One Last Time (Loveless Brothers 5)

The breeze outside shifts, works it way down my collar, and I finally shiver. It’s cold as hell out here, but after the heat of the dance floor inside it felt good, like the next best thing to a cold shower.

And after the one-two punch of Delilah unbuttoning my shirt and telling Olivia I’m not her date, I could sure use a cold shower.

I stand up straight. I shake my head, run one hand through my hair, the roots slightly damp with sweat. I remind myself that she’s right, that I’m not her date, that I blindsided her on Vera’s request and right now we’re just friends at the same wedding together.

And then I walk back inside and tell myself that I was just taking a quick breather and Delilah holds no power over me. Maybe if I keep telling myself that, it’ll become true someday.

The door shuts behind me. The atrium is empty, warm, and mostly quiet though I can hear the music through the doors to the ballroom, the horns in the band kicking up once more.

Or did they ever stop? I’ve had far too much whiskey to know how long I’ve been gone, and I don’t have any idea whether they’re about to play the shoe game or whether it’s over and done with and everyone’s back to dancing.

The furthest door opens. In the low light a pink dress swirls out, the door stops. An arm holding a champagne bottle emerges, and that’s all I need to know it’s her. She whirls around the door, dodges, watches it close, holding something in her other hand as well.

Then she sees me. She pauses, takes a tentative step, starts walking.

“That’s you, right?” Delilah calls.

“Who else would I be?”

I watch her as she walks carefully toward me, balancing something in one hand. I watch the rigid, careful line of her shoulders, the side-to-side sway of her hips, the way each leg is briefly outlined in dusky pink as she moves.

Fucking witchcraft, I tell you.

“There’s like a bajillion people here, you could be anyone,” she says, her voice quieter as she walks up to me, then holds up her hands: a bottle of champagne in one, two plates of wedding cake in the other. “Pick your poison.”

I take the champagne. It’s still corked, so I pull at the foil around the top until it tears.

“Should I even ask how you got the whole bottle?” I say, unwinding the wire cage.

“It’s classified information,” she says, raising one eyebrow. “Let’s just say that it was a… sticky situation.”

I crumple the foil together with the wire cage, put it on a mirror-top side table, and give her a questioning look.

She laughs.

“I just told the bartender the bride asked for it,” she says. “It’s late, I’m a bridesmaid, they assume I want it for official wedding reasons.”

“What possible official wedding reason would your sister have for wanting an unopened bottle of champagne?” I ask, turning the bottle in my hands.

“She had monogrammed plates made for the two of them, so they could eat their first meal as husband and wife on something special,” she says. “At this point, no one questions her.”

I glance along the atrium: slim side tables against the wall, flower vases on top, windows, lighting sconces with electric candles.

“Think I could put a light out?” I ask, gesturing at one with the champagne bottle.

“If I say no, will that just make you more determined to try?”

“There’s one way to find out.”

“Seth, if you break something I was never here,” she says, but she’s laughing, still holding two plates of wedding cake. “I swear I’ll leave you here to deal with Vera all on your own, may God have mercy on your soul.”

I grin at her, then take the cork in one hand and twist.

“You’re no fun,” I tell her as it pops off into my palm.

“I’m just trying to be a good big sister and not ruin Ava’s wedding,” she says as I tilt the bottle to my mouth and drink. “God knows I’ve probably come close.”

It’s good, cold and fizzy and stiff. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand when I lower the bottle, then look over at her.

“What did you do?”

Delilah holds out one of the plates of wedding cake, so I put the champagne bottle on the side table and take it.

“I haven’t had my blowout fight with Vera yet, if that’s what you mean,” she says, picking up her own fork.

“Of course not,” I tell her. “You’re here, not shoveling the horse stables back at the estate.”

Delilah snorts.

“She’s a regular stepmother, not an evil fairy tale stepmother,” she says. “I’m not exactly Cinderella. This dress wasn’t made by mice and birds.”

“Good. I’m not exactly Prince Charming,” I say, which is an odd thing to say to your friend because didn’t Cinderella and Prince Charming fall in love? Didn’t they kiss at midnight and live happily ever after?