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BOOK 1
1
Philip
I glide up the steps of the church, not at all bothered by how late I am. If Agatha hadn’t kept sending me text after text, I would have tried to delay my attendance even further. I do not want to be here.
A quick ping from my pager reminds me that I have a meeting in about three hours.
The church doors are wide open, and as I stroll inside, I mentally try to recall the face of the investor I am supposed to meet. The doors leading to the ceremony room are shut, and I frown, vaguely annoyed.
Going around the room for the side entrance seems like such a hassle. Glancing at my watch, I consider bailing for a moment, but I can already imagine Agatha nagging me for the rest of the summer, and I quickly discard that idea.
I don’t know where my younger sister learnt to nag, but it is an art of hers. She never nags Fergus or Ian, though. I am the only one privileged enough to get that treatment. The way my childhood friends treat her, one would think she is their sister instead of mine.
The door to the side gallery stands wide open. Nobody seems to be there for the meet and greet.
Maybe I missed the ceremony?
That can’t be it. I can hear people chattering in the ceremony room. I duck into the gallery and begin to make my way to the end of the corridor, when passing by one of the rooms I catch a glimpse of the one person I don’t wish to meet today.
The bride.
Charlotte Evans is as beautiful as the day I last saw her.
Of course, ten years ago, her striking dark brown eyes had held devastation as she locked her gaze with mine.
Now, fixing her white dress in the mirror, she looks happy. Or at least, she looks happy from where I can see her.
I duck into a corner to stay out of sight, unable to tear my gaze away from her stunning form. She is tall; not too tall, but tall enough that when she wore those small summer shorts, her legs would make all the boys drool.
Now these legs are covered in a long, fitted white dress that is so simple and yet makes her stand out even more. Her hair is curled and lays gently over her bare shoulders. My eyes move over her painted red lips to her darkened eyes, and I think to myself that her soon-to-be husband is a lucky man.
She looks like a fairy from one of the books that Agatha used to love to read as a child; so ethereal and delicate.
I force my hands into my pockets as my heart skips a beat.
My eyes blink and I turn my head away, not wanting to look at her any longer. I don’t have that right.
Quietly I move past the room, my black leather shoes not making a sound against the marble floor.
I scowl as I stroll through the hallway, my hands deep inside the pockets of my pants. Thinking of the past brings nothing but twinges of guilt, and I have already moved past that.
We both moved past that.
She is my sister’s best friend. But to me, she will always be the young girl who watched me with that dark, bruised gaze of hers. Her eyes, more mature than those of anyone else I ever knew, held secrets that her soul couldn’t seem to bear.
Not that she ever shared them.
Some I figured out myself, and others she kept to herself. After all, Charlotte never liked to ask anyone for help.
My head cocks when I read Agatha’s sudden message, demanding that I show up or she will trash my new Mercedes. Knowing that little hellion, she probably will.
