Page 113 of In Your Wake

“It’s okay, Zee.” I place a hand on his arm to calm him down. “You should leave,” I say to my ex.

Tucker scoffs. “Relax, Maxy. I’m only saying I’m impressed you pulled this together.”

There’s the subtle condescension wrapped in fake charm.

What did I ever see in him?

“Great. Now go.”

“Come on. Can we talk? I’ve been thinking—”

“And I haven’t. Not about you, that’s for sure.”

People nearby go quiet, but I don’t care. The concern in Zayne’s eyes is palpable.

“I made a mistake,” Tucker says, lowering his voice like that will help. “I was an idiot, but I’ve realized that I want you. Screw what my family thinks. They’re not me. I miss you.”

“No, Tucker, you don’t miss me, you miss toying around with me. And you are exactly like your family. Don’t pretend you’ve suddenly changed.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off, having the decency to drop my voice. I even place a hand on his arm and force a kind smile.

“Please leave before you embarrass yourself even more.”

He shrugs my hand away. “Do you realize how lucky you are that a guy like me even looked your way?”

“What the hell did you say?” Zayne snaps, stepping up, but before I can respond, another voice cuts in.

“That’s enough.” Mitch steps beside me, tall and solid. His jaw flexes as he looks at Fucker with barely restrained anger.

“I don’t need backup,” I mutter under my breath.

Mitch keeps his eyes ahead. “Didn’t say you did.”

Tucker laughs humorlessly. “What’s this now? Bam-Bam Adams playing bodyguard?”

Mitch steps slightly closer, calmly, but his fierce glare is no less scary. “I’m the guy telling you not to ruin this lovely evening because your little ego got bruised.”

Tucker looks between us, something ugly flickering across his face before he finally snort-laughs and walks toward the bar.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Zayne says, looking impressed and fighting hard to hide his grin.

He steps away and I huff, wishing he’d take me with him because I don’t want to be left alone with Mitch. I can already feel his gaze washing over me, soft and warm like butter on a stack of pancakes. But I refuse to let him see how intensely affected I am by his simple presence. He can’t find out that all I want to do is bite those bare forearms, or rip that stupid shirt off his body. No, I cannot let him see that I’m flustered, aroused, and that my thighs are clenched tightly.

“I had it handled,” I say.

“I know you did,” he replies.

And somehow hearing him say that makes it worse because he means it. He wasn’t rescuing me. He was supporting me. Literally standing by my side. And that’s a huge difference.

I don’t speak. I can’t. Not with the garden so alive with curious ears, and especially not with this unresolved tension humming between us like a live wire.

So, with a forced smile, I straighten my shoulders and go back to hosting.

Otherwise known as running away.

“Bastard.” I swat my arm, pulling my hand away to reveal a speck of blood and the remnants of a mosquito.

By eleven-thirty, the engagement party has turned into drunken dancing, loud laughter, and group photos. Vennie and Asher are swaying together on the dance floor while someone sings an aggressively terrible version of Can’t Help Falling in Love on stage.