Page 181 of Rebel Hawke

One ofthreeKennedy ensured were placed strategically around the ballroom to ensure there wouldn’t be any lines for anyone seeking a libation.

Mom rolls her eyes, pursing her lips as she examines my scotch. “Shocked.”

“Hey, I’ve been—mostly—sober for three months. It’s time for me to have a little fun.”

Wren rolls her eyes this time. “I’m going to have to be sober forsevenmore months—she rests her hand over mine on her stomach—“so don’t complain.”

I nuzzle the back of her neck. “I would never complain about you being knocked up with my baby, Little Bird.”

Astrid watches the exchange, her eyes starting to shimmer as if she might cry.

Nope.

It’s too early for that.

Keep it together, sis.

If she starts the waterworks now, Wren will know something is up, and I don’t want anything—or anyone—to ruin this surprise.

I pull away from Wren and hand her my glass. “You hang onto this for me for a minute.”

Her dark brows rise over smoky bourbon eyes. “Where are you going?”

Stepping forward, I hold out my hand to Astrid. “I’m going to take Astrid for a spin around the dance floor.”

Astrid gives me an incredulous look. “Oh,areyou?”

I grab her hand and tug her against me. “Absolutely, whether you like it or not.”

She releases a little annoyed huff but allows me to lead her out onto the polished wood as the massive full orchestra strikes up a familiar tune.

I tug her up against me, settling one hand at her waist and holding the other firmly in mine.

Her lips twist, the almost-tears gone now that she isn’t watching me with Wren. “Since when do you want to dance with me?”

I watch her carefully, spinning her away and then pulling her back to me, both of us easily falling into the steps we were forced to learn over the years. “Since you almostcriedand gave everything away…and because I want to talk to you…”

Astrid tenses slightly in my arms. “About what?”

Spinning her again, I give her a second to prepare herself for what she knows is coming. Despite everything that’s happened the last couple of weeks, I haven’t forgotten what she said to me at the gym that day before so much went to shit.

Everyone else might be worried about Satriano and Coen at the moment, but I’m more worried abouther.

I pull her back, resuming our dance, easily falling into the practiced movements. “About what we should have talked about months ago.”

Her footsteps falter for a second before she shakes her head and clears it. “This isn’t the time nor the place.”

“Maybe it isn’t”—with a thousand friends and important business acquaintances here to celebrate with Kennedy and Cass—“but I want you to know that I’ve been thinking about it…and that I’m sorry.”

Her blond brows rise slowly. “For what?”

The words I should have said a long time ago clog in my throat, and I have to swallow past them and blink away the burn in my eyes. “For being so lost in my own pain that I didn’t see yours.”

With tears in hers, she shakes her head. “Don’t make me cry, you asshole. You’re going to ruin my makeup.”

I grin at her. “You’ve cried the whole ceremony, so did everyone else except me.”

She nudges my shoulder playfully. “Bullshit. I saw a tear.”

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