Page 66 of This

I shake my head, scrubbing a hand over my face. “So, where does that leave us, Bennett? Because I’m done pretending to be okay with you walking away from me.”

Her answer takes too long, her feet already pointed at the door when she looks up at me.

And I know. I know right then we won’t leave the bathroom together. She won’t be sleeping in my arms tonight in my cabin after the reception. I won’t write her sticky notes or drive to Colorado anymore.

A year ago, I was trying to screw her out of my system. Now I’m hopelessly in love, threatened with watching her leave yet again. Only this time, for good.

Seeing if a reset will change the tone—stop us from shifting back, back, back to a point I can’t recognize us anymore—I try the words I started with. “Ask me to go with you.”

And then Bennett ends it with one.

“No.”

The night I was supposedto meet Liam at the bar, I smoked a cigarette before I went inside. I’d quit a few years back, but the liquor store across the street carried my old brand, and I was in no hurry for what felt like a forced setup with my cousin’s girlfriend’s roommate.

After I lit the only one I'd planned to smoke, I handed the rest of the pack to the homeless man sitting outside. We chatted until I fished out a couple bucks for him and headed for the bar.

The guy pushed open the door first. I sidestepped out of his way, grabbing the handle before it swung shut on the blonde following him. Even with her head down, I could safely say she was out of his league—the legs, the hips, the tits. She tripped, her heel catching on the metal strip of the threshold. I reached for her arm to help right her as she found her balance. A hand flew over her pouty mouth, her face tipping up enough to see how right I was.

And then she laughed, a little wild and sexy as hell.

I smiled for the first time since moving back to Phoenix. The second time was the next morning, watching her program her number into my phone. Third when I crawled out of the shower and immediately recorded the message to tell her what had been killing me not to say when she was in front of me.

Bennett Ross owned my ass before I knew her goddamn name.

My hands already miss herskin by dinner. I wish she were seated closer. It would be torture but better than having Keaton and Liam between us. I’m next to my cousin on the happiest day of his life, contemplating kidnapping the maid of honor.

Psycho stalker. A term we’ve thrown around since the beginning, but the further I sink, the more viable the option. I once joked I would keep her in my basement. My mom’s house doesn’t have one.

I drain the champagne in front of me before I search listings in the area.

The DJ is eyeing our table from his booth in the corner of the ballroom. We’re well on our way to the toasts. I drafted my best-man speech on my first plane ride to San Francisco. After my weekend with her, I rewrote it on my return flight. Every time I saw her, I added or tweaked it with new thoughts on love or ideas of what it means to want to share your life with someone. Not topics I typically pondered, but then again, I didn’t think about a lot of things until Bennett.

Reaching for the bottle of Dom in front of Liam, I casually glance down the table, past Keaton, to the woman draining her own glass. She asked at least a dozen times to read my speech, but I couldn’t bring myself to let her. And now, the paper in my front pants pocket feels like fire, seeping through the material and the skin and muscle and into my bone.

When the DJ brings over the mic, I stare at it like he’s trying to hand me his dick, and his gaze shifts to Liam.

“Oh,” my cousin says, “we’re starting with the maid of honor.”

The DJ apologizes for his mistake, even though Keaton explicitly told him time and time again that I would go first. While he moves down to give the mic to Bennett, Liam leans over, his teeth clenched in a forced smile.

“You look like you want to flip the table. Bennett’s scanning for exits like she’s planning a bank heist. Do I want to know what’s going on with you two?”

“Nope,” I say.

He has enough to deal with today without me loading on our drama.

I finish off another glass and refill both our flutes, pouring mine all the way to the top. I’ll need to teeter on numb if I want to get through the next few minutes because I’ve just realized, after an opening joke, my entire speech is basically a fucking love letter to the woman who just told me to fuck off with my ideas of havingany of it.Yeah, I can’t let that one go.

Bennett pushes her chair back, putting forth an actual effort not to look at me when she stands. Keaton’s giving me a wary glance sideways. People don’t give her credit for how perceptive she is, and the tension in her face says she’s pieced together enough.

“I never wanted a sister.” Bennett’s voice trembles. “And I definitely never wanted a brother.” She shoots a narrow look at Liam, and a few guests chuckle when he flips her off. “But somehow, I wound up lucky enough to find both.”

Even at the rate she’s drinking, her cheeks are more flushed than they should be from the champagne. I follow her line of vision to a table toward the center. My grandfather is giving her a patented Miles Masters warning glare, blaming her for my disinterest in the company he built from scratch. Across the table, my father watches like a hawk, which means his wife does, too, the jealousy swelling.

Despite the unwanted attention, Bennett continues the speech I’ve heard a dozen times over the past week. It’s on brand for her. Awkward pauses, a dry delivery that adds to the quiet humor hiding in the words, and all of it borders on emotional without fully diving into the feeling. The last one’s her specialty. Almost there but never quite. Even saying I love you, she found a way to hold something back—hesitating like being loved by her was a threat.

Holding up her glass, she recites the last line and ends with a, “To Liam and Keats.”

---