Page 17 of Her Ex's Father
Besides, I’d never make it—not to the mountains. I don’t know them like I know the ones back home in Montana. I doubt I’d be able to survive in just a wedding dress and the nude heels clutching at my arches.
Before I can look over the edge of the balcony and see if scaling it is a possibility, the door opens and Stella pops back in.
“Ready to face the world, Mrs. Bronson?”
We leave the suite and descend in the private elevator, arriving just outside the grand dining room. The air is thick with champagne and gossip.
The doors open. Heads turn. It looks like people are already a few cocktails deep, and the wedding photographer looks lost. Iwas supposed to have a shoot, of course, with my new husband… but Ben and I have clearly not prioritized that.
A full string quartet resumes playing on cue, but it doesn’t mask the sound of whispers. I can hear them.
Thereshe is.
What is he thinking?
She’s so young.
Where’s the son?
I raise my chin.
Ben is already inside, standing at the far end of the dining room near a table of executives. His expression is unreadable. In his dark suit, silver beard trimmed short, glass of whisky in hand, he looks composed and unapproachable.
His eyes drift over me, as if I’m not even there—as if I haven’t just walked into the room completely unaccompanied, on my wedding day.
I pretend not to care.
He doesn’t come to greet me or wave me over, just turns his attention back to the men he’s with. Is one of them the lawyer, come to work out the contract?
“Madeline,” my mother murmurs, taking my elbow and leading me away. “Go. Sit. The guests are hungry, and you’ve kept them waiting.”
My lips part, but I don’t argue. Funny how she has nothing to say about myhusbandtaking his time with the evening. Luckily, Benedict finally lays eyes on me as I shuffle myself into the chair, arranging and rearranging my skirt. I didn’t bother changing into something more casual.
A dark shadow falls over my shoulder. Somehow I’ve missed him moving across the room; he leans in and says, “Let me take the lead with press inquiries tomorrow. I’ll handle the message.”
I nod, lips tight.
Then he’s seated next to me, but gone again—back into business talk with a man from Vail who owns several hotels and once tried to franchise with Crown & Range. I sip my wine. I pick at my dinner.
The one dance we share comes after dinner, as the quartet transitions into a slower, moodier set. It goes without saying that we skipped the first dance together. Had there been one planned for Derrick and me? I’m hazy with wine, unable to remember the itinerary of myownevent, which I had no hand in planning.
He finds me without saying a word, extends his hand, and I take it because I have to.
His hand is warm, his touch steady. He leads me to the center of the dance floor and places one hand on the small of my back, his other closing firmly over mine.
We begin to sway.
I keep my eyes averted, afraid of what might spill out if I look into his.
“You’re doing well,” he murmurs.
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” I scoff, but a thrill of triumph goes through me at the praise.
“It’s meant to be honest.”
We turn slowly, bodies close but not touching too much. The distance is maddening. Everything about him is maddening.
“How are you so calm?” I ask.
