with new developments along the lake and up into the mountains. I drove past Brinley’s parents’ place and saw it’s been turned into a vacation spot for tourists. Downtown has grown and flourished, and the high school has at least a few new wings.
Now it’s been twelve hours since I broke the news to my wife and saw her face pale with horror, and I’m done waiting.
The Orchid is a two-story stone building right on Lake Blackledge, set against a backdrop of the southernmost part of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It’s clear from the moment I step in the front doors that Brinley runs a topnotch spa. From the soft music playing overhead to the minimalist decor to the subtle greens and blues on the walls, the space hits all the right notes for ultimate relaxation. I’m in places like this all the time, but I’m not immune, and some of my frustration melts away.
The brunette behind the counter is wearing teal scrubs and a white medical jacket. She greets me with a smile. “Good morning. How can I help you?”
I glance at her nametag and return her grin. “Hello, Wren. I’m here with Brinley’s coffee. Could you point me to her office?”
A blush creeps up her neck. “Of course. Just follow me.”
That easily, I’m in, led through a service door and to an office at the far end of the hall.
Wren pokes her head in the door. “You have a visitor.”
I hear Brinley’s confused “Who?” but I step around Wren and toward Brinley’s desk before Wren can answer.
Brinley’s eyes go wide. “Marston, what are you doing here?”
I place her coffee on her desk in front of her. “I’m bringing you coffee. A butterscotch latte.” I pull the package out from under my arm and place it on the desk beside her coffee. “And Aunt Lori’s chocolate oatmeal breakfast cookies.”
Wren twists her hands. “I’m sorry, Brinley. I thought you knew he was coming.”
I wave her off and take a seat. “Not your fault at all. I made it sound like that was the case.”
Brinley stares at the package for a long beat, then shakes her head as if she’s trying to snap herself out of a stupor. “Wren, thank you. It’s fine. Please close the door on your way out.”
“Sorry again,” Wren whispers, then the door clicks closed.
Brinley pushes the coffee and cookies to the far side of her desk and folds her arms. “You can’t just show up at my office. I’m working.”
“Would you have rather I showed up at your house last night?” I ask, and she pales. Right. I’m not the only one who thinks it would end badly if I had to see her playing house with another guy.
She grumbles something that sounds an awful lot like “pigheaded male” then leans back in her chair and stares at the ceiling. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to my wife.”
She presses her palms against her eyes and rubs. “Please don’t use that word so loudly.” Her distress shows on every inch of her face. I almost want to promise to leave and make this all go away.
Except she looked just as stressed last night when she was talking to her friend Abbi in the bar, and the dark circles under her eyes are the kind you get after weeks of not enough sleep, not after a sudden shock.
My jaw goes tight. “You’re still wearing his ring.”
She drops her hands and gapes at me. “You’ve had six months to mention we were married. Six months, and you haven’t made any effort to reach out to me, but you think that because you show up and tell me about some vows I don’t remember taking that I’m just going to . . . What is it that you expect me to do, Marston? Cancel my wedding? Tell Julian, Oops, turns out I’m already married?”
“For starters,” I say softly.
Her gaze drops to my left hand and her brow wrinkles. “You’re not wearing a wedding band.”
I blow out a breath. I’ve worn the brushed platinum band for six months, but on the flight to Atlanta, I decided to take it off. “I’m here to fight for you, not to ruin you. I’ll put it back on when you put on yours.”
“I . . .” She presses her palms into her desk and exhales slowly. “You’re sure it was real? Like, whatever we did, it was a legal marriage?”
I pull the copy of our marriage certificate from my back pocket and hand it to her. I knew something wasn’t right when I got that invitation, and I came prepared.
She stares at the document. “This is real?”
“It’s a copy, but yes. It’s real. We’ve been married for six months.”
She laughs, but the sound is more maniacal than joyful. “And you thought it was totally normal for your wife to not so much as speak to you during that time? Seriously?” She flicks her gaze up to my face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I assumed you regretted it.” I was afraid if I contacted you, you’d ask for a divorce. “If I’d realized . . .” I blow out a breath. “I wish I’d known.”
