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Chapter 1
Wynona
He wouldn’t dare.
But the longer I sit on my cushioned wicker seat, the harder it is to deny it.
I grip the monogrammed S&N cupcake I’m holding hard.
Whoever’s wearing five times skunkier perfume than need be, I want to punch them. Almost as much as I want to punch him.
That’s our song, all right.
He doesn’t say the words, but he doesn’t need to. As his hands glide over the piano keys, I can hear them in my head.
Past, present, future, you are
Whenever I’m far away
It’s time to say
I gotta get back to you
I gotta get back to you...
“Liar,” I hiss under my breath.
And the way he’s looking at me with that beautifully sculpted face with its tousled blond hair and blue eyes I already know all too well can be about fifteen different shades depending on his mood...
Emerson Fucking Storm.
The whole reason I shouldn’t have come.
But then again, Sierra Hill—no, now Sierra Storm—is my best friend. I couldn’t abandon her at her wedding, of all times.
Now, get this, the song’s over and done with and Emerson is the one walking off, looking thoughtful and sad.
As if he were the one who’d had the past cruelly dredged up.
He tries looking my way, but I’m prepared. I’ve had twenty-six years to perfect this glare of mine.
If glares could kill, mine would’ve made Emerson explode in a nice puff of red and black confetti so a nice old janitor who looks like Bill Nye could sweep him up.
Alas, no such luck.
“Uh, Winnie?” Josie whispers, elbowing me.
“What?” I snap.
Her sparkly pale face, with its powdery blue sparkly eye shadow and, you guessed it, sparkly pink gloss, has a holier-than-thou expression I’m so not in the mood for. “If you really hate the cupcakes, you could, you know, just not take one?”
I glare at her until I realize that she has a point.
That makes two cupcakes I’ve smooshed to an untimely death on my gold-rimmed plate.
Whoops.
“Maybe we should get drunker?” Josie suggests with a quirked strawberry-blonde eyebrow, her eyes already on the bar.
I quirk my own black-lined eyebrow back at her. “Were you not there when Sierra gave her very kind, very firm talk about when to get shit-faced and when not to?”
“The wedding’s over with,” she points out. “They’re about to start the music now that Emerson has played a few pieces. I’d say now is as good a time as any.”
I make a skeptical noise.
“Suit yourself,” Josie says, bobbing upright with more energy than I’ve had since I was about four years old. “I, for one, am going to enjoy tonight.”
I wave at her. “Have fun.”
Josie pauses, guilt finding its way onto her cheerful face as she leans in. “I’m sorry, Wyn. I know this is hard. Maybe if you just—”
“No,” I say sharply, shaking my head for emphasis. “We already discussed this.”
Josie says loudly, “I know. But if you just told Sierra—”
“Told me what?” Sierra says, her gorgeous shimmering pouf of a wedding gown billowing around her as she approaches our table.
“Nothing,” Josie and I trill at the same time.
Sierra just laughs, although her gaze softens when it stops on me. “Honestly, Wyn, if you have to go off and cry or need me to be there for you, I can be. Even if it’s my wedding day, you just went through the breakup of all breakups.”
Halfway through her speech, I’m already shaking my head. “No can do, Sierra. I am a selfish bitch, but not that much of a selfish bitch.”
“Honestly,” she says, smile broadening as she sneaks a look back at her new husband, Nolan, “nothing could ruin today for me. And after you made that... sacrifice as far as the bridesmaid’s dress is concerned...”
I aim a glare at Josie, the one who chose it, who’s smiling innocently. “Don’t worry, I don’t blame you for the...” monstrosity, mockery, punishment “color.”
Just then, the first song of the night booms on. Oh, listen up, here’s a story about a little guy that lives in a blue world...
Sierra throws her perfectly done reddish-brown hair back and cackles as she looks at me. “That song, Blue? You didn’t!”
“I did,” I say, smiling despite myself as I rise. “I had to get some good stuff on that playlist with all the Michael Bublé, Backstreet Boys, and Spice Girls Josie insisted on slipping in there.”
“I’ve heard you singing Stop Right Now in the shower,” Josie accuses me blandly, rising too.
I just shrug, although she has a point. “There’s no telling what drunk me will do.”
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
The reason I can’t drink away my sorrows, as per usual.
Because there is a big mistake here I have no plans to repeat.
And his name is Emerson Storm.
But as Sierra, Josie, and I get to the dance floor and groove our hearts out and I grab one more drink—just one—I almost forget.
