Page 3 of Angel

Disbelief and fury at her escape kept shattering me to the core, along with explosive, jagged hurt, more than any of her previous stunts.

The brutal sun beat down on the limestone terrace outside, but the heat couldn’t touch the ice settling inside me.

I stared at my phone, then sent a frantic text.

Angel: ‘Eva, my angel, come back to me.’

Evangeline: Stop trying to reach me. I need space to breathe.

I backed off.

Until ten minutes later, when I called again and sent her another flurry of messages.

This time, she kept me on read.

I stared at the little grey read icons that mocked me every single minute.

With a growl, I strode out back onto the terrace, needing oxygen before I put my fist through a wall.

Zero relief waited outside, as Nashville’s humidity fell on me in a steamy grip.

A mockingbird shrieked over the water, the sound bracing, jeering at me for how I’d tried to tear her out of my heart in the past, but failed every damn time.

After all these years of chaos, pain, and bad decisions, Evangeline was still the only ride-or-die for me, the only woman for me.

Yet now, she was gone.

She’d dipped on me, on us, on the most crucial day of our lives.

The agony was almost too much to bear.

Chapter 2

ROXY

‘Where are the bridesmaids’ shoes?’

All around me, Evangeline’s wedding party and her planner were in full-blown panic mode.

The suite was a chaotic blur of satin dresses, strappy heels, and scattered jewelry.

Amid the sensory overload, I sat frozen at the vanity while the hair and makeup team worked their magic.

I locked eyes with my reflection, a wave of grief crashing over me.

Twenty-five years ago, I dared to fall head over heels for Angel Daniel Forrest.

Now, the only man who ever truly had my heart was about to say I do to my sister, and to top off the twisted joke, I was in the bridal party.

As the makeup artist blended out my foundation, I checked out, surrendering to my dark thoughts.

My mind drifted all the way back in time to the sun-drenched playground at our tiny pre-K-through-eighth school.

I was six years old, rocking scabs on my shins and dirt under my fingernails.

Packing a wet mud ball between my palms in the sandbox, I was creating a semblance of a clay sculpture.

My sister Evangeline was arranging her trio of American Girl dolls on a nearby bench when Billy Leigh, the schoolyard terror, marched over and ripped one straight out of her grip.