The bass throbbed through the sticky floorboards, a physical assault that vibrated up my spine and rattled the teeth in my head.
Flashing strobes of pink and blue painted the laughing, shouting faces in the crowd in garish, fractured portraits.
It was the joint bachelor-bachelorette party to end all parties—Chloe’s exact words—and it was my personal circle of hell.
I plastered on a smile that felt like cracking porcelain and raised my glass of lukewarm prosecco. “To the future Mr. and Mrs. Thorne!” someone yelled, and the cheer that erupted was deafening.
Marcus, his face flushed with beer and happiness, slung an arm around his bride-to-be. Chloe, wearing a tiara that blinked “BRIDE” in neon pink, threw her head back and laughed, the sound swallowed by the DJ’s transition into another pounding pop anthem.
They were happy. Radiantly, blindingly happy.
And I, their meticulously organized, always-in-control wedding planner, felt like a fraud standing in their light. Every time Marcus’s gaze swept the room and landed on me with that easy, uncomplicated warmth—the same warmth from his kiss outside the restaurant—a shard of guilt twisted in my gut.
Jessica’s words from the dress fitting echoed in my head, a quiet but persistent refrain against the noise. *He deserves someone who is 100% sure. *
I wasn’t 100% sure about anything anymore, except that the air in here was too thick to breathe.
Muttering an excuse about checking with the bar manager, I began to weave my way through the throng of bodies. Hands grabbed at my arm, bridesmaids I barely knew pulling me in for slurred congratulations on a “killer party. ” I smiled, I nodded, I disentangled myself, my eyes scanning the room not for the exit, but for him.
And of course, there he was.
Rhys wasn’t in the center of the chaos. He was leaning against a pillar near the back, a bottle of beer held loosely in one hand, his dark jacket a stark slash of shadow against the revelry. He wasn’t looking at the happy couple.
He was looking at me.
His gaze was a tangible thing, a current that cut through the noise and the bodies and found me with unerring accuracy. The air crackled, the space between us shrinking until it felt like I could feel the warmth of his skin from across the room.
This had to stop. This illicit, dangerous thing between us was a lit fuse, and the bomb was the perfect life I had so carefully helped build for his sister and my ex.
I broke eye contact, turning sharply and pushing through a set of swinging doors that led to a blessedly quieter, dimmer hallway. The music was muffled back here, the frantic energy of the bar replaced by the hum of an ice machine.
I leaned my back against the cool, painted brick wall and finally let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.