Slouching, I prop my hip against the edge of the sink and sigh. Damn it. I really wanted to be there. Curie’s only getting married once. It’s unfair that I’m going to miss it…
But do I really have to? I could go stand in the back and watch the ceremony from a distance, even if I can’t take part. Hell, given the amount of time and effort I put into helping her, I deserve to see it live, not on some TV screen later.
I take a sip of water and wait a couple of minutes. My stomach stays relatively okay. I take another small swallow and give myself five minutes. The bathroom remains stable; my stomach does not rebel although it still feels queasy.
I sigh softly. Even though I’m not a hundred percent, this is a sign. If I lie in bed, I’m going to regret missing Curie’s wedding for the rest of my life.
My mind made up, I grab a plastic bag—just in case—and leave the room.
Chapter Ten
Court
I object.
The phrase hack scriptwriters insert into a wedding scene for drama when they’re out of fresh material. Who would’ve thought I’d be using it?
But this ceremony definitely calls for it.
And the décor isn’t even that nice. I mean, it’s not bad if you like pastel and white and girly-girl shades. But I expected a more…vivid liveliness.
Even the flowers are pastel pink and lavender.
It’s so pervasive that I feel the colors ought to leach from my clothes and shoes to fit in.
What the hell happened to your taste, Skittles?
She isn’t the woman you thought she was. Nate’s words haunt me. They circle like a vulture waiting for my heart to die. I don’t think she’s worth it. You can do better.
Still, he lent me his jet because that’s how our friendship goes.
I arranged for the Maserati. I’m not stealing her away in a cheap rental.
Set off against the picture-perfect beach in Maui, the bride and the groom face each other and hold hands. Their vows are as lovely as a jackhammer starting up at seven a.m. on a Sunday.
“So amazing.” A busty blonde next to me tears up.
I look at her, wondering if she’s talking to me. Nobody else is sitting on the other side of her, so maybe she is.
I don’t have any Kleenex to offer, so I let her sniffle away. She’s probably mourning the inevitable outcome.
Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce. Pretty shitty batting average if you ask me.
Now, if the bride slept around as late as two weeks before the ceremony… Well. I’d wager all my voting shares in Blackwood Energy that that particular marriage is definitely going to fail. Probably within the first year, if not the first week.
I squint at the altar. The bride’s gown is blindingly white under the dazzling Hawaiian sun. Her dark chocolate hair is perfectly coiled over her crown, the pearly bodice fitted over her slim body. Although I can’t quite make out her eyes from this distance, I know they’re the pretty aquamarine of the Caribbean.
And they deepen into the color of the Pacific when she comes.
I shove my hand into my pocket. Feel the crisp texture of the fifty-dollar bill, folded neatly in half. I’ve carried it around the last two weeks, wondering about its meaning, why Curie left it on the dresser after our night
together, and why the hell I needed to track her down so badly…even after TJ told me she was marrying somebody else.
Just walk away. She isn’t worth it.
Logically, yeah, she isn’t. But logic doesn’t matter when my mind keeps recalling her brilliant smile, how she made me feel that night—carefree, hot and happy.
Sharp nails scrape against my belly lining at the idea of some other guy making her his, receiving that stunning smile. Yeah, I’m looking at you, Groom Dude. You must be an epic failure in the sack if she went out looking for bedroom action with someone else.