Page 40 of Waiting for You

"Oh, extremely mature," she deadpanned. "Very adult. Incredibly grounded." Her eyes narrowed. "I don't think you're telling the truth. Mostly because you're fundamentally not a mature person."

"Oh, excuse me. Just because you have a marriage certificate now, you think you're a philosopher?"

"Try surviving a marriage first before you offer commentary."

"Marriage isn't for me," I deflected.

She arched a groomed eyebrow. "That's only true because you've finally realized you aren't going to marry the one man you love."

I glared at her. "Is that supposed to be a curse?"

"It's a fact," she corrected. "I've been watching this disaster unfold for two days. That woman is sitting inside eating expensive pastries, and you're standing out here in the freezing cold, running away."

"I don't feel any particular way about it," I lied through my teeth.

She studied my face, her brow level, her mouth a thin line. Then she gave one sharp nod and looked away.

I rolled my eyes. I reached out and yanked her into a tight hug, and she hugged me back with bruising force. For a long minute we stood wrapped together in the crisp morning air outside the estate where she'd just married the love of her life, and I held onto her as hard as I could.

"You better call me and tell me every detail about this Andrew guy," she demanded into my shoulder.

"I will."

"Every detail, Sloane."

"All of it," I promised.

I pulled away and climbed into the backseat of the car.

In the quiet luxury of the hired car, I stared out the tinted window at the sprawling estate grounds as we pulled away. Xavier had introduced Eliza to the table as his girlfriend over morning coffee, and I'd shaken her hand, admired her tattoo, and mentioned I was an artist. And the earth had kept right on turning.

There was no version of reality where that sapphire ring was meant for my finger.

I'd been frantically building a fairy tale out of the scraps I wanted to be true, and Xavier had dropped the word Eliza and ended the story.

It was time to run a different plan.

My phone started ringing before we hit the city limits. I glanced at the screen. It was my father. I'd unblocked his number last night when I hit rock bottom, and he'd wasted no time using the access.

"I've forwarded Andrew your home address," he announced, skipping any greeting.

"You did what?" I bolted upright.

"He's on his way to your apartment."

"Not happening," I snapped. "You gave my home address to a complete stranger."

He paused a moment. "He's hardly a stranger, Sloane. He's⁠—"

"I've never met the man. He's a stranger. I'll meet him somewhere public and well-lit. Text me his cell number now."

The contact card popped onto my screen five seconds later. Andrew Maxwell. I hit dial.

He answered on the second ring.

His voice was deep and settled, carrying a faint aristocratic accent I couldn't place.

My first involuntary thought: His voice isn't as deep as Xavier's.