Page 186 of Twisted Knight

“C’mon, Knight. Don’t be such a hard-ass. Toast with us.”

The scotch is slid across the bar. My first sip can’t come soon enough. “What are we toasting?” I ask, completely disinterested.

“To Mr. and Mrs. Williams.”

“Great. Perfect.” I glance at his parents as the chief slips his arms around Florence’s shoulders and presses a kiss to her cheek. An anniversary? The Westmore elite will find any excuse to celebrate around here. “Congrats to them.”

“We are in fact talking about me.”

“You?”

“Yep. Me.”

“And why’s that?” Not like I really fucking care.

“It’s finally happening.” He sways but his grin grows wider. “I’m finally getting married.”

Now there’s a bright spot in my fucking day. Chad married means he’ll leave Rowan the fuck alone. No more touching. No more sharing appetizers. No more anything.

“No shit? Congrats.” I tap my glass against his simply to go through the motions. “And who’s the lucky lady?”

Chad throws his head back and laughs before looking me straight in the eye and saying, “Rowan.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

“Didn’t she tell you? She finally said yes. We’re getting married.”

I choke on my sip.

This is a joke.

It has to be a fucking joke—a revenge prank for them getting screwed out of the cash they think is theirs that’s still in escrow.

I don’t respond to Chad.

Can’t.

All I can think about is getting the fuck out of here. Is getting ahold of Rowan.

I’m off the patio and into a back room of the clubhouse without responding to Chad. My heart is pounding and fuck if my hands aren’t sweaty as I try to pull my phone out of my fucking pocket.

The phone rings. “Pick up the fucking phone, Rowan,” I order.

Her voicemail picks up. My hand fists. The need to punch something owns me.

Goddamn it.

I call again.

Same fucking result.

My throat feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. My heart feels like it’s trying to squeeze its way through the space that’s left.

When my phone rings in my hand I all but jump. I can’t answer it fast enough.

“Rowan?” Her name sounds as breathless and desperate as I feel.

“What? I’m busy.”

This is not the same woman I kissed goodbye after Manhattan.

“I just talked to Chad. Tell me he’s wrong, Rowan.” My demand is met with her absolute silence. “Tell me he’s fucking wrong.”

Silence stretches.

Eats up the distance.

Weaves into my chest and squeezes my lungs until there is no fucking air left.

“It’s time to change the dress, Holden.”

And then the line goes dead.