Page 25 of Forsaken Trail (Runaway 4)

There’d been hundreds. Thousands. The plates at dinner, all six varying sizes, had been trimmed in gold. Every glass had been crystal. The food itself had been delish, course after course, every bite decadent.

And the champagne had flowed in rivers. The servers, dressed in crisp white shirts and sharp black vests, had never let my flute go dry.

A dream wedding.

I was still dreaming. Because only in sleep could Brody be so . . . fun.

We’d laughed and talked and ignored the other guests at our table. He’d told me stories about people at the wedding. He’d entertained me with tales of blind dates with a few women in attendance. He’d laughed along as I’d impersonated his stuffy grandmother. And together, we’d heckled and teased every one of the toast makers. Twenty-eight in total. Why someone needed to have twenty-eight toasts at their wedding I would never comprehend.

Brody and I had been that couple, the annoying one who’d had fun despite being miserable, and yes, it had been at the expense of some others. I’d never see those people again and couldn’t find the motivation to feel guilty.

The champagne bottle hissed before the cork loosened with a pop. It flew across the room and bounced off a wall. A spray of foam splattered the floor.

“Whoops.” Brody ignored it and walked to a cabinet, opening it to pull out two flutes. They clinked on the silver-veined white granite counters. The champagne fizzed as he filled the glasses to nearly overflowing.

He handed me one, then lifted his own. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” My cheeks pinched from so much smiling.

My head was fuzzy and tomorrow I’d have a bitch of a hangover. I drained my flute regardless. More alcohol wasn’t the responsible choice, except it was delicious and I wasn’t ready to go home yet.

Clara and August were asleep. By all rights, I should be dead on my bare feet—my shoes had lasted until the flight home, then I’d kicked them off and left them forgotten on the plane. Maybe Ron, the bowing butler, had picked them up when he’d collected us from the Welcome airport in a town car and driven us home.

It was two o’clock in the morning, well past my normal bedtime, but my body pulsed with restless energy. It was adrenaline from the party. A buzz from the champagne. And a high from Brody.

His aura was invigorating, his grin charming. His quick wit and dry sense of humor had kept a smile on my face all night. The brooding, grumpy billionaire would likely surface tomorrow, but tonight, I was enjoying this version of Brody. The version with a personality.

Maybe this was why Clara had worked for him after these many years. Maybe when Brody let his guard down, he was actually . . . nice.

“Thank you, Aria.” He set his glass down and hopped up to sit on the edge of the massive island.

“You’re welcome.” I set my own flute on the counter at my back, planting my hands on the edge and hopping up too. The gown’s skirt swished over my toes, the satin cool and smooth against my skin.

“Tonight was . . . unexpected.” The rich baritone of his rugged voice warmed the lifeless room. It was as intoxicating as the champagne. More than once tonight, I’d let him lean in close and whisper in my ear.

More than once, I’d pretended the flirts were real. “Quite unexpected. And fun. Do you ever have fun?”

He chuckled and a shiver rolled down my spine. “Not often. I certainly hadn’t planned on fun tonight.”

“Does it bother you? Heather and Alastair?” I’d wanted to ask all night but had restrained myself until now. Did he still love her?

“Yes,” he admitted. “But not for the reason you think. I don’t like that Alastair won.”

“Ah. Then it’s a competition.”

“Between us, yes.” He lifted his glass to those soft lips for another sip. “We’re not like you and Clara. We never have been. He’s five years younger than I am, and I swear we’ve been battling since the day he was born.”

Clara was my best friend. My confidant. My sister of blood and soul. Warring with a sibling seemed unnecessarily sad. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, then he lifted a hand to touch the bouquet. “These are wasted on me. You should take them to Clara.”

“No. Leave them here. This place is in desperate need of color.” Even though the flowers were all pale shades of pink and peach and cream, at least they were warm.

“

You don’t like my house?”

“Not especially.”