Page 21 of About that Fling
Jenna wasn’t sure she wanted to hear more, but couldn’t stop herself from asking. “What happened?”
“Our anniversary rolled around, and he said he had to work late.” Mia swallowed, looking stung instead of playful. “At first I thought he was kidding and that he planned to show up and whisk me away to the airport. But when he came home from the office near midnight and just crawled into bed, I knew it wasn’t going to happen.”
Jenna bit her lip. “I’m sorry. That must have been awful.”
“God, no—I’m sorry.” Mia rubbed her palms over her cheeks and shook her head. “Look at me, going on about my divorce when I’m here celebrating my life with this amazing man.” She squeezed Mark’s hand and he turned to regard her with a gentle smile.
“You doing okay, babe?”
“Yes.” Mia drew a breath. “Sorry, just an unpleasant trip down memory lane. I promise I’ll quit talking about my ex at our wedding reception.”
“It’s okay, hon.” Mark planted another kiss along her hairline. “It’s your party, you can cry if you want to.”
“Cheeseball,” she said with fondness as the band in the corner launched into a soft ballad. “You want to dance?”
“I’d love to.” He pushed back from the table and stood up. “You okay here, Jenna?”
“Actually, I think I’m going to get some fresh air. Maybe call Aunt Gertie to check on her.”
“Tell her I wish she could have been here,” Mia said as her husband lifted her to her feet. “I hope she feels better.”
“She thinks it’s just a touch of food poisoning, nothing to worry about. It’s also possible she just wanted a few hours alone to get some work done.”
“Still, there’s a nasty stomach bug going around. You can’t be too careful with older folks.”
“I’m watching her closely,” Jenna said, picking up her wineglass as she stood. It was still half full, so she carried it with her as she moved toward the door of the banquet room. She glanced back over her shoulder to see Mia melting into her husband’s arms, her face glowing with happiness. Something twisted in Jenna’s gut, and she turned back toward the door.
The instant she stepped into the hall, she breathed a little easier. The Spanx weren’t helping, and she considered slipping into the bathroom to remove them. She decided against it and moved toward the hotel lobby. She started in that direction, then spotted a sign beside the stairwell.
Roof.
A much better place for privacy, and there’d be plenty of fresh air up there. She pulled open the door to the stairwell, then bent down and yanked off her high heels. Gripping them in one hand and her wineglass in the other, she trudged up the stairs, her dress riding up her thighs as she counted her way past the third floor, fourth floor, fifth floor, and onward.
She was breathing hard by the time she reached the top. She pushed through the door and into the bright wash of daylight. The sky was milky, but it wasn’t raining, and the sun shone oddly bright through the film of clouds above. Late August weather in Portland could be unpredictable, and she’d heard there might be thunderstorms in the forecast.
A gust of wind tugged the hem of her dress as she stepped barefoot onto the warm tar surface of the hotel roof, dropping her shoes at the corner of a giant fan.
A stray piece of paper skittered across her path as the breeze carried the scent of cottonwood trees and food from a street fair in the park below. She took a few steps forward, letting the door fall shut behind her as she reached into her purse for her phone.
She froze when she spotted him. A lone figure sitting cross-legged on a bench beside the ledge. She had to squint at first, her eyes fighting to adjust to the glare of light through filmy clouds, but she would have known that body anywhere. He had a laptop open in front of him, and a half-finished sandwich on a tray off to the side. His dark hair was cut short, but spiked a little in the front like he’d been running his hands through it.
She must have gasped, because he looked up then. He blinked, motionless for what seemed like an eternity, green eyes locked on hers.
“Oh,” Jenna said, and spilled wine down the front of her dress.
“I’m not an expert on wine,” Adam said, jumping up to hand her a wad of napkins. “But I think the object is to get it into your mouth and not your cleavage.”
His hand brushed hers as she took the napkins, and he felt something electric in his knuckles. He stood close enough to feel the heat from her arms as she looked down in horror at the bloom of liquid on the front of her dress.
“God, I’m glad I’m drinking Pinot Grigio and not Merlot,” she muttered, mopping at the space between her breasts. “Hopefully this won’t stain.”
Adam watched, noticing the way the tops of her breasts glistened with spilled wine. He felt his brain spin and fought the urge to sit down.
“Here, let me grab the salt,” he offered, hurrying back to his lunch tray.
“Now’s not the time for margaritas.”
“It’s always time for margaritas, but that’s not what this is for.” He snatched the shaker in one hand and turned back to her. “This is how you get wine out of linen. That is linen, right?”
