Page 73 of Conflict
AFTER OURinitial interaction, dinner passes uneventfully. While Alyssa does her best to keep our conversation at small talk, discussing work, the wedding, and how Ariana was always the good girl growing up, she doesn’t flinch when my hand disappears beneath the table to rest on her thigh. A bold move, probably, but I consider it a victory when she doesn’t push me away. A small one, but a victory nonetheless.
Through dessert, champagne, and approximately seventy-six kissing breaks for the happy couple, my hand stays firmly in place. And not once does Alyssa look at me. Eventually, a middle-aged woman in a neat suit invites the family to take a tour of the plantation, at our own leisure.
Fortunately for me, everyone else is paired up and more than happy to peruse the massive estate in all of its holiday glory. Instead of getting lost in the halls by myself, I follow Alyssa out the front door.
We linger on the porch of the plantation, taking in the twinkling Christmas lights. Well, she takes in the sight. My eyes are fixated on her. If only someone had had the forethought to place mistletoe here.
“We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you,” she whispers. Her eyes meet mine and she frowns. Uh oh. That can’t be good. “How did you get my number anyway?”
I chuckle at the memory. A couple of months ago, when Branson had his head up his ass, he’d sent Ariana packing over a miscommunication of epic proportions. Ariana, who’d recently left a man—a shitbag whom I have the misfortune of actually knowing—at the altar. She hadn’t told Branson, so when his ex-wife showed up with the ex-fiancé, chaos ensued.
After days of not being able to get ahold of him, I’d texted Alyssa, asking her what the hell happened. She spilled, told me the truth about both Ariana’s broken engagement and current whereabouts, even though I’d known at least half the story. When I found Branson seven sheets to the wind, I corrected his assumptions and as soon as he sobered up, he went after her.
And here we are now, on the eve of their wedding.
I admit, I had my reservations about Ariana at first, but I know they’re the real deal.
“I may have asked Ariana for it so we could talk about a joint bachelor/bachelorette party,” I admit.
Her nose wrinkles. “But we didn’t have one?”
“Oh, I know. They both said they had no desire to have a party, especially with Ariana still experiencing morning sickness in the evenings.”
A perfectly manicured eyebrow arches. “And yet she gave you my number anyway?”
I grin like the Cheshire Cat. “I can be quite charming when I want to be.”
That earns me a snort and an eye roll before a warm smile crosses her lips. “Anyways, thank you, Shane. For reaching out, helping them get back together. “
“Sunshine, I’m touched. I feel like we’re having a moment.”
And then, when she pretends to glare at me with flushed cheeks and desire in her eyes, I know—I just know—I still have a chance.
“Commit it to memory, Shane. Because this moment is all you’ll ever have of me.”
I step forward and brush my knuckles down the side of her cheek. “Keep lying to yourself, Alyssa. That way, it’ll taste so much sweeter when you finally let me back in.”
Later that night, sleep evades me. As I lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, I grow increasingly frustrated. Aunt Amelia, like a strict camp counselor, placed the men and women of the wedding party in separate wings of the Wellington mansion. They’re a family of five. Why the hell do they even need an estate? To this day, I’ve never cursed my family’s wealth. Tonight? I swear it all to hell.
Fuck this. Dinner tonight was all the foreplay I needed to know there was no way I could spend a night under the same roof as Alyssa and not be with her. In any way she wanted.
I push the covers off and slip out of my room. Hoping my stealth skills from sneaking out of my window as a horny teenage boy are still intact, I tiptoe down the hall, my heart hammering the closer I inch to the room Charlie may have not so coyly told me where Alyssa’s sleeping. Amusement twinkled in her eyes when she “let it slip.”
That’s when I knew the truth. Knox Wellington’s wife is a saint. Hell, if I’d been born British and had the power, I’d knight the woman. Instead, I’ll settle for finding the most expensive bottle of wine I can for Christmas.
“Where, pray tell, are you headed?”
Caught like a deer in headlights, I turn with trepidation. But I let out an audible sigh of relief when I see Branson leaning against the wall, watching me with amusement, his arms folded.
His hair looks ravaged, his clothes wrinkled, and for a guy about to marry for the second time in his life, his shoulders are surprisingly relaxed. A knowing grin crosses his lips, and when I realize he’s coming from the direction of the woman’s quarters, I struggle to hold in my laughter.
“I imagine it’s from whence you just came.”
“Whence? Really, Shane?” he asks, an eyebrow lifting. “Do you have a fever?”
I shrug. “Don’t worry about it. Had Britain on the brain. Not that I care, but isn’t it bad luck to be with your wife on the eve of your wedding?”
“Wife. God, I like the sound of that. No, Ilovethe sound of that.”
