Page 94 of All Signs Point to Malibu

I nod and predictably, understandably, Warren stares at me in disbelief. “And you supposedly saw Liam’s future? He’s with you?”

I hear the condescending tone, but I expected no less. “No. He was unhappy with Sonia and I intervened, thinking she was going to hurt him, but it turns out it’s all my fault.”

“Why?”

“I don’t love him. I don’t want a second chance. I can see his future now—I couldn’t when we were together—which means I don’t feel that way for him anymore.” I do want to keep the focus on the broken couple and give Warren time to process, but I can’t resist taking an opportunity to try to make him understand how I feel. I take a step forward and reach out to him. “The connection between us...”

Warren pulls away abruptly. “There is no connection.”

“Bullshit.”

“Not anymore,” he corrects with a resolute tone.

Disappointed, I take a deep breath and nod. He doesn’t believe me, naturally, and now he’ll never want to be with me.

He stares at me with pain and uncertainty reflecting in his eyes as though unsure whether to be mad at me or pity me. Then he moves past me and leaves me alone in the stands.

I watch him walk away across the field to the parking lot. I collapse onto the bleachers, feeling more desperate, vulnerable, and alone than I ever have and I have no one to blame but myself. I’ve interfered, meddled in ways I never should have. Warren’s right, I do think I have a right to mess with people’s lives.

And what impact has that truly had?

An hour later, Brooks’s Bar is hopping as the bouncer lets me in the velvet rope, past the disgruntled callouts of twentysomethings who’ve been waiting in line for hours. Loud hip-hop blasts from the speakers, the heavy, repetitive, disco-technic beat echoing in my chest. I almost wince—it’s loud and obnoxious. Strobe lighting is almost dizzying as I bump into people on my way to the bar. Strange looks are sent my way and I know I must seem like a walking disaster in my torn maid of honor dress and messy hair and makeup, but after leaving the football field, I came here almost on autopilot.

Darren stands behind the bar, doing flair work for a stagette. Women are seated on stools across from him, captivated and looking interested in more than his bartender skills. He expertly pours a round of pink shots, not spilling a drop from the shaker, and the ladies applaud the performance.

I butt my way through them to get his attention, and Darren smiles when he sees me. “Hey, Hailey, nice dress.”

I glance down at it with disdain. “Just came from a wedding.”

The bridal party next to me swoon.

“Which didn’t actually happen.” I can’t help it. It slips out.

The one wearing the bride-to-be sash looks freaked out as her entourage send me dirty looks and rush to reassure her thatherwedding will be perfect.

Darren shoots me a look and says, “Shots on the house ladies,” to make up for my blunder.

The women move away from the bar—me—and Darren turns back to me, concerned. “You good?”

“Not really.”

“What can I get you?”

A time machine?

I sigh and fight the intensity of the conflict brewing inside of me. “I needed to talk to you.”

He finally notices my disheveled state and immediately puffs up and scans the bar for whoever might have messed with me. His Southern, country bad boy nature means he’d tear the person apart and I feel even worse that he’s so caring and protective of me.

Have I always puthisbest interests at the forefront?

“It’s not like that,” I reassure quickly and he deflates.

He tosses the drink shaker into a sink behind him and nods for me to follow him to the end of the bar, away from the speakers.

“What’s up?” he yells over the music, pulling out an earplug.

I stare at it in his hand. “I think I made a mistake.”

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