Page 2 of Promise Me Forever

We’ve been best friends for the past fourteen years despite the fact that we’re as different as two people can possibly be. She’s a beautiful, outgoing society heiress who dated a string of rich and successful men before finally settling down with herbrand-new husband, Tucker. I, on the other hand, am almost penniless and married my high school sweetheart straight out of college.

He was my first and only love, and I expected to be at his side forever. Until the secretary thing happened. That took some of the shine off things after fifteen years of loyalty, I have to admit. I followed him around the country to support him in his career, but it turned out I was supporting him into the arms of an ambitious blond with enormous boobs and a ring finger begging for a diamond.

Still, I will not be cynical, especially not today. I refuse to put that kind of negative energy out into my best friend’s wedding reception, and I can’t let one bad experience sour me for love forever. That would mean he really has won.

Anyway, what I lost in a husband, I more than made up for in friendship. Emily and I have always been close, but she really stepped up for me during the breakdown of my marriage. Along with my mom and my childhood friend Kimmy, it was girl power all the way. They were like the Spice Girls on steroids, supporting me through it all, providing me with everything from giant tubs of ice cream to offers to hire a hit man. If wearing this horribly uncomfortable lilac dress and watching other people smooch at a wedding is the price I have to pay for Emily’s friendship, then it’s a bargain. Deal of the century.

I pick up the glass of champagne in front of me and down it in one as I watch the happy couples mingling around the room and on the dance floor. Well, they look happy, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last year, it’s that appearances can be deceptive.

When I spot Emily and Tucker, though, I have to smile. They’re gorgeous together—both tall and blond and dressed in white. But the most gorgeous thing of all is the way he looks at her as he twirls her in his arms. Like she’s the only girl in thewhole universe. It’s the way every woman wants to be looked at, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so content. She’s finally found her true love, and despite my recent man trouble, I am genuinely delighted for her. If anyone deserves to find their Prince Charming, it’s Emily. She had to kiss a lot of frogs to find him—hot, rich frogs, sure, but a frog is a frog no matter how much money he has in the bank.

We’ve reached that stage of the evening when everyone is either drunk, very drunk, or passed out under a table. The children have all crashed after hours of sliding around the dance floor in their fancy clothes, and Emily and Tucker will soon be leaving for their honeymoon in Italy. The once-structured seating plan has gone to hell, and the young singles are all involved in some kind of dance-based mating ritual. It’s a lot like a game of musical chairs, only you kiss whoever you end up sitting on.

I’m keeping my distance from the whole thing as I have no desire to lock lips with a stranger tonight. I don’t have the energy or the confidence to play that particular game. Being cheated on takes quite a toll on your self-image, it seems, and I’ve fallen into the very bad habit of rejecting myself before any man can do it for me.

If only Kimmy had been able to make it. My childhood best friend would have ensured I had the time of my life. At least until she found the person she’d give the time of their life to for the rest of the night. Alas, being the head of legal for a worldwide investment firm means that work emergencies can’t be fobbed off on anyone else.

But I’m making the best of my solitude and have snuck off to a table at the back of the room. We were all given name tags at the start of the reception because Emily knows a million people from different walks of life, and she wanted them all to get to know each other. It was a fun idea, even if it did give some of themen an excuse to stare at the women’s boobs for a bit too long. I’ve taken mine off now and am busy doodling on it with some crayons that were left in pots to amuse younger guests. And apparently, the maid of honor.

The table shakes lightly as someone sits beside me, and the sudden jarring movement makes my hand slip. When I turn in my seat, ready to slap on a smile and say whatever necessary to get rid of my new tablemate, my mind goes blank. I forget all about the crayons and the dancing and the fact that my feet are killing me. I forget about my mom’s health problems and my financial issues and my cheating bastard of an ex-husband. I forget about everything because the man sitting next to me is so damn hot that he erases all other thoughts.

I suck in a breath and wish I had some champagne left. Seriously, if I did, I’d raise a toast to this guy and whatever god created him. Congratulations are very much in order. He’s tall even sitting down, his shoulders broad and bulky, and his face… wow. His face belongs on one of those post-Renaissance statues of a fallen angel, all hard angles softened only by the sinful curve of his lips. His hair is dark and lush, and his strong jawline is coated in a thick but neat beard. I love a beard, especially one as well-groomed as his.

Like most of the male guests, he’s dressed in a tux, but this man wears it like he was born in it. He doesn’t only look incredible; he smells it too. It’s like a full assault on the senses. Maybe he has a voice like Mickey Mouse to make up for everything else being so perfect. I’m staring at him so intensely, he’s probably wondering if I should be here with a caregiver, and when he smiles, I drown in the warmth of his deep brown eyes. Dear lord, this guy is hotter than a New York sidewalk under the July sun. It’s a shame I seem to have lost the power of speech. I can only hope I’m not drooling.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to disturb you when you were so busy.” His voice is pitched low and is smoother than chocolate. Damn. He officially has the complete set of hot qualities. He gestures to the table, and I flush when I see what he’s talking about. Wonderful. This fine-ass man caught me drawing roses on the back of my abandoned name tag with a fricking crayon. I’m so sophisticated.

“Oh! Well, that’s okay. It’s not like I was jotting down a cure for cancer or a memo to the presiding officer of the UN. I was just, uh, coloring.”

“Coloring? I’m told that’s good for you. Mindful or whatever they call it.” He looks deeply amused, and who can blame him? This guy is off-the-charts handsome, wearing a tux that screams class, and he looks as comfortable in this environment as I feel out of place. I’m guessing he doesn’t have the time or the need for mindfulness activities in his life.

“Maybe,” I mumble. “Do you want to give it a try?”

His response is a rumbling laugh, and I consider smacking myself in the face. So cool, Amelia. What a smooth operator.

“Thanks, but I’m okay. Just looking for a quiet place to people watch.”

“Me too. I like watching people at these kinds of things more than I like mixing with them.”

He quirks an eyebrow at me, and I feel even more stupid. Where the hell did that come from? I’m not normally the sort of person who speaks without thinking, but something about this man seems to have taken a sledgehammer to my usual filters.

“Look,” I say in an attempt to distract him. “The happy couple.” He follows my pointing finger, and we look on as Tucker and Emily swirl by in a blur of white.

“Yeah,” he replies, shaking his head. “The happy couple.” There’s a bite to his tone that contradicts his words, and I look at him sharply.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Theyarehappy,” I insist, feeling very protective of them on their special day. Who comes to a wedding and talks crap about the bride and groom? I don’t care how hot he is, that’s just rude.

He laughs softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that makes him look even sexier. “I mean, they do look very happy—at least right now. But…”

“But?” I ask, annoyed but a little intrigued by his lack of etiquette. “You don’t believe in marriage?”

He sucks on his top lip and thinks about it. “I suppose I just don’t believe in happily ever afters… of any kind,” he finally replies with a shrug. “How can you promise someone forever? Nothing lasts forever.”

I blink at him. Is he for real? We’ve spent the whole day celebrating two people committing the rest of their lives to each other. He could at least pretend to believe in true love for a few hours. Even I’m not that cynical, and I have every reason to be. “I take it you’ve never been married, then?”

“No, but I was close once. A million years ago.” His gaze travels to my now-bare left hand. I’m only just getting used to the feel of it, even though that ring has been gone for almost a year. It’s like those stories about people who have amputations; it left behind phantom pain. “You?” he asks.

I swallow nervously. Do I want to open this can of worms right now? Or do I want to politely make my excuses and sneak away to be alone again?

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