Page 7 of Falling for Mr. Wrong
I turn my back, sip my cider, and remind myself why I’m here: network, record, leave.
But there’s already a prickling at the base of my neck. Tonight feels like it’s going to test every ounce of my self-control.
I’m halfway to my table when the voices behind me sharpen into focus.
“…well, of course he’s doing well. Look at him now—NFL, gorgeous fiancée, charity galas. It’s a miracle he even comes back here at all.”
“Mm. And poor Lyla. Still… what’s the phrase? Keeping busy?”
The cider sours in my mouth. I stop in front of the silent auction table for the maple syrup basket, pretending to read the tag.
“She hasn’t dated anyone serious since him, has she?”
“I heard she’s been too busy with her podcast thing.”
There’s a pause, and then a laugh with an edge to it. “That’s just code for still hung up.”
The words slip under my skin, fast and hot. I tell myself I should turn, smile, and remind them I can hear every syllable. But I don’t. I stand there, staring at the bottle of amber syrup, letting their voices layer over each other.
Colton’s engagement has been splashed across every local news feed all week. I’d done my best to ignore it. I’ve muted profiles on social media, scrolled past the glossy pictures of him and her on some beach at sunset. It should be ancient history. We’ve been over for years.
But it’s hard to ignore when everyone else insists on remembering for you.
I slide the program into my tote and keep walking. My table is still empty, the banner too bright against the muted fall décor. I sit, place the recorder in the center like it’s a shield.
If I “keep busy”, talk to a few people, get my clips, thank the donors, I can be out of here before anything gets under my skin.
But that prickle at the base of my neck hasn’t gone away. And the room feels smaller than it did a few minutes ago.
The temperature in the room shifts before I even see him. A ripple of movement, heads turning, the volume of chatter spiking just enough to be noticeable.
Colton Lawson strolls in like he owns the place, a hand at the small of his fiancée’s back. She’s tall, poised, in a cream sweater dress that looks like it was made for soft-focus magazine spreads. Her golden hair catches the light as they pass under the strings of bulbs, and the smile she gives the room is practiced but warm.
People flock to them. It’s muscle memory in this town. Colton comes home, you shake his hand, tell him you’ve been watching his games, offer some small brag about knowing him “back when.”
I should look away. Focus on the raffle table. Adjust my banner. Anything.
Instead, I watch the way he leans down to murmur something to her, the exact same curve to his mouth he used to use on me when I was the one on his arm.
“Lyla Hart,” a voice says, sharp with recognition.
I turn to find Morgan Price—local blogger, freelance reporter, and general social media vulture—making her way toward me. Her phone is already in her hand, the camera app open like a weapon.
“Mind if I ask you a quick question for the site?” she says, already lifting the phone.
I keep my smile professional. “Depends on the question.”
Her gaze flicks toward Colton across the room, then back to me. “Big night for Colton Lawson, huh? What do you think of the engagement?”
My grip on the edge of the table tightens. “I think I wish them well.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, clearly not satisfied. “And what about you? Have you found someone special?”
The question lands harder than it should, fueled by the syrup-table gossip still running in the back of my mind. My chest feels tight, my tongue heavy. I know I should just laugh it off, give her a neutral response, and move on.
But her phone is recording, Colton is right there flaunting his perfect new life, and something in me refuses to play the part they’ve all written for me.
I take a slow sip of cider, buying myself a second to come up with something,anythingthat doesn’t make me sound pathetic or defensive.
