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Sam groaned.
And complied.
Chapter Sixteen
Dinner parties.
Not something Sam Compton thought he’d enjoy. Ever. Particularly a dinner party to celebrate an engagement.
But then he’d never gone to a dinner party with Riley. The result was unexpectedly … nice? Was that the right word?
It helped that he’d always genuinely enjoyed Riley’s friends, and the more he got to know them, the more he suspected that they could be his friends as well. Julie, while at first meeting a little too bubbly for his tastes, had a sharp wit beneath her chipper smiles, something her boyfriend, Mitchell, seemed to bring out in spades.
Grace too had made a good match in Jake. On the surface they should have been one of those absurdly good-looking, too-perfect couples with their glossy dark hair and classically attractive features. But Grace’s good manners disguised a wicked sense of humor, and Sam quickly learned that Jake was no brainless pretty boy but a smart guy’s guy he could easily see going to a game with.
The only one Jake wasn’t crazy about was Aaron, Emma’s date for the evening, although if Sam was reading the signs correctly, nobody else seemed to be crazy about Aaron either.
Including Emma.
“So, Grace, I’ve been thinking,” Riley said, pushing back the plate she’d practically licked clean. He’d forgotten how the girl could eat. “What if I be flower girl? That’s one less person in the running for the maid of honor slot.”
Grace topped off her wineglass before passing the bottle of pinot around the table. “What part of ‘small destination wedding’ didn’t you understand?”
“I think it was the ‘small destination’ part. I thought you always wanted a big old society affair here in New York.”
Grace snapped her fingers in realization. “Damn. I’d forgotten that one has to stick with the same dream wedding they thought they wanted at age twenty-one.”
“I think small’s the way to go,” Sam said, topping off both his and Riley’s glasses even though he’d have preferred whisky to the fruity red.
“Yeah, because small weddings worked out so well for you?” she asked without heat. “You stay out of this. I want to be flower girl.”
Julie just pointed in bafflement at Sam while looking at Riley. “Did you just belittle the man’s failed marriage?”
“Not belittle. It was just that it was so … brief? Barely there?” Riley said, shooting him an uneasy look.
Sam lifted his shoulder. “It’s kind of true. I’m not proud of it, but my marriage isn’t nearly as big a part of my past as it should be.”
A little tickle formed between his shoulder blades that he tried to ignore, because he knew what it meant. It meant that he was lying. He might not think about his failed marriage very often—okay, hardly ever—and he certainly didn’t think very often about Hannah, and he wasn’t proud of that. They’d been married, for God’s sake.
But deep down, he knew that the failure of his marriage had helped shape him as surely as any of his other failures. His mother had perhaps said it best. He wasn’t a good investment banker, wasn’t a good son … wasn’t a good husband.
Which begged the question: Just what the hell was he doing at a party with two nearly married couples while sitting next to a woman who he—hell. No. He was not thinking about Riley and marriage in the same sentence. He just wasn’t.
As though reading his mind, Emma chimed in from the other end of the table. “Failed marriages. What a delightful topic for an engagement party,” she said in that mellow southern voice.
“Ooh, you know what would be a more appropriate topic?” Riley asked, eyes wide. “Failed engagements! Emma, you go!”
Sam half braced himself for a catfight, but Emma Sinclair merely stared at Riley over the rim of her wineglass with a raised eyebrow that said I will kill you with this teaspoon.
Aaron looked around the table in confusion. “What am I missing?”
“Actually, nothing,” Grace said. “Sinclair here has more secrets than the vault at Langley.”
Julie picked an asparagus off the platter and ate it with her fingers as she gestured toward the mess of dishes. “Mitchell, baby, how about you recruit your boys to do cleanup, since I cooked?”
Mitchell cleared his throat and dropped an arm around his fiancée’s chair as he leaned in slightly. “Um, baby? I don’t think picking up the phone to have dinner for eight catered counts as cooking.”
She pointed at the bread basket. “I baked that.”
