Page 24 of Reckless Promises

Odette’s attention darts to me, and her eyes widen when she realizes what I’m talking about. She starts shaking her head, but I hold up my hand.

“How can anyone hate that dress?”

“She wants to wear black.”

“Like a funeral?” I can picture Fallon’s disgust when it’s rare she ever wears anything muted.

“It’s not a funeral. It’s a wedding.”

“Have you told your bride that?”

“Fallon.”

“Fine.” She huffs. “I’ve got an idea. I’ll call the designer back, and I’ll be there in a couple of hours… Unless she gets smart and bails on you first.”

“Very funny, see you soon.” I hang up.

“Why did you do that?” Odette hasn’t broken her doe-eyed stare on me.

“Because I can.” Just because I don’t like her, doesn’t mean my wife shouldn’t get exactly what she wants.

“But—”

“It’s fine.”

Standing up, I push in my chair and try to get some distance. I don’t like how her gaze softened with my call. How for a split second, she didn’t look scared of me. She didn’t look angry. For a moment, she trusted me, and that’s getting too close to emotions I’m not diving into right now.

“I’ll see you tonight.” I head to the door before she can make me face that vulnerability any longer.

“Cillian.”

Pausing, I glance over my shoulder.

“Thank you.”

Her messy brown hair has hints of gold in the sunlight. And her black silk robe is open just enough to reveal the blush crawling up her chest.

She shouldn’t thank me. I’m doing for her what I’d do for anyone in my family. It’s me being cordial, not nice.

“Not necessary.” I walk out of the room, not looking back.

If she knew what I’m planning for her family, she wouldn’t thank me at all.

9

Odette

This might look likea wedding, but it’s my funeral.

Makeup perfectly painted on. Hair rolling in smooth waves. Skin sparkling with shimmer.

On the outside, I’m glowing. But inside the petals of hope wilt away. One by one they curl in on themselves. What should be a dream slowly shifts to a nightmare. Which is why, when Peyton rushed in an hour ago to let me know the florist had arrived, I refused to pick out what flowers or colors I want for my wedding.

I’m not going to pretend this is what I’ve asked for when I’m silently screaming as some woman paints on another layer of mascara.

“Where is she?” A sharp voice cuts through the bustle in the bathroom as an unfamiliar girl turns the corner. “Holy crap.”

A girl around my age freezes in the doorway, staring at me through the mirror, and something about her is familiar, even if I can’t put my finger on it. She’s tiny but wearing so much color she’s glowing. Her hair is either dyed or unnaturally bright red, edging on orange, and it clashes with her bright pink dress.

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