Page 19 of Wild Card
It’s a lie that shines a different light on Tripp Coleman—and a bad one. A small part of me wonders if he even knows the real story or if he’s been lied to as well. There’s something off about the way he acts around his mom, I just can’t quite put my finger on it.
I’d call him out on it here and now, but I think it would gut Bash to hear it. So I decide to bite my tongue and save it for later.
A tray full of champagne passes by, and I swipe one with a quiet, “Thank you.”
The caterer smiles back with a subtle nod. She looks nice. And normal. I’m probably better suited to hanging out with her and her colleagues behind the tent.
Instead, I’m stuck pretending I belong in this viper pit. What I thought was going to be a fun party has devolved into an awkward, secret-fueled, rich-person alternate universe.
I toss back a mouthful of chilled champagne just as the two men approach.
Am I using alcohol as a coping mechanism today? Yes.
Do I care? No.
My heart races, and my blood feels sluggish in my veins as I take another drink, my gaze darting toward the ocean. I’d rather be sitting on the shore, meditating. Feet in the sand, finding some semblance of solid ground.
Earlier, when I tried to head down there, Tripp specified it would be more “appropriate” to keep my shoes on, as though I planned to go skinny-dipping in front of his parents’ friends.
That should have been my first clue from the universe that today was destined to go sideways.
To anyone else, it might seem like nothing happened between Bash and me. Like I’m making a mountain out of a molehill by feeling as off-kilter as I do.
But for me? That night? Something happened.
I can’t put my finger on it, and god knows I’ve spent many a late night staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out why I haven’t been able to shake his memory.
Maybe it was the way he looked at me or the way he listened to me. Hell, it could have been the way we laughed together. Or maybe it was the spark I felt when his hand enveloped mine. I’ve wondered if it was one of those moments in the universe where all the stars align—where every little choice made in life led us to that airport on that exact night.
Maybe it was just a little bit of magic. Inexplicable and undeniable all at once.
What I do know for sure is that it’s been eight months, and I still think about Sebastian Rousseau every damn day.
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek as they approach the table. Bash looks stoic, his jaw clenched so tight it’s going to be sore tomorrow from all the teeth-grinding he’s doing. Meanwhile, Tripp appears affable and polished as the sun glints a rusty tone off his auburn hair.
“Hey, babe, how you doin’?”
I smile, but it’s forced. “Great. I’m great.”
Except I’m not. Bash won’t even look my way. His gaze stays locked on the water.
The awkwardness gnaws at me. He’s clearlypissed.
Anxiety swirls and the sinking realization that he might be angry over my relationship with Tripp hits hard and fast.
Another caterer passes by, drawing my gaze away from him. “Arancini?” she asks, holding out a tray of bite-sized golden fried spheres.
Tripp and Bash pass, but I jump at the opportunity. “Hell yes,” I say as I reach for a cocktail napkin. Partly because I’m hungry, and partly because I figure if my mouth is full, it will give me something to do and possibly spare me from the awkward lie of a conversation that’s about to occur right in front of me.
I take one, then tip my head, considering. They’re small, so I select another and offer the girl a friendly smile as she departs.
Tripp leans close and drops another casual kiss on my hair with a light chuckle. “Easy, girl. Don’t eat too much.”
Easy, girl?
I pause, my brows furrowing as I stare down at the two bite-size pieces of food on the napkin in my hand, wondering if I misheard my “boyfriend.”
Did he really just tell me not to eat too much?
