Page 222 of Holding On To Good

Reaching across the table, Toby patted her hand in a patronizing there, there way that made her sarcasm seem downright amateurish. “You’re not going to end up alone.”

“And the guy for you won’t be afraid of us,” Miles said.

“Or have a mustache like that,” Toby added.

“From your lips to Fate’s ears,” she murmured because what else could she say? She was all for both of those things.

She pulled her soda back toward her. Tapped her fingers on the table. The band was playing “Uptown Funk”, the dance floor packed. The bride and groom were making their rounds, stopping at tables to chat with their guests; Lily stunning in simple, cream-colored strapless dress with a high waistline that sort of camouflaged her belly, Patton like some tatted up fantasy in a dark suit.

People were laughing and drinking and dancing and having a good ol’ time.

Verity just wanted to go home.

Except, if she left now, she’d miss what happened when Urban did show up.

Verity spotted Willow next to the bridal table chatting with an older couple. She looked amazing, her dress a pale turquoise with capped sleeves, cinched waist and open back. Her hair was loosely curled with several pieces twisted and held back with tiny sparkling clips.

They’d chatted earlier—Willow had come over to their table the moment she’d gotten a break from her Maid-of-Honor duties—and while she’d pretended everything was just fine, Verity could tell it was all an act.

Just like when Verity had run into her yesterday, Willow hadn’t asked about Urban.

Seriously. Those two needed all the help they could get.

Which was why she was hanging around. Just in case Urban messed up his chance and needed her to fix things. But the moment he got his happily ever after, Verity was out of here. She needed a break from her brothers—the two at this table especially.

She needed time alone to process what had happened in Urban’s office. Time to sift through her feelings which ran the gamut from happy and grateful to have been raised by Urban, to sad at not having their parents, to guilt-ridden over that happiness and gratitude.

Probably pretty much how Urban felt as well.

But mostly, she needed to be far, far away from Reed Walsh.

God knew she didn’t make the best decisions when she was around him.

Too bad the thought had no sooner formed in her head when the nape of her neck prickled with apprehension.

With awareness.

She tried telling herself she was imagining things, that there was no way she had some sixth sense that told her Reed was, at that very moment, approaching her. But she couldn’t quite force herself to believe it. Not when her hands had gone clammy. Her heartbeat erratic.

Not when Miles was watching something—or someone—behind her, his eyes narrowing menacingly, his shoulders going rigid as he sat up.

Then the person who couldn’t be Reed stopped next to her chair and despite her keeping her gaze on the table, there was an explosion of tingles along her nerve endings. A wrestling match of butterflies in her stomach. She couldn’t breathe. She went hot. Then cold. Then hot again.

Miles slowly got to his feet. “Something I can do for you?” he asked, his voice deceptively low. Glaringly hostile.

For a moment, then two, there was no response.

Then: “No.”

She squeezed her eyes shut at the all-too-familiar belligerent tone. Sighed.

Yep. God sure did hate her.

She still hadn’t looked up, was seriously considering sitting there, staring at the tablecloth, not moving, for the rest of her life.

Or until Reed moved on his merry way.

But then he spoke again.

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