She laughs bitterly, the sound sharp and raw. “You have no idea.”
I don’t respond right away, unsure how to follow that. Comforting jilted brides isn’t exactly my area of expertise.
“What about you?” she asks suddenly, crossing her arms. “What’s your story? Do you crash weddings for fun, or is this a new hobby?”
I smirk, appreciating the jab. “I’m here for a teammate’s wedding. He’s young, in love, and convinced this is the best decision of his life.” I take another sip of champagne, the bitterness creeping into my voice. “If I were a good captain, I’d tell him to call it off and run. But apparently, I suck at it, so I’m here to stand as a groomsman.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Wow. Cynical much?”
“Realistic,” I correct. “Marriage isn’t for everyone. Some people are better off alone.”
Her lips press into a thin line, and I realize too late that I’ve hit a nerve. “Is that why you’re here alone? Because you think being single makes you superior?”
I shrug, keeping my tone light. “No. I’m here alone because as I explained earlier, the woman I invited decided I wasn’t worth the effort. Guess we’ve got more in common than we thought.”
That shuts her up for a moment.
Then she laughs, a soft, unexpected sound that catches me off guard. “Well, aren’t we a pair? The bitter player and the jilted bride. Sounds like the setup for a bad romcom.”
I chuckle, raising my glass. “Here’s to being bitter.”
“And jilted,” she adds, clinking her glass against mine.
The champagne goes down easier after that. We finish the bottle and order another three—along with some food—on the house. Apparently, the hotel is trying to make up for the mix-up by comping everything. It doesn’t fix the situation, but it does make it a little more tolerable.
By the time room service arrives, she’s loosened up enough to smile, and I find myself relaxing too, the tension in my shoulders easing for the first time all day.
“Let’s play a game,” she says suddenly, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“A game?” I echo, my brow lifting.
“Truth or dare,” she declares, leaning forward on her elbows. “Come on. It’ll pass the time.”
I give her a dubious look. “What are we, twelve?”
“Scared?” she taunts, the corner of her mouth curving into a challenging smirk.
Damn it. I’m not about to back down from that. “Fine,” I say, setting my glass down. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” she says without hesitation, sitting up a little straighter.
I smirk, leaning forward slightly. “Do you still love him?”
Her smile falters, and for a moment, I think I’ve crossedthe line. But then she takes a deep breath and answers, her voice steady despite the rawness in her eyes. “No, I don’t think I’m in love with him. Actually, I think I hate him. But I hate myself more for not seeing it sooner. I was too busy taking care of Mom, then following all her advice that . . . I didn’t realize we had grown apart.”
“When did you realize that?” I ask.
She points at the bathroom. “While in the bathtub. It’s impressive what can happen when you slow down for five hours and spend all the time soaking in water.”
“You were there for five hours?” I gawk at her.
“Shh, don’t tell Mom. She never liked when I stayed in the tub for too long.”
There’s something in the way she says it—quiet and certain—that makes me pause. Before I can respond or ask about her mother, she narrows her gaze at me, deflecting. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” I say, because I’m not dumb enough to let her dare me.
“Why don’t you believe in marriage?”
