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“Saoirse, your mom’s looking for you.” My best friend, Jonah Greene, is standing behind her, looking down from his six feet-four inches.
“Okay.” She grins at me. “You better behave so Great-Grandpa doesn’t get madder.”
I nod. “I’ll try.”
Jonah chuckles as Saoirse runs off across the room and he drops into a chair at a nearby table. I join him. I’m not surprised that Jonah was the next person to notice me. But the rest of my family and friends will be over to chat soon enough.
“You’re going to try not to make your grandfather mad? Since when?”
I roll my eyes. “No. I do intend to continue breathing and even that seems to annoy him.”
I look around. I was pleased to get an invitation to this wedding. Charlotte Landry and Griffin Foster are great people and I know ninety percent of the people in this room. Spending the weekend in my favorite little American town with my favorite people is the perfect cure to my recent frustrations.
My gaze lands on a gorgeous woman across the room. Her light blond hair is twisted up on her head, and her pale arms and shoulders are bare in the peach-colored dress she’s wearing. The puffy skirt covers her thighs fully, but it’s clear that she’s got one ankle propped on her opposite knee, rather than crossing her legs at the knees the way most women do when sitting in skirts and dresses. She’s also sitting back in her chair, arms folded, looking incredibly annoyed.
I can’t look away from her.
I don’t know if it’s because of the amusing image she presents or because I can relate to her demeanor.
Hmmm.
“Torin?”
“Yeah?” I ask Jonah distractedly.
She’s sitting with the bride. Charlotte is delightful. She really is. She’s bubbly and friendly and genuine. She can also be downright pushy, but her heart is always in the right place. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like her. So the fact that this woman clearly is not enjoying the conversation is very interesting. Something about her makes me want to whisk her away from whatever is irritating her.
I don’t need a psychology degree to understand what it is.
I have been forced to sit through so many conversations that have made me feel exactly what she’s apparently feeling that I feel a moral obligation to help.
And when her eye roll is so big that I can see it from halfway across the room, I feel an instant connection to her. Oh, sweetheart, I get you.
“Your Majesty.”
Jesus. I hate when he calls me that. I look at Jonah. “What?”
“What’s with the haircut?” he asks, clearly for a second time.
I shake my head. “Don’t do that. I know you heard about it on the podcast.”
He chuckles. “It’s about a fifty-fifty split between those who like it and those who don’t.”
“There’s about a fifty-fifty split between those who like everything I do and those who don’t.”
“More than fifty percent don’t like you always jetting off to the US.”
“Jonah,” I say, letting my fatigue and frustration show. “Please drop it.”
“Fine. What do you need while you’re here?” he asks.
I glance at the woman across the room. She reaches up, pulls on something in her hair, and suddenly it’s tumbling down from the twist. The wavy blond tresses fall to her shoulders and down her back, past her shoulder blades. She puts both hands up, pushing her fingers into her hair, shaking it out, and I swear I can feel her sigh of relief from where I’m sitting.
Then she reaches into the front of her dress, and I watch as she seems to peel something off of her body, specifically her right breast, and pulls it out from the bodice of her dress. It’s tan and round and when she tosses it on the table, the bride, Charlie, gives her a look that’s partially surprised, partially amused, and partially exasperated.
Yeah, I’ve definitely seen that look from Fiona a few hundred times in my life.
The woman proceeds to do the same with a tan circle on her left breast, tossing it onto the table as well. Then she cups her breasts, takes a deep breath, and smiles.
