“I don’t know why I sent it,” I admit.
“Do you really love him?”
“I . . . I mean, he’s . . .” I swallow. “Of course.”
The corner of his mouth curls into a sneer. “It’s a wonder more men aren’t fighting for your affection with declarations like that.”
I lift my chin. “I love him. I wouldn’t be marrying him if I didn’t.” The words taste like lies on my tongue and send a new wave of nausea rolling over me. I shouldn’t have chugged that martini.
“And such a faithful heart, too. Did you even have a full day between being in my bed and putting on his ring? Or were you already with him when you tracked me down in Vegas?” He surveys every centimeter of my face. “I thought you were better than that.”
His implication is like a smack in the face. “I don’t care what you think.” I sidestep him to return to my table, but he takes me by the shoulders before I can get far. In a breath, he has me pinned against the wall again, and his mouth crushes against mine.
Fireworks explode in my stomach. All at once, the floor is falling out from under me and I’m floating.
The kiss doesn’t last long—I don’t let it. I tear my mouth away before it can swallow me whole.
I shove him back, my lips tingling. “You can’t do that.” The kiss was everything I remembered, everything that’s missing when I kiss Julian. Everything I’ve been trying to convince myself I don’t need. But if someone would’ve seen us, it would be a mess.
He cups my jaw in his warm hand and strokes the rough pad of his thumb across my bottom lip. “That’s not what you said in Vegas.”
A sob rises in my throat, hot and insistent. I have to close my eyes to try to steel myself against his touch, but it doesn’t help. I don’t want to pull away. I want to lean in. “That’s not fair.”
“You want to talk about not fair? How do you think I felt when my wife sent me an invitation to her fucking wedding? I’m surprised you didn’t save yourself the postage and include it with the divorce papers.”
My head swims. Note to self: guzzling vodka when you’re on a strict low-cal diet is bad news. The room seems to tilt on its side. The floor is a little wobbly beneath my feet, and I could swear he just said . . .
“I let you go when you ran out on me the morning after our wedding.” His lips brush mine with each word. “But last I checked, bigamy is illegal in this country, and if you think I’m going to give you up without a fight, you don’t remember me at all.”
Wife. Divorce. Wedding. “What are you talking about?” Vegas. All those missing hours. The ring on my finger when I woke up in his bed. Did I really . . .? Could I have?
He straightens, his eyes narrowing. “Vegas? Ring shopping at midnight? That sweet little chapel you said reminded you of the church on Lake Blackledge?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I . . .” I dig through my memories of that night, but everything gets fuzzy at the second club—blips and blurry images of Savvy dancing and laughing, of Marston watching me with hot, hungry eyes as I did a thigh hold-spin on the pole. And I have no memories after that.
“You really don’t remember?” He staggers back a step and drags a hand over his face. “You’d had a few drinks, maybe had a good buzz a couple of times, but you never seemed drunk.”
“No, but I . . .” I shake my head. “I have bad reactions when I mix alcohol with my anxiety meds. Some people get sleepy, but I just . . . get happy and then forget everything from the night—sometimes even stuff that happens before I take my pills. It happened at Christmas, and I realized I can’t drink at all on my meds.”
He turns away and tucks his hands into his pockets. “And you took anxiety medication that night?”
“I don’t remember,” I admit, though I can imagine needing it. I was on an emotional rollercoaster seeing Marston again.
“You woke up with my ring on your finger. What did you think that meant?”
“I thought I’d lost my mind in Vegas and gotten engaged.” Apparently, I was half right. “I have to go,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “No. We need to talk about this.”
But I’m already running toward the door.
Chapter Two
Marston
Brinley doesn’t remember our wedding.
As hard as it’s been to wrap my mind around that, it explains a lot, and maybe—just maybe—it means I haven’t lost her yet.
I park in front of The Orchid and climb out of the Bentley I rented after my plane landed in Atlanta. Tucking the package from Aunt Lori under my arm, I grab the two coffees I bought at the local coffee shop on my way here—black coffee for me and a butterscotch latte for Brinley.