Page 5 of Stuck With the Best Man

Pierre scoffs, looking even more French than Sebastien with that casual disgust on his face. “All those ballerinas? But it is all he painted! He had no range!”

Just as I hoped, the wordsDegasandballerinado the trick. Ruby’s gaze flicks over to me. As soon as I catch her eye, I give her a trademark grin that usually enthralls even the sternest of people.

“What about you, Ruby?” I ask. “You must like Degas too.”

Her eyes flare with annoyance and she cocks her head to the side like she’s contemplating which part of me she wants to rip into first. “Why would I?”

“Because you’re a ballerina, of course.”

“We don’t use that term anymore,” she snaps. Then, to my surprise, she turns her gaze upon Pierre and offers him a bright, warm smile. “I agree with you, Pierre. The impressionists are dull.”

Pierre chuckles. “Ah,ma ballerine, I knew I could trust you.”

Ruby doesn’t chastise him for calling her a ballerina. Apparently, when it’s said in French and, probably more importantly, not by me, it’s perfectly acceptable.

I sit up a little straighter in my chair, unable to hide my frustration at her obvious cold shoulder.

One of the other bridesmaids leans forward with a glint in her eye that tells me she’s been trying to get my attention since we sat down at the table. I think her name is Laura. Or Lorena. Loretta?

“Tell me, Ben, are you enjoying Mermaid Shores?” she asks.

I shrug. “It’s quaint, but I’m not a fan of small towns.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“They’re too… small.” The idiotic end of my sentence is due to the pointed glare I can feel coming from Ruby.

“Well, I love it here,” says the bridesmaid. “I’m thinking about summering here next year.”

“Fascinating.” I glance at Ruby, who looks like she’s trying to telepathically explode my head. “What about you, Ruby? How do you like this humble little place?”

I’m certain that I’ve found our common ground. Two New Yorkers forced to endure a weekend of picturesque simplicity for the sake of our friends, after which we’ll be relieved to return to the big city.

Except, Ruby says, “Mermaid Shores is my hometown. I love it here.”

Oops.

The bridesmaid openly laughs at my blunder, then pulls Ruby into a conversation about the shoes she’s wearing.

The groomsman on my other side, Erik, chuckles quietly. “It’s okay, Ben. Ifeverypretty girl fell at your feet, that just wouldn’t be fair. There has to be at least one exception.”

I don’t bother glaring at him. All I can do is look at Ruby, or rather, at her side profile, because she’s gone back to pretending that her head only turns in one direction—specifically, awayfrom me.

I’m tempted to think that Ruby is cold and unfriendly to everyone, not just me, but the evidence points to the contrary. Every other person at the table who seeks her attention gets a soft, polite smile and gentle words. She is poised and very clearly introverted, but has no trouble mingling with those around her.

It’s just me that she dislikes, which makes no sense, considering we’ve never met before. Plus, even if she knows who my family is, she shouldn’t be treating me with such strong contempt. The Hawthornes have been significant financial contributors to the ballet since the company was founded in 1948.

Not that she should be sucking up to me either.

I’m just… confused.

Also, I can’t shake the feeling that she’sreallyfamiliar. Not just as a dancer I’ve seen on the stage, but as someone I might have spent time with, sans stage makeup and sequins.

“Ruby, how is Amy?” I hear someone further down the table ask. Then, before she can answer, they continue with, “Those of you who don’t know—Ruby’s sister is a prodigal artist.”

“Wait, isn’t Amy Sullivan the artist who did that insane mural for Dior at Paris Fashion Week this past winter?” someone else chimes in.

Another person gasps loudly. “Ruby, you’rehersister?”

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