Page 7 of The Accidental Honeymoon

His hands are stuffed in his pockets now, his head tilted slightly downward. He’s the picture of quiet defeat.

I should go. There’s nothing for me here now and staying just makes it worse. But I can’t tear myself away. Some morbid curiosity, or maybe a sense of kinship, keeps me rooted in place.

He did everything right. That’s what gets me. He played his part, said his lines. He was supposed to be wed by now. But instead, he is at loose ends.

I take a step toward the exit, then stop. I can’t just leave him like this. Not after everything. My professional instincts kick in, reminding me that this isn’t just about him. My career is tied to this disaster, too.

But it’s more than that. It’s empathy, or something close to it. I turn back. Jay is making his way toward the side door that leads out into the alley between the buildings. When he pushes open the rickety metal door, the burst of sunlight he unleashes momentarily blinds me. I squint and start to follow, my Converse whispering against the marble floor.

What am I doing? He’s not my friend. He’s a client. Was, hewasa client. And it’s not like I can save the wedding. Still, I follow him anyway.

As I trail after Jay, I think about the fact that I am almost definitely going to need to ask him for some Instagram exposure. Damn.

This day has really not turned out like I thought it would.

three

JAY

Empty tablesand a cavernous silence fill the Tin Shed Pub. It’s a stark contrast to the earlier mayhem. I planned to have the wedding reception’s afterparty here. Now, I am surrounded by platters of French bread, plates of fine cheeses, tiny cups of Brunswick stew, miniature burgers, and Shepherd’s pie bites. Bennett watches me out of the corner of his eye as he wraps the platters in plastic wrap.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, for maybe the fourth time.

As one of my best friends, Bennett had the pleasure of seeing Blake dump me in front of everyone earlier tonight. Now, he’s keeping me company in the restaurant he owns while I brood. So he probably knows as well as anybody that I’m not reallyokay.

Cutting my eyes at him, I grimace. “I could use another drink. This IPA is just not hitting the spot.”

“Mi casa es su casa,” he says. “Have whatever you want. There are forty beer taps at the bar and every kind of liquor you could ever want.”

“Thanks.”

He hefts a stack of platters and heads into the back with them. I hop up from my barstool and go behind the bar, rooting around until I find the perfect thing. “Ahhh, tequila. My sweet, sweet friend. You’ll do.”

Grabbing a shot glass, I settle myself back at the bar. Bennett comes back twice for more platters, shuttling them to what I assume is a big refrigerator in the kitchen. Then he disappears into the back hallway. He’s always busy; I can’t remember the last time I saw him at rest. He’s always cutting orange wedges, stacking menus, or passionately waving his hands as he dives into the history of beer through the ages.

Bennett doesn’t date. Instead, he runs this bar like a precision instrument, constantly fiddling with things and making changes so small that they’re almost unnoticeable. He may have it right: it’s much easier to pour yourself into your business than it is to feel the way I feel right now.

The cap spins idly between my fingers before I shrug and pour a healthy shot. The burn as it slides down my throat is a welcome distraction from the ache in my chest. Blake’s dramatic exit replays in my head, a silent movie on an endless loop, mocking me.

How did I get here?

Where did I go wrong?

Pondering that, I help myself to another shot. The creak of the door pulls me from my thoughts. For a split second, hope flickers. Then, just as abruptly, it dies, because it’s the sweet cake baker, Calla, poking her head inside.

"Well, if it isn’t my cake angel," I say, my voice rough. The joke surprises me. I guess when I’m feeling blue, it’s easier to let her see my sarcastic side. "Come to frost my wounded ego?"

She steps inside, shutting the door against the cold January night air. "Just coming to see if you’re all right," she says.

Her tone carries the faintest edge pity. I frown. I don’t want it. I stare at her, belligerent thoughts forming. She doesn’t deserve them, obviously. But the last thing I need right now is someone beingtenderandcharitabletoward me.

The idea of it makes me queasy.

“If you’re wondering how I knew where to find you…” Calla slides onto the stool next to me, dropping her oversized tote on the bar. She’s still wearing her blush pink dress and sneakers. "I followed you from the venue."

I snort and gesture to the cake box on the counter. "If you’re looking for the top layer, I have it right here. It’s still intact if you want to rescue it. I was planning to destroy it later."

"No thanks. What would I do with it, anyway?" Her eyes narrow as she studies me. "If you don’t mind me saying, Jay, you look like hell."

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