Page 36 of Wild Card
And all I can do is groan.
Only West.
Beside him, Skylar shakes her head but stares up at him with stars in her eyes. Like no matter how ridiculous he is, he still hung the moon for her. I sometimes wonder if it’sbecausehe’s so ridiculous that she’s found peace with him.
Rosie has dropped her face into her hands, and Ford has his arm slung over the back of her chair—the only thing he gives West is his typical dry eye roll.
Rhys’s deep, rumbling chuckle filters in from the other side of the table. Arms crossed over his broad chest, he looks downright amused.
Amused enough that his wife, Tabitha, shoves an elbow into his ribs along with a threatening sounding, “What are you laughing at? I made that cake.”
He turns his smirk her way with an innocent shrug. “And? That just means that even though it looks disgusting, it will taste delicious.”
The warmth between them—the teasing and prolonged eye contact—makes me feel like an interloper.
It makes me think of Gwen.
And finally, I let my gaze flit to the opposite side of the table. To her.
Gwen’s cheeks are rosy, her smile bright and genuine. Her eyes sparkle as she appraises the horror that is my cake. She has her lacey white blouse unbuttoned far enough to show the slopes of her ample cleavage. Those buttons stood no fucking chance, and she owns it. Her subtle confidence might be the most attractive thing about her.
Still, she looks different now than she did earlier, when those big doe eyes welled with tears.
Tears forme. Happy tears.
It threw me for a fucking loop. I hated it, but a part of me loved it too. Because for a moment, it felt like someone in the world really saw me—and liked what they saw.
When Gwen looked at me today, I hadn’t felt like a second choice.
“Tabby, I think it’s beautiful. How could a healthy kidney be anything but?” she gushes in her typical Gwen way. I swear she can find beauty in anything.
“See?” Tabitha pokes Rhys. “Gwen thinks my kidney cake isbeautiful.”
I shake my head and look back toward West, who is watching me, eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas. “So? Do you like it?”
I roll my lips together, trying to keep from laughing. “You’re an idiot, Weston.”
He brightens further. “Calling me an idiot is your love language, so I will take it. I love you too, man. Stay safe tomorrow.” Then, glancing around the table, he lifts his champagne glass and waits for everyone to follow suit. “Here’s to Bash and his kidney,” he says as everyone raises their glasses.“You just might be the most thoughtful asshole I know. Cheers, to you and that big soft black heart of yours! And to Crazy Clyde!”
I give in and chuckle now. West will wear a guy down like that, and after looking around the table at all my friends here today, it didn’t feel as hard to let that amusement trickle out. The others laugh, and we all gently tap our rims in a salute around the table with a shared murmur of “To Crazy Clyde.”
Clyde needed to check into the hospital early for surgery prep and couldn’t be here tonight. But tomorrow morning I fully intend to tell him that everyone gave a toast forCrazy Clyde—I think he’ll get a real kick out of that.
Gwen and I toast last, and it feels like everyone is watching us. I don’t think it’s lost on anyone that after months of avoiding her like the plague, I’m the one who extended the invite today.
I did it to be polite. This isn’t an elementary school birthday party. Hell, I’m forty years old. I don’t need to exclude someone just because I’m all tangled up over her.
I’m mature, dammit. I can totally be around Gwen. This invite was a peace offering.
Our eyes catch and hold. For one beat and then two. Even as chatter breaks out around us, I can’t look away.
And though Gwen is younger, she’s no little girl. She holds my gaze back just as boldly. I’ve thought that maybe she’s angry, going out of her way to be polite but secretly resenting me.
After all, I’m the one who got the number wrong. I’m the one who didn’t try harder to track her down.
I don’t know why she and Tripp broke up. He never told me, and I sure as hell haven’t brought it up with Gwen. But I can’t shake the thought that I caused the demise of that for her too.
Yet looking at her tonight, I don’t get the sense she’s irritated by me at all. Have I been beating myself up in my head for noreason? It’s on the tip of my tongue. To ask her. To just spit it out so I can stop torturing myself wondering.
