Page 39 of Catch and Release Groom

Not that night, though. Grace let him have it with both barrels. Told him he’d hindered her path to achieve her cosmetology dreams by not attending functions with her and refusing to move to Atlanta until after the wedding, and “that silly business with the fishing shop.”

The beginning of the end, evidently, was earlier in the year, when he’d carved out two weekends a month to remain in Uncertainty and play poker with the guys. It’d improved every aspect of his life, from his happiness to having more energy, and gave him a much-needed break from driving to and from Atlanta each and every weekend.

It’d also granted him a reprieve from the hubbub of Grace’s new life and her glitzy, always-on-the-go friends. But she’d cited it as another example of him picking his friends over her, a common fight since the very beginning.

Never mind that she could’ve done some driving of her own and visited the town that, by her own account, wouldalways be her home.

“You missed the wrap party and my big award, Easton,” Grace had yelled at him during that awful, endlessly long night. “There are a hundred other people in town who could’ve helped Addie move, but no, you had to stay back and do it.”

As he’d explained three months previously, it’d been an extremely busy time for the rest of the guys, and Murph didn’t like asking for favors. She was just stubborn enough to go it alone, which was why he’d been unwilling to leave her high and dry.

“Again and again, I ask you to choose me. To choose us. But you never do.” Saltwater trails had spilled down Grace’s cheeks, taking streaks of her black mascara with them.

Would he have done things differently, knowing that would be the final straw?

Probably. But Grace made her choice, and it was to seethe and stew for months. She was the one who’d felt justified leaving him at the end of a petal-strewn aisle she never intended to walk—at least not to him.

If something could be broken in one weekend, what chance had it ever stood, anyhow?

“There’s nothing as frustrating as giving it your all and realizing it’s not enough,” Easton uttered as he worked to latch the box in his mind that contained all things Grace.

“Especially when you’re going it alone,” Imogen said, and how had she known about him standing at the altar by himself at his wedding?

Blips of memories from that day arose, of his family, friends, and the townsfolk shifting uncomfortably as the piano music went from cheery and hopeful to tense and dreary. His pulse beating too fast and too slow as fresh air stopped inflating his lungs; so many concerned expressions, so much pity; and Lottie, the busybody leader of the Craft Cats standing and volunteering to see what on earth was the holdup.

“Speaking from experience again?” Imogen asked, and now he was the one desperate to change the subject, even as he wondered when and how she’d let her groom-to-be know she was going to be a no-show.

Had he stood there like a chump, like Easton had been forced to do? Did she give him an actual chance to correct his course, or had she told him after there was nothing to be done about it?

The idea of Imogen working it out with anyone decidedly not him bothered Easton, and yet, the fact that she’d run meant he could never let his walls down, either.

The conversation between the rest of the group drifted over in snippets. The pilot was explaining steering couldn’t be done with much precision but required going higher or lower to find the right current, and then going along with wherever nature decided to take you.

While Easton would usually be all for getting lost in the wilderness for a while—more mentally than physically, because the elements could turn on a person in a flash—he struggled against the idea of such a limited amount of control.

“I’m assuming you’re talking about your ex-fiancée again?” Imogen’s question twisted into his jumble of emotions, sending them whipping wider. “The same woman whose wedding we’re attending?”

There it was, and damn him for not doing a better job of evading and deflecting. “If I say yes, then what? You ask more questions I’d rather not answer?”

Hurt trembled across her features, so now he was losing on both fronts. “No, so I can be prepared on Saturday. The more information I have, the less likely I’ll be to get blindsided, but I guess that’s fine. I spill my guts about seeing a sex therapist, meanwhile you get to keep all your secrets.”

Imogen crossed her arms and spun around with a huff, and had there been anywhere else to go, she’d be beating a hasty exit.

He leaned a hip on the side of the basket and faced her, a whisper away from touching but not allowing himself, since he didn’t deserve to—not after snapping at her like that. “You’re right, that wasn’t fair. I got defensive. But as you said earlier, why waste our time rehashing the past? Can’t we talk about something else?Anythingelse?”

Time crawled to a stop, and he held his breath and waited to see if she’d freeze him out.

Slowly, she mirrored his posture, one hip against the edge of the basket, although her petite version was much cuter. She canted her neck to the west and asked, “Have you been fishing in that lake over there? Or are you a strictly rivers guy?”

“Yes, I have dipped my pole in that lake,” he said, and while she rolled her eyes, the corners of her lips quivered. “And it depends on my mood, the season, and location. Fly-fishing is better in streams, but in lakes, trolling is the way to go.”

“Is that where the fish are posting among themselves, and you go troll the comments and say mean things until they give and go belly up?”

He snickered. “Close. It means dragging the line behind the boat. I’m a firm believer in not reading the comments.” He maneuvered her into the small space in front of him and pointed toward the horizon. “See that rock outcropping? A couple of extreme mountain bikers were filming their YouTube videos up there when one of them crashed and fell down a crevice. By the time Ford and I showed up with the rest of the search and rescue crew, it was pouring rain, the kind that soaks you to the bone in seconds.”

Imogen craned her neck to glance back at him, and his pulse raced faster at the gleam of interest and hint of worry in her features, her undivided attention entirely on him and his story. “The kid’s stuck, and water’s filling the crevice, and the trail’s too narrow to bring in a vehicle. So we rigged our gear to the other bike and useditto pull him out. Every time I look at that outcropping, I get a chill. I’ve never been so wet and cold in my life.”

“Sounds dangerous. If that’s your average day at the office, I can see why you might be on the lookout for a new career.”

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