It’s the same smile she gave me when I told her I couldn’t go to the dance with her as my date. Carrying a twenty-four-year-old NHL player wasn’t appropriate for either of us, and I was the jerk who had to tell him that.
I smile back, feeling frustration growing inside me that she’s about to tie herself to someone who treats her like an accessory, who doesn’t listen to her. Or to appreciate her complexity, and not just the polished princess her family has molded her into.
Our eyes stare and her cheeks begin to blush. He moves his shoulders back and my gaze falls on his collarbones. Suddenly, I see myself running my tongue over there. Making him squirm.
I look at her face again. As if he had discovered me. Like I can somehow hear what’s in my head. Because we both know I can’t look at her like that. It’s like family. And what’s worse, it officially belongs to another man.
Sterling catches the exchange and turns his attention back to me. My skin bristles.
Sloane told me that they have been friends for a long time. Sorry to confuse me, but such a rough hockey player doesn’t seem like a friend of a prima ballerina. Of course, I haven’t seen you much since she and I got together. Is something keeping you away? He puts an arm over her shoulder as a sign of possession, and I try not to notice the gesture.
“To be fair, I haven’t heard much about you either. “I say it with enough humor in my tone so that no one notices the way we look at each other. I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. But if. I guess I’m not thick enough to be the one who brings Polysporin and painkillers when my friend’s feet are too sore from dancing on pointe to walk.
-I have already told you. Sloane’s voice is soothing. He helped me move into my new condo. Sometimes we drink coffee. Things that simple.
“Basically, he knows that if he needs anything, I’ll be there,” I add without thinking.
Sloane shoots me a look, probably wondering why I’m acting like a territorial jerk. I’m wondering the same thing, to be honest.
“Thank goodness you now have me for all that.” -Sterling answers Sloane, but he looks at me intently. He then abruptly places a palm on Sloane’s hands that are now resting on the table. The ones who still pull at their napkin anxiously. But the way he touches her isn’t calming or supportive. It’s a blow, a reproach for being restless.
Fury runs through my veins. I have to leave before I do something I regret.
“Well, I’m going to spend the night outside,” I suddenly announce, pushing my chair back, desperate to breathe fresh air and get away from the dark walls and velvet curtains that surround me.
“You better sleep well, Gervais. You’ll need it to get in the mood with the Grizzlies this season. After last season, you’re probably on thin ice.
I tug at the cuffs of my shirt and force myself to ignore the sting.
Thank you for inviting me, Woodcock. Dinner was delicious.
“Sloane invited you,” is his petulant response, clarifying that he didn’t like me… or my presence.
I look at him blankly and lift one side of my mouth. Like I can’t believe what an idiot he is. I feel like they’re watching us, like the others sense the unspoken tension between us.
“Well, that’s what friends are for.”
“Wait, but you’re his cousin, right?” The drunk’s whiskey spills over the edge of his glass and onto his hand as he points at me.
I don’t know why Sloane and I have always been so insistent that we’re friends and not cousins. If someone tried to tell me that Beau, Rhett, or Cade weren’t my brothers, I’d dismiss them right away. Those men are my brothers.
But Sloane? She is my friend.
“Actually, he’s my friend, not my cousin.” Sloane throws his napkin on the white linen-covered table with more force than necessary.
The people gathered for her wedding stare at her.
Their wedding this weekend.
My stomach twists.
-Will you come to the bachelor party tomorrow, Gervais? -continues the drunk. He hiccups and smiles stupidly, reminding me of the drunk mouse at the Mad Hatter’s birthday party. I’d love to say I partied with hockey superstar Jasper Gervais.
It surprises me that the only reason a guy like that wants me around is to increase his reputation.
-Can’t. I have a match. My smile is tight, but my relief is immense when I get up from the chair.
“I’ll walk you out,” Sloane says, not noticing the look Sterling is giving her.
Or he’s pretending not to notice.
In any case, I keep one hand open and gesture for Sloane to go ahead of me as we silently make our way through the restaurant.
I press my palm against the small of her back to guide her, but she tenses and I pull my hand away as I feel the soft, bare skin burning my fingertips. My eyes fall to the floor as I shove my tingling hand into my pocket, where it belongs.
Because it sure as shit doesn’t belong on the naked back of a committed woman. Even if she’s just my friend.
Only when we approach the entrance of the restaurant do I look up again. Sloane’s slender body sways as she walks across the room. Every movement imbued with an inherent grace, one that comes with years of training. Years of practice.
She smiles kindly at the head waiter and walks faster, as if she can see freedom through the heavy front door and is desperate for it. His shoulders slump and his entire body sags, almost in relief, as he rests both hands against the dark slab of wood.
I watch her for a moment before standing behind her, the heat of her body seeping into mine. Then I put an arm over her petite frame and push the door open and take us both out into the cool November night.
I put both hands in my pants pockets so I don’t grab her by the shoulders and shake her, demanding to know what the hell she’s doing marrying a guy who treats her like Sterling Woodcock. Because it’s really none of my business.
Her toned bare back faces me across the busy city street, the car lights a blur of white and red right behind her, the misty air blowing past her shoulder as if she’s trying to catch her breath.
-Are you OK?
She nods her head furiously before turning around with that rare Stepford Wife smile on her delicate face.