Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
They hold the reception—if you can even call it that—in the church basement. There’s no DJ. No bar. Just “refreshments,” a wedding cake, and an overflowing folding table covered in gifts for the newlyweds.
“They don’t believe in dancing,” Irie says to me as we scan the large fellowship hall. “It’s against their religion.”
“I mean, I get not wanting to blast Bruno Mars songs in God’s house and all of that, but I’ve never heard of dancing being against anyone’s religion.”
“It’s too seductive,” she says, her tone nonplussed. “Might encourage premarital relations.”
“Anyone who thinks dancing is too seductive has never seen my Grandma Mary breaking it down to Motown Philly.”
She laughs at my cheesy one-liner and bats me on the shoulder. “I’m going to go find Aunt Bette and get us a table before they all fill up. You want to grab us some cake and sparkling cider?”
“I’m on it.”
Irie disappears into the crowded room and I head toward the refreshments table, where the line is already eight people deep.
I’m minding my own business, waiting my turn, when some guy behind me clears his throat like he’s trying to get my attention. Curious, I glance back and find him.
The asshole of the hour—no, the asshole of the century.
“You’re here with Irie, right?” he asks, hands clasped in front of him as he puffs out his chest. His tone is a desperate attempt to be cool and friendly but his rigid posture and defensive stance are a glaring contradiction.
He’s intimidated by me.
Maybe even jealous.
Which makes no sense seeing how he threw Irie away like fucking trash after she gave him the night of his life.
The more I stare at this smug bastard’s pinched-in face, the tighter my fists clench. If I don’t get some goddamned wedding cake in my hands in the next fifteen seconds, it’s not going to look good for him.
“I, uh … we used to date,” he says, with a nervous chuckle, like I’m supposed to find that cute.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
His thin lips crack into a proud smile. “She stills talks about me, doesn’t she?”
I don’t know if it’s the arrogant funk permeating off his body or the fact that he thinks I’m dumb enough to believe he’s simply making conversation here and not trying to infiltrate his nose in his ex-girlfriend’s business, but a flash of heat sears through me and my palms begin to twitch.
“We had a pretty bad falling out in the end,” he says, leaning in like it’s some kind of secret between us. “Always wondered what happened to her. She left Iron Cross after graduation and never came back. Always wondered if it had to do with me.”
I flatten my lips to keep from saying what I really want to say, and the cake line moves ahead.
“Honestly, I’ve known her for years and the first time she ever mentioned you was last night,” I say.
He chuffs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Why would I lie to you about that? I don’t even know you. And honestly, I don’t know why you’re talking to me right now. If I were you, I’d be staying as far away as I could.”
His self-satisfied smirk vanishes. I can only assume he’s spent the last four years fantasizing about how much she was missing him, relishing in the fact that he thought he had the upper hand in the break up. I bet not once did he imagine her showing up to Lauren’s wedding completely smitten with someone new.
Leaning in, Trey sniffs. “You don’t scare me.”
I scratch at my temple before crossing my arms, sizing him up once more, examining a loose thread sticking out from the shoulder of his cheap suit jacket.
This dude is all for show.
He doesn’t care about being a decent person as long as he looks the part. On the inside, he’s just as fake and rotten as the nasty cologne he drowned himself in before he came here.
The line moves once more.
“Hey,” Irie’s voice calms the moment and I turn to my right to find her standing next to me. “I got us a table. Just seeing if you needed some help. Aunt Bette wants a piece of—”
Her eyes widen when she notices Trey.
“Hey, Irie,” he says, his mouth sliding into a slick grin … one I’d love nothing more than to smack off his self-righteous face. “Been a long time.”
I don’t know if Irie is verbally paralyzed in his presence or if she’s simply trying to take the high road by not engaging with this jackass, but she turns her back to him, like he isn’t even there, and for some reason I find it fucking hilarious.
I slip my hand into hers and the line moves once again.
And then I hear the word “slut” … clear as day … from Trey’s mouth.
It happens so fast—my balled fist coming into contact with the midline of his perfectly straight nose.