Page 71 of Rhodes

It's the first thing since arriving that hasn't felt like walking on glass. I drop into the chair between them and let Wade talk over me the way he has since we were six. He's the only guy I let do that.

Cain stands with a glass, and Ridge taps a fork on his wine glass until people quiet.

"To my brother," Ridge says. "Who somehow tricked a woman this smart and beautiful into a lifetime of his jokes."

"It took real effort," Greer calls, and the table roars.

Cain presses a hand to his chest like he's wounded, then bends and kisses the top of Sisue's head where she's slumping against Greer, fighting sleep and losing. He looks stupid happy. So does Greer. So does everyone.

Somebody keeps coming down the length of the table, topping up glasses. There's a full one sitting at my place because a caterer who doesn't know me poured it before I ever sat down. I turn it a quarter turn away from my hand and slide my water in front of it. That's the whole thing, and not one person at this table sees me do it. Better than that, no one is freaking out about all the wine and worried I'll fall off the wagon.

That part's easy. That part has been easy for a long while now.

It's the rest of it that isn't. The laughter and happiness of the night pull at me until I catch myself measuring this whole loud table against the size of what's missing, and I have to set my water down and breathe.

Across the table, Rhodes is listening to Reeves, sleeves pushed to his forearms, collar open. He laughs at something, and it changes his whole face. He looks up and catches me looking.

I go to refill the water pitcher at the sideboard, just to move.

"There she is." A man follows me over, one of Cain's college friends, wine sloshing in his glass. He's been getting louder for an hour. "You've been hiding all night."

"Just getting water."

"You're Coop's little sister, right?" He steps in closer than the space needs. "He didn't tell me you look like this now!"

"Excuse me?"

I turn, and his hand lands on the small of my back, which pulls me into him.

"No,” I say with authority. I catch his wrist and lift the hand off me, already stepping back to open the gap. "Don't touch me."

"Relax, we're all having a good time here. We're in Italy, the wine is flowing, you're all dressed up⁠—"

"I said no." I've got his arm angled away, my other palm up between us, and I'm handling it. I've handled worse than a drunk wedding guest at a sideboard.

Then Rhodes is there. He catches the guy’s wrist before it can land on me again and steps between us.

“She said no.”

The guy gives a drunk little laugh. “Relax, man.”

Rhodes moves closer, not loud or theatrical. “Walk away.”

Heat climbs up my neck, but it isn't fear or gratitude. It's fury. I had it. I had the whole thing handled, quiet, done, and he's made it a scene both families will remember.

I step in close so only he can hear.

"You need to chill the fuck out, Rhodes." My voice comes out shaking and cold. "Walk with me."

I set the pitcher down and walk toward the dark end of the terrace, which drops off into the garden, a low stone wall, and then nothing but the black shapes of olive trees and the sea somewhere past them. The party stays behind us, muffled now, a fork on a plate, somebody laughing.

I round on him.

"What was that?"

"I know that guy. He’s a complete slimeball. He had his hands on you."

"I know he had his hands on me. I was there, in case you didn't notice." My voice is low and shaking. "He's a creep, no doubt. I told him to leave me alone, and I had his hand off my back before you crossed the terrace. I handled it."