Page 3 of One Wealthy Wedding

My hands move awkwardly through the movements. Luckily, the lime juice is already squeezed, and we have enough cranberry juice.

Blair tastes my attempt and scrunches her nose. “Toss it. Too much lime. Easier to start over than salvage this one.” She passes me another shaker. We work in tandem. Blair makes eight drinks in the time it takes me to make four. I carefully balance them on a cocktail tray and mince across the bar, dodging groups of drunk hockey fans.

“Your drinks,” I say to Theo and his group. The tray teeters as I start placing drinks on the table.

Theo’s eyes flick to the neckline of my tank top, and his face hardens. “We didn’t order twelve.”

“Yes, you did. I heard you clearly.” I circle to place drinks next to each of his companions. The tray wobbles when one of the guys jostles me with his elbow. Theo’s date is sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him. She has no idea who I am.

And why would she? Theo and I haven’t spoken in nearly a decade.

“Why would we order twelve drinks for five people?” Theo chuckles, like I’m an idiot, and my hands shake. I swallow down the rage.

“Well, I made twelve,” I say with admirable calm. “They’re on the house if you want them.” His light green eyes bore into mine, laughing at me. His companions are grinning at each other. The gulf between us is a mere table length and also miles wide. They’re so damnably comfortable with their place in the world. Was I like this? Was I cruel? Is this how Theo felt when he saw me with my friends? My face heats as I wait for his answer.

“What do you think, babe?” he asks his date. “Do you want two?”

She sips delicately. “Sure.” She shrugs. Free drinks mean nothing to her. The liquor in these costs sixteen dollars. Theo makes sixteen dollars just by breathing.

Sixteen dollars is one tenth of one session of a class this semester.

I place the drinks down and stalk back to the bar. Theo’s eyes are burning into me. I can’t let him see me break down. This is a game. It’s all a game to him. I swipe at the bar in short, angry strokes, cleaning the cranberry juice and Cointreau I spilled during my haste to make his drinks.

Come on, Cat. You knew he hated you. Even before that awful night, I’d known he didn’t like me. Not really. He tolerated me. There was always tension between us, a natural consequence of his mom working for my parents. When I was the only person around to play with at thirteen, I was an acceptable companion, but as soon as he went to college, things grew strained. Until that kiss, and that night.

Don’t think about that night.

This isn’t how I imagined seeing Theo again, and I’ve pictured meeting him again a thousand times. In my head, I look better than ever, and I’m on top of the world. He sees me again, and he’s stunned and longing. I walk away before he can talk to me, and I don’t look back. In reality, I’m on the brink of ruin, and he couldn’t care less about me.

I suck in air and avoid looking at him for the next hour, until I hear, “Catherine,” in his low, laughing voice.

My head jerks up. His jacket is off and his shirt is unbuttoned. The tattoo I’ve seen in the tabloids drifts like smoke up his collarbone. His eyes are a little hazy from the alcohol.

“Where are your friends?” I ask.

“I sent them home.” He leans on the bar, and I stiffen.

“Your date won’t be happy about that.” I grab an already clean glass and start washing it. I need something to do with my hands.

“Not a date,” he responds.

“Sure looked like one.”

“Jealous?”

My eyes flick to his smirking face, then down his neck, bronzed and bared, to the triangle of bare skin at his collar. I let my face twist into a mocking smile when my eyes meet his.

“Not likely,” I respond.

His smile grows. “You sure about that? Because you looked jealous. Looked like you might punch Rose.”

Rose. A perfect, pretty name for a lovely woman. I refuse to dislike her. She has great taste in nail polish, and she’s probably being used by Theo.

“What do you want? I have work to do.” I practically growl the words.

His gaze sharpens. “What are you doing here, Catherine?” The way he says my name is a low, sensual purr. I hate it.

“I work here.” I grab another glass and avoid his scrutiny. Maybe he’ll leave if I pretend he’s not here.

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