The Unexpected Wedding Guest. Aimee CarsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
important is what comes after,” he said. She blinked back the shock, remembering she’d said that very thing to her friends oh so many years ago. “Our life together.”
Good God, how could she argue with that without sounding petty and superficial?
But two hundred people...
He lightly squeezed her hands, as if to comfort her. Fat lot of good that did her now.
“You have to go figure out what it is that you want, Reese,” Dylan said as if it were the most reasonable statement in the world.
And as he removed his hands from hers, he gently pulled the engagement ring from her finger, closing his palm around the diamond. The sense of finality weighed heavily in her chest.
“And when it’s all said and done, if it’s me that you choose,” he said, “I’ll still be here.”
* * *
This wasn’t playing out at all like he’d planned.
One hour after Reese had come barreling around the side of the house in a cloud of flouncing fabric, interrupting the game of one-on-one, Mason sat in his truck, wondering what had just happened. The animosity and the visual daggers Reese had chucked in his direction had been expected. He’d known all along he’d have to endure a lot of anger before getting the chance at having a frank discussion. In the ideal scenario, they would have cleared the air, reached a tenuous understanding, and then shared a drink for old times’ sake. And if he’d been really lucky, he would’ve bought her fiancé a drink and wished them both well.
But nowhere within the range of possible outcomes had he envisioned the groom calling off the wedding.
Reese hadn’t wanted him around before, so she sure as hell wouldn’t be partial toward his company now. So when Dylan had taken off in his Jaguar to head back home to Manhattan, Mason had climbed into The Beast with every intention of driving away. But something kept him from turning the key.
And when a large refrigerated van pulled up behind him in the driveway, the decision was more or less made for him. The deliverymen were adamant the ice sculptures needed to be moved to the freezer ASAP.
Mason hopped down from his truck and told the driver to pull around back. Feeling fairly unenthusiastic about the errand, he then went in search of Reese. He found her sitting on the bottom stair of the massive Bellington Hall foyer.
An angelic vision in white—the picture of class.
Her wedding dress was a white puff of fluffy netting, the color too close to the shade of her face. Her expression was blank, as if all emotion had been drained from her soul and capped. She didn’t look up when he entered, and his footsteps echoed across the endless marble floor as he crossed and came to a stop in front of Reese.
He hated the lost look on her face.
And somehow, he didn’t think the arrival of the ice sculptures for her wedding was going to cheer her up. In the silence that stretched, he rubbed his temple, the hint of a headache threatening.
Hell, not now. Not now.
“Jesus, Reese,” he said, his voice gruff. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
She looked up at him with eyes the color of a summertime sky, and his gut twisted with guilt.
“What did you think would happen, Mason?”
“I sure as hell didn’t think your fiancé would walk away.” He plowed a hand through his hair. “After you left, I tried to explain. To talk him out of leaving.”
“I called him on his cell,” she said. Her lips looked as if they were trying to smile, but he thought he saw them tremble once. “But, apparently he’s had his doubts about me for a while.”
He was sure the tiny furrow marking her brow was just the tip of the emotional iceberg buried beneath her calm demeanor. And, in some ways, he almost preferred the angry Reese.
“I figured I’d find you pacing,” he said.
During their many fights, he’d watched her march back and forth enough.
The smile she sent him lacked humor. “I did pace,” she said. “But my time was cut short by my Manolo Blahniks.”
He frowned in confusion, wondering who the hell Manolo was and why he was shooting blanks. Until, from beneath the torrent of white netting, she stuck out a white satin pump. The height of the heels pushed his brow higher. How anyone walked in the death contraptions was a mystery.
“Nothing cuts your pacing time more effectively than four-inch heels,” she said.
He shifted his weight on his feet, uncomfortable as he stared at the woman who looked for all the world like she’d been dumped at the altar. He felt inadequate. This wasn’t his scene. This was not where he excelled.
Put him in a hot desert scraping the ground with his knife, painstakingly following a wire to the detonator of an IED, and he was good to go. Toss in a few bullets flying around him, his team by his side, and he knew what to do. He’d thrived in the adrenaline-packed environment. Especially after sleepwalking through his vacuous adolescent years. But among all the finery and the emotional land mines...he was lost.
And that summed up their doomed marriage.
A status quo SNAFU—situation normal, all fouled up, in the PG rated version, that is.
There was no easing into the announcement. “Your ice sculptures have arrived,” he said. “I sent them to the service entrance.”
She rose to her feet with a sigh, a cascade of skirting falling to the floor. With a resigned look, she headed across the foyer in the direction of the kitchen, and Mason followed behind. Captivated, he watched her dress bounce gently with every graceful step. The creamy skin stretched across delicate shoulder blades. Her hair swaying, he remembered how he’d fisted his hand in the gold-streaked strands as he’d made love to her.
A sliver of warmth snaked up his spine, and, after eight months of silence, the sharp slice of sexual awareness was a shock to the system. Nice to know his hibernating libido was finally waking up.
He just hoped the reappearance would extend beyond the ex who hated his guts.
Mason cleared his throat, getting back to the matter at hand. “I could just go tell them to send the sculptures back.”
They entered the kitchen where Ethel, the head of the household staff, was directing the deliverymen toward the walk-in freezer.
“I had them trucked in from half a state away,” Reese said as he followed her into the icy vault, her breath visible in the frigid air. “Besides, it’s way too late to get a refund.”
“Then donate them to some needy bride and groom,” he said.
Reese gently lifted the bag covering a mound resting on a freezer shelf. The base of a sculpture came into view where, in a swirly font worthy of a wedding invitation, the words Dylan and Reese were engraved.
His head thumped harder, but he ignored the warning sign as he stared at the inscription.
“I think the odds of finding just the right couple are pretty slim,” she said dryly.
He grunted in agreement.
Reese gently lifted the covering higher, revealing a pair of intricately carved swans, the graceful curve of their necks bent for a kiss. The crystalline ice sparkled in the light, each feather crafted in meticulous detail. Clearly no expense had been spared on the wedding of the century. The one he’d sabotaged by his very presence.
Even if she refused to talk about the past, he at least needed to apologize for what had happened in the present.
He followed Reese back out into the kitchen, grappling for the right words. As always, they didn’t come. And the ability was worse since his accident. Two burly delivery guys rolled a cart by with two more ice sculptures and disappeared into the