The Bride (The Boss 3)

“Where are they going?” I asked. “Emma hasn’t mentioned anything about it.”

“Ah. That is because Emma doesn’t know anything about it.” He frowned down at me. “You realize we can’t both lead.”

“I’m not a good dancer.” I shrugged. “What do you mean she doesn’t know anything about it?”

“Michael is surprising her.”

That was really romantic. That arrangement would drive me crazy, but it was still romantic. “I can’t believe she went along with that.”

“She is a much different person now than when they first started dating. Three years ago, she would never have agreed to it.”

“Well, I’m proud of you.” I beamed up at him. “You didn’t object when they said that ‘any objections’ part.”

“Oh, it took herculean restraint,” he assured me with an expression of self-importance that melted into a smile. He leaned down and whispered, “You know, my favorite dance with you was that first night in your apartment.”

All of my blood rushed to my skin, and I was sure that above the plunging neckline of my dress, my skin was bright pink. That night had been incredible. Neil had come home from England and called me the moment he’d gotten back to the city. High on pills, he’d come to my house, where I’d been catastrophically drunk, and we’d danced to Norah Jones in

my bedroom. It had been both extremely fucked up and unbearably romantic.

I didn’t have a response to that.

After another chorus, I asked, “Hey, you’re a good dancer. Can you spin me?”

“I’m sure I could, but I’m not entirely sure you can handle being spun,” he quipped, and I slapped him on the shoulder. He relented, gripping my hand and rolling my body into motion down the length of his arm. When I yo-yoed back, I stepped on his foot, but he was still nice enough to bend me in a shallow dip before righting me again.

“Thank you,” I said with a breathless laugh. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“Well, I live to serve.”

I rose on my tiptoes and whispered, “That’s my line, Sir,” close to his ear. His fingers dug into my waist in a second of possessive lust. I really liked Neil on red wine.

“By the way,” he said, fitting his arm around me tighter. “What you said last night, about the flower arrangements?”

I thought about it a second, and when I realized what he was referring to, I giggled. “Oh the thing about having them at our wedding?”

“Yes. Put that out of your mind.” He pulled a face. “These are ghastly.”

“Aww, I like them.” It was such a relief to be talking to him without the ghost of our fight in the way. I’d dreaded the wedding, worrying that once it was over, we might very likely be. I was so happy, I could cry, but I didn’t because my eyeliner was almost perfectly symmetrical for the first time in my life.

As the evening wore on and the party kept gaining momentum, I met more of Emma and Michael’s friends, and some of Neil’s who hadn’t been able to attend his birthday party. I chatted with his sisters-in-law and caught them up on the engagement and the new house. I did not destroy Valerie with hate fire from my eyes when she asked Neil for a dance; it would have been weird if the bride’s parents didn’t.

At around nine, the band packed up and made way for a DJ, and Emma had changed to a cocktail length ivory bandage dress that was perfect for slinky dance moves. Neil was ensconced in manful chatter with guys his own age, whom I assumed were his friends.

“Good evening, Ms. Scaife.”

I turned to see Ian, tuxedo jacket off, black bow tie dangling undone around his neck. A lop-sided smile graced his angular face. I don’t think the title “silver fox” could have been more apt for him; his hair was silver, and his face was a bit fox-like, but with larger, kinder eyes.

“Hey, Ian!” I patted the seat beside me. “Where’s Gena?”

“You’re good with names. I’m impressed.” He had the most fun Scottish accent. He sat beside me and stretched one long leg out in front of him, slouching against the hardback seat. “Sadly, Gena’s dear auntie Judith passed away, and she had to fly to Chicago for the funeral.”

“And you didn’t go?” It seemed like a shitty thing, to let your wife go to a funeral for a departed loved one and not go with her.

He shrugged. “She’d rather travel alone on this one. Her family… Let’s just say I don’t crave togetherness, and the feeling is mutual.”

My gaze strayed to Valerie at the next table. I couldn’t help it. She sat with Rudy, both of them laughing and sipping their drinks. I turned back and forced a bright smile. “Oh, I think I understand.”

He tilted his head forward a bit, to indicate Valerie’s direction. “I’m sure you do.”