Page 40 of My Bestie's Billionaire Brother

She stares at the dancing couple. "I'm not really in a dancing mood today."

"Oh, c’mon. We had a great time dancing at the last wedding."

"I just don't feel like it, Charlie." Her voice has an edge.

I sit back, genuinely confused now. "Did I do something wrong? Because if I did, I'd really like to know what it is."

She finally turns to look at me, and I catch something in her eyes—hurt, maybe? "Not everything is about you."

The words sting more than they should. "I never said it was. I'm just trying to figure out why you've been acting like you'd rather be anywhere but here. With me."

Tess sighs, her shoulders dropping slightly. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be poor company. I'm just...tired."

But I can tell it's more than that. This is deliberate distance.

Jack appears beside us, slightly flushed from dancing. "Charlie! Get your ass to the bar. The guys are all doing shots.”

"I don't think—" I begin, but Tess interrupts.

"Go ahead," she says with a forced smile. "I'm going to visit the ladies' room anyway."

Jack pulls me up, oblivious to the tension. "Everything good with you two?" he asks as we head toward the dance floor.

"I honestly have no idea," I answer, watching Tess disappear through the ballroom doors, wondering if she's running from the reception or from me.

I return to our table after ten minutes of obligatory dancing with Sky's cousins to find Tess's chair empty, her napkin neatly folded beside her barely-touched salmon. Our table is now a graveyard of half-empty wine glasses and abandoned dessert plates.

Claire gives me a little wave from across the table, and I give her a half smile in return. I've got bigger problems than awkward small talk with Claire. Like figuring out why Tess is treating me like leftovers that have gone bad.

I grab my water glass and scan the ballroom. The dance floor has filled with the usual wedding crowd—elderly couples swaying gently, enthusiastic children spinning in circles, and drunk groomsmen with loosened ties attempting dance moves that died in the '90s. There’s no sign of Tess.

The bar area yields nothing but drunk dudes getting drunker. I check the quiet lounge area where a few older guests have retreated from the music, then the outdoor terrace with its view of the San Francisco skyline. Still no Tess.

Did she leave? The thought sits heavy in my stomach.

I'm about to pull out my phone and text her when I spot her across the reception hall, standing in a corner with two older women I don’t know. One wears a boring, structured navy dress that screams old money; the other is practically dripping in gold jewelry.

What stops me in my tracks isn't finding Tess—it's how she looks. She's laughing, her head tilted back, eyes crinkled at the corners. Her entire body language has transformed. Gone is the rigid posture and tight smile she's worn all day. This is the Tess I know—animated, engaged, present.

Just not with me, apparently.

I approach slowly, catching snippets of their conversation.

"—his canter was so smooth, it felt like we were barely moving," the jewelry woman is saying.

"How incredible," Tess responds, her cheeks flushed. "Have you shown him yet? I’m sure the two of you will rack up the ribbons."

When Tess sees me her smile dims instantly, like someone turning down a dimmer switch. I move beside her, not quite touching her but close enough to feel the way she subtly shifts away.

Tess fiddles with a bracelet on her wrist, a nervous habit I've seen her do several times today. "Charlie, this is CarolineRoberts and Chloe Sullivan. We know each other from some horse shows."

I reach out my hand and shake each of their hands. “Charlie Astor. Glad to meet you.”

They smile politely at me and then immediately launch into a detailed discussion about a show that is coming up soon outside of Seattle. I stand there, feeling increasingly like an outsider despite my attempts to nod at appropriate intervals. When I place my hand lightly on Tess's back to include myself in the circle, she steps forward, breaking the contact. It's so subtle the other women probably don't even notice, but to me, it's as obvious as if she'd slapped my hand away.

"I'm going to grab a drink," I announce, interrupting whatever Mrs. Roberts is saying about the classes she’s riding in. "Can I get anyone anything?"

The older women politely decline.

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