Page 212 of Wait for Him

"Fuck off, the lot of you. I asked one person." I point at Bennet. "Is that a yes?"

He crosses the room and grips my shoulder. His eyes have gone glassy, and because I'm an excellent friend who would like to survive the evening, I don't say a fucking word about it.

"It's a hell yes, brother. Hell yes." He pulls me into a hug, pounds me on the back, then steps away with a grin. "Treat her right, or, you know, the wife will hurt you."

"I heard that," Blaire calls from the chair beside us. "And I will."

"I know. I'm significantly more afraid of you than I am of him."

"As you should be."

Bennet shakes his head, still smiling. "You're serious, though? Marriage serious?"

"I've been in love with her for ten fucking years, man. At this point, marrying her might be the least impulsive decision I've ever made."

Joe raises his glass. "That's actually a little disturbing when you put it that way."

"Nobody asked you, Joseph."

Blaire points at me, delighted. "There he is. Our groom is back."

"Former groom," I correct her, and fuck if the words don't feel good coming out of my mouth. "Very important distinction."

Chapter Twenty-Three

Rose

Michael's apartment door is slightly ajar when I make my way down the hall, laughter and conversation spilling into the corridor before I even reach it. I pause outside and take a steadying breath, then immediately get annoyed with myself for needing one.

I'm nervous.

Ridiculous.

I smooth my hands down the sides of my dress, check my reflection in the brass number mounted beside the door, and step inside.

It is not my intention to make an entrance. Unfortunately, I make one anyway.

The conversation doesn't stop all at once. It happens gradually, attention shifting person by person until the room collectively realizes someone new has arrived. Heads turn, sentences trail off, and several people blink at me with absolutely no attempt to hide it.

Then I find Jackson.

Or rather, Jackson finds me.

He's halfway through a drink when he looks up, and the glass stops at his lips. For a moment he just stares at me mid-swallow, which proves disastrous when the whiskey goes down the wrong pipe.

"Holy..." He coughs violently, one hand flying to his chest. "Fuck."

The reaction is so immediate I almost laugh. Almost. Instead, an embarrassingly satisfying little spark settles in my chest because I fucking love the reactions I pull out of that man. I stood in my closet for twenty minutes debating whether my signature leather dress and choker were too much for tonight.

Question answered.

"Are you okay, Jacks..."

Michael starts toward him from across the room, then his attention lands on me and the sentence dies.

"What the fuuuuuck, Rose?"

He changes direction so abruptly he nearly takes out an end table, vaulting the back of the couch and somehow snatching a jacket off the cushions in the same motion. By the time he reaches me, he's holding it spread in front of my body like a matador who's deeply confused about his assignment.