Page 28 of This Woman Forever

Wait. Does she think I mean a drink? Because I don’t. Water, tea, perhaps a coffee. This might be a trigger for another disagreement, and I’m done with disagreements. But she’s not having a drink. I sigh and pull her into my side, pushing my face into her hair. “I won’t stand for it, Ava,” I say. “Even if he’s your brother.”

“I know.” I hear the dread in her voice, feel it in her body language. She doesn’t think her brother will back down.

We’ll see.

Even more people have arrived by the time I get Ava back into the bar, and we battle our way through the crowds, being attacked with kisses and squeezed with hugs. Jesus. How long do we need to stay at our wedding? I’m done with people.

I give Mario a nod as we near, and he swiftly has a glass of water on the bar. I get Ava on a stool, the water in her hand, and turn away, getting my own water before she can throw any defiance, protests, or sass my way. When I see Tessa marching over, I wonder whether braving Ava’s inevitable disbelief over my choice of drink for her is a better option.

I’m blasted back with a thorough telling off from our wedding planner for being missing in action again, unavailable to cut the cake. What I want to tell her is that I didn’t hire her and pay obscene amounts to be nagged—I have a wife to do that now. But instead I say, “It’s fine,” glugging back some water.

Then Ava is quickly on my case. “Don’t you want to cut the cake? Kate went out of her way to make it at such short notice.”

“Then let’s not ruin it.” I appease her, smiling, fiddling with her necklace as she exhales an over-the-top sigh.

“You’re impossible.”

I roll my eyes to myself and roll them harder when Tessa appears again. “I’ve spoken to Elizabeth.” She has? Great. “We’re cutting the cake and having the first dance shortly, so don’t be disappearing on me again.” And with that, she’s gone, and rather than following her and relieving her of her duties, because I’m attached, literally, I realign my attention on what matters today.

Ava.

She looks as fresh and glorious as she did when she stepped into the summer room. Perhaps her cheeks are little pinker. And her hair a little wilder. Beautiful. But I know, like me, she’s done with the day. And that fucking sucks. I wanted our wedding to be incredible for her. Unforgettable. “You okay, baby?” I ask, framing the side of her face with my hand. She doesn’t nuzzle into it, and that’s a first.

“Yes,” she more or less sighs. “Fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” Fuck her brother. “I said I wanted you to enjoy today.” I think I jinxed us when I said that. Totally. It’s been a bizarre mixture of exhilarating and tiresome.

“I’m fine,” she repeats, this time shorter, looking at her glass on a shake of her head before drinking. What? Does she think alcohol will make her feel better? No. Alcohol masks things. Alcohol hurts. She needs to trust me on that.

It’s all I can do not to groan my despair when I spot Ava’s boss approaching with a woman in a wild, tight outfit. Animal print. Hideous. I face the bar and breathe in the patience I know I’m going to need as Ava elbows me in the side. “Here’s Patrick,” she whispers. “You said Monday, remember?”

“Yes, Ava,” I drone. “Just till Monday, though.”

I wince when Peterson screeches some sickly pet name for my wife, crowding her. Ava’s shoulders are hunched, her smile tight. “Mr. Ward.”

“Please, it’s Jesse.” I take his offered hand. “Thank you for coming.”

“Oh. Jesse.” Yes, let’s get on first name terms, because when my wife doesn’t follow through on her promise to advise Peterson of her intention to withdraw from working with Van Der Haus—and I have a nasty feeling she won’t—I want to be able to talk to him man to man and have his respect. So I will grin and bear him for as long as this takes. I pray it’s not too long “This is Irene.”

“Nice to meet you,” she purrs.

I blast her back with my smile. It’s forced. “And you.” I’ve changed my mind. I’m done already. “Please, the bar staff will see to you.” Translated: fuck off.

But Peterson and his wife don’t get the message, both of them moving in closer. I know what Peterson is thinking. He’s thinking there are a lot of rooms in my manor and eventually all of them will need renovations.

“Thank you.” Irene’s arm brushes with mine. “This hotel is just wonderful.”

She should be taking in this wonderful hotel if she finds it so wonderful. But no. She’s taking in me. Until Ava pipes up.

“Hello, Irene,” she says, edging closer to me. Trample mode activated. “How are you?”

“Delightful. Ava, you look stunning.”

My wife blinks her surprise, and I motion past Peterson to the end of the bar where Mario has poured champagne into dozens of flutes. “Help yourself,” I say, and he promptly pulls his wife away.

“Interesting woman,” I mumble. Terrifying. Gaudy. Really fucking loud.

“She makes Patrick’s life miserable.”

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