Last Groom Standing. Kimberly Lang

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СКАЧАТЬ loud enough to not make the conversational silence at the table too noticeable. Not that she was in the mood for small talk, anyway. There was just way too much circling in her mind. She needed to process it all.

      No one wanted to ruin Cassie’s celebration, so conversations had been hushed and behind bathroom doors, everyone trying to bring her up to speed without involving the entire party or casting a pall over it. The result was information and emotional overload, and the beginnings of a massive headache.

      By the time she finished this glass, she could head on home without anyone thinking it was odd. There was wine in her fridge, and drinking herself into oblivion seemed the best way to finish out this horrid day. Tomorrow would be soon enough to try to make sense of it all.

      “I think I’m supposed to ask you to dance.”

      The comment caught her by surprise, as Dylan hadn’t said much to her all night, choosing to talk to Tuck and oddly Carter mostly. “Excuse me?”

      Dylan half pointed in the direction of the dance floor, where Reese was making gestures over Mason’s shoulder that did seem to translate into: “You two, dance.”

      The last thing she needed was a pity dance from him. “Thanks, but no.”

      “No, thank you.”

      Marnie had a brief flash of irritation at the relieved sigh in his voice as Dylan turned back to Reese and shrugged. Reese’s lips pressed together in annoyance before she peeled herself off Mason and stalked over to the table.

      “You need to dance, Marnie.”

      “Why?”

      Reese seemed to think for a second. “Because it’s bad luck for the bride and groom if the guests don’t dance.”

      Reese should really know better than to try that. In three years at Simmons College, fourteen of her sorority sisters had walked down the aisle. There wasn’t a wedding tradition or superstition she didn’t know inside and out. “You made that up.”

      She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I think it’s bad luck.”

      “Well, I don’t think Dylan really wants to dance,” she countered. “And it’s bad luck to dance with an unwilling partner.”

      She could tell Reese was trying to decide if that was an actual superstition or not. Finally, Reese cut her eyes in Dylan’s direction. “But he will be willing if you just say yes. This is a celebration, and you two are sitting it out. I think that’s a little rude, don’t you?”

      Reese knew right where to hit. The desire not to be rude was ingrained into her very soul and hard to ignore. Marnie weighed her options. Once Reese got an idea, it was nearly impossible to change her mind. She was a peacekeeper, a smoother-outer, the perfect hostess who wanted everyone to participate and have a good time. Reese had been born on the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon line; for a Yankee, she could channel a Southern matriarch with the best of them. Marnie could give in gracefully now or be politely and lovingly badgered to death.

      “Fine.” She took a long swallow from her glass and stood. Dylan, wearing a look that might have been boredom or annoyance—it was really hard to tell which—pushed to his feet, as well. Talk about rude...

      “Excellent.” Reese smiled as Mason pulled her back into his arms.

      Marnie let Dylan lead her to the dance floor, his hand at the small of her back, and she caught at least one or two jealous looks being shot her way by other women. She totally understood why. Dylan Brookes was smart, successful and handsome, and the news he was back on the “eligible bachelor” list had brought a cheer to the lips of nearly every unmarried woman in the city looking to marry well.

      Dylan looked every inch the Park Avenue aristocrat he was—which seemed a ridiculous contrast to the all-American frat-boy good looks of his best friend, Tuck. He radiated a suaveness, like he belonged in a tuxedo drinking dirty martinis at swanky events. Even tonight, with his dark hair slightly mussed, collar open and shirtsleeves rolled up over tanned forearms, the adjective that sprang to mind was “debonair.”

      Her departed mother might be mollified now, as Dylan Brookes—the smart, rich, well-connected and respected attorney and philanthropist—was exactly the kind of man Miss Marnie Suellen Price, the only daughter of Marshall and Alma Price—God rest their souls—of Savannah, Georgia, was supposed to dance with.

      And she hadn’t danced with that kind of man—intentionally—in over five years.

      She knew Dylan’s type—she’d grown up surrounded by men just like him. Well-bred, well-read, and well-groomed, raised with every perk money could provide and trained to step right into their daddies’ shoes and run the world. Bloodless, boring, and usually arrogant, but disguised under a thousand-dollar suit.

      But she’d suck it up for one dance.

      Dylan took her right hand in his, placed his other at her waist, and they moved gently to the music, both of them staring off into the distance.

      God, this was worse than junior prom. A good foot of space separated their bodies. She bit her lip to hold back the snicker as the memory flooded back. Peter Stevenson, son of Savannah’s mayor and the young man lucky enough to win the Price family seal of approval as a proper escort, had had sweaty palms. Looking back, it may have been the first time he’d ever actually laid hands on a girl. They’d kept that respectable distance between them all night—up to and including the chaste and proper good-night handshake on her front porch. And she’d been both satisfied and pleased, convinced it was proof Peter respected her.

      Even now, she could still hear Gina’s bark of laughter at the recounting of that story, and her sincere judgment of “How very pathetic.” Even after everything that happened, Marnie had always been thankful to Gina for opening her naive eighteen-year-old eyes to the real world.

      “What’s so funny?” Dylan’s question caused her to jump and brought her back to the present.

      Her cotillion instructor would be horrified to know that she was neglecting the most basic rules of etiquette by ignoring her dance partner. But since she doubted Dylan would be happy to hear himself compared to her nervous seventeen-year-old prom date, she rapidly searched her mind for something appropriate to say.

      She’d met Dylan a few times in social situations after he and Reese moved from coworkers to couple—their engagement party, that Thanksgiving she’d had lunch at Reese’s parents’ house—but she’d never really spent much time talking to him. She knew all about his career achievements, giving her a specific picture of Dylan, and she’d always been a little sad Reese had engaged herself to someone so dry, staid, and frankly unexciting. And if there was more to him—a hidden fire, exciting depths—Reese had never shared that information. Reese was just so private about things that there hadn’t been much girl talk deconstructing their relationship during their infrequent lunches in the city.

      So while she kind of knew Dylan, she couldn’t say that she knew him well. And what she did know wasn’t all that helpful at the moment.

      The obvious seemed the safest conversational course. “Just thinking what an odd couple Cassie and Tuck are, but yet they’re so happy together.”

      Dylan nodded. “You ladies did a good job with this party. I know they both appreciate it.”

      She grabbed the conversational СКАЧАТЬ