“Thank you.”
Once they move on to the next person in the wedding party, I glance down at her. “Are you holding up, okay?”
“Yes. Sure.” She shrugs and doesn’t meet my eyes.
“No. Really. Are you doing okay?”
She gapes up at me like I’m an alien. “You don’t have to pretend to be nice to me.”
“I’m not pretending to be nice to you. I sensed animosity between you and the rest of the females in the wedding party, and I wanted to ensure you were okay.”
“I’m fine. Really.” Her eyes narrow. “My sister is the perfect daughter who’s marrying the perfect guy. She’s going to be an attorney, and he’s a doctor. She and her entourage eat two pieces of lettuce a day to stay model thin, and I don’t like lettuce. My mom is vastly disappointed in me and has no qualms about letting me know.” She tips her head toward me. “You have someone coming.”
I turn my attention to the next couple in line as anger swirls inside me. Who are these people? And why do they think they’re so much better than her? There’s nothing shameful about her.
After tamping down my anger, I go through the same pattern of greeting, making small talk, and waiting impatiently for the next opportunity to talk to her. I’m an only child, so I don’t know the dynamics of families with multiple children. But damn, why do some people treat one of their children like the golden one and the other like the evil stepchild? I’ll never understand it.
Her mom laughs at something her other daughter says, and it takes everything inside of me not to march over there and shake her until her teeth fall out. I take a deep breath and exhale. What’s wrong with me? I don’t get involved in other people’s family drama. I hate drama.
Drop it. Stay out of it. It’s none of your business.
Moments later, she shifts her stance, alternating between lifting one foot and the other.
“Here.” I grab her upper arm and steady her. “I’ve got you.” Not that she was in any danger of taking a header this time. Her movements were so subtle that no one else would have noticed them except for the person who’s watching her like a stalker.
“You don’t have to. I’m fine.” She wiggles free while wobbling on her shoe. “I’m twenty-three, not two years old.”
“Seriously?” I sigh in frustration. “You might be the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. We’re standing in line together. It’s only polite to make pleasant conversation and offer to help you. I was raised to be a gentleman.”
“I’m sorry.” Tears fill her eyes and regret washes over me. The last thing I wanted to do was make her cry. “People aren’t usually helpful to me. I’m used to taking care of everyone else. My sister is the center of attention, and I’ve always had to take care of her. Someone trying to take care of me is throwing me off.”
“What do you mean?” Why would her capable older sister need her help? And why is my cousin marrying a witch? Hell, I don’t know him at this point. He’s probably looking for a Stepford wife. Perfect. Pretty. Seen and not heard.
The crowd wains as some guests avoid the reception line and mill in the center of the room, waiting for the next wedding activity to commence.
“You wouldn’t understand.” She shakes her head.
As if the bride and groom realize the crowd has dispersed, they grab each other’s hands, smile, and walk to the table with the enormous cake.
I turn to Daisy, intent on understanding what her deal is. “What wouldn’t I understand?”
She wipes her hands on her dress, tightening the fabric over her breasts. Dude, she’s twenty-three years old, and you’re thirty. You’re like a creepy pervert checking her out.
When she licks her plump pink lips and clasps her hands in front of her, my entire body tightens. How long has it been since I’ve had sex?
Apparently, too long because all I’m envisioning is this girl on her knees, sucking me off until I’ve fucked the color off her lips.
Shit. I inhale. Think of something. Think of anything else but sex. She already thinks you’re harassing her. Getting an order of protection slapped against me would cause problems for the above reproach image I must present.
“My sister had leukemia when I was four, and she became the center of the universe. I don’t think my parents meant for her to get all the attention, but she did. I had to step up and take on the responsibility of checking on her and getting her food, drinks, and blankets. Whatever she needed.”
“At four?”
“Yes.” She presses her lips together. “I understand. They were terrified of losing her, and she was sick and scared.”
“But you were four. They should have had someone else step into that role. Another family member. A nanny. A neighborhood babysitter that could grab things for her.”
Her eyes turn soft as she studies me. “That’s sweet. You’re sweet.” She swallows and looks around to see if anyone is listening to our conversation. They aren’t. Everyone is clamoring to get a piece of cake. Even the skinny girls that pretend they don’t eat anything are salivating at the mouth.