“I have a question.”
My father glances down at me, his brows furrowed. “What is it?”
“Did you invite…” My voice drifts and I swallow hard. “Seamus McTiernan?”
He actually snorts, shaking his head. “Why in the world would I do that? I despise that man. He helped ruin your reputation.”
“It’s just—” I clamp my lips shut, not about to admit to my father I saw Seamus this morning. He’d surely go into a rage, and probably blame me for it.
My gaze finds Perry’s yet again and he flicks his chin at me. A silent question if I’m all right. I offer a quick smile before my gaze slides from my husband to another man behind him, his face in shadow. The breadth of his shoulders, the way he holds himself is familiar and I stiffen in my father’s arms, all the air clogging my throat when the man shifts out of the shadows to reveal himself.
Seamus.
At my wedding reception.
Standing just behind my husband.
Chapter Six
Perry
Idon’t tearmy eyes off of Charlotte dancing with her father, noting how uncomfortable she seems, and how perfectly natural he acts. Smiling down at her as he steers her across the dance floor, his lips moving. Probably saying nice things about his daughter that he doesn’t really mean.
It’s all about appearances for the Lancasters, which I get.
It’s the same for the Constantines as well.
My wife and I are the culmination of that thought process, and it’s fucking painful, how they put us through this charade, all for them to look good to others. A fake marriage, a fake life. I wanted more.
I deserve more. Charlotte does too. And maybe we can have it…
If I so much as see Reggie Lancaster’s fingers barely squeeze her arm, I’m on him. I don’t care who sees me take down my father-in-law at the damn wedding reception. He has no right to intimidate or hurt her, especially now.
She’s mine, whether he likes it or not.
The father-daughter dance seems to go smoothly, the façade maintained until near the end of the song, when Charlotte’s eyes go wide and she slows her steps. Our gazes had just locked, but now she’s staring beyond me.
At someone else.
I glance over my shoulder in the direction she’s looking, spotting the man I ran into in the hotel lobby yesterday afternoon before the rehearsal.
The man who I thought looked familiar.
The man who’s currently staring at my bride as if she’s a tasty morsel he can’t wait to get his mouth on.
“Hey.” I turn to face him, letting my blatant hostility show. “Do I know you?”
His expression is downright amused as he contemplates me. “You’re the groom.”
I stand up taller. “You didn’t answer me. Are you an invited guest?”
There’s a hush that comes over the guests sitting at the tables nearby, but I don’t give a shit.
“She’s a good one, your bride. Watch out for her.” His accent is thick. Irish but touched with something else. “Before someone else possibly snags her up.”
His comment reminds me of the random texts I received from an unknown number—what was it, a week ago? I sort of forgot about them.
Until now.