Page 72 of One Wild Wedding Weekend

But then Tabby had to be the one to tell Daley she wasn’t being seated with family at the funeral on Thursday. Daley took the hit stoically. Inside, she was crushed, but Tabby was emotionally and physically fragile right now. She didn’t need to add Daley’s heartbreak to her plate.

When Daley was alone, she cracked. Hours of crying did no good. The L&D offices were closed all week. She had nowhere to go, nothing to do.

Except wonder why she had let herself believe Tristan could ever care about a woman.

She attended the funeral. It would have been unbelievably rude not to. Despite Tristan’s shortcomings, John and Tabby deserved her support.

Because she sat several rows behind and to the right, all she could see of Tristan was the back of his head. When he stood to deliver the eulogy, her chest ached so badly she thought she might be sick.

He looked terrible. Gaunt. Pale. Thinner.

His words were beautiful and came from the heart. Clearly, he was capable of deep emotion. But not for a romantic partner. Not for her.

The burial in the churchyard was brief. John and Tabby had invited her back to their house for a small reception. She declined.

For twenty-four hours, she tried to be furious and indignant. She had let herself fall in love with a broken man. That was on her. Not him.

Yet no matter how much she wanted to hate Tristan and be angry and righteously indignant—all those things were true—she couldn’t erase the image of his face in the church.

It was so clear to her now they had no future. She couldn’t be with someone who would treat her with callous indifference. But love wasn’t easily banished even when the other person had been cruel.

She had to try one more time to reach him. Not because she thought he might love her in return or that they might reconcile, but because despite everything, she cared about him.

After a run to the grocery store Friday afternoon, she put together a homemade lasagna, a crisp fresh salad and bakery rolls. She packaged it all in disposable containers and loaded it in the trunk before she changed her mind.

Tristan’s car was in his driveway. She had thought it probably would be.

When she rang the bell, he answered immediately, though he didn’t invite her in.

“Why are you here?” he asked, the words emotionless.

“I brought you dinner.”

“Thank you.”

“Can we talk a minute?” She hadn’t meant to say that. Was she a self-destructive optimist?

He took the containers, set them inside the door but still didn’t move out of the way. “I don’t think so. There’s not anything to say. I made a mistake. You’re a very nice woman, but you and I don’t have a future.”

She agreed with him. Mostly. It was that pesky sliver of yearning that kept her feet where they were.

“Yet you asked me to move in,” she reminded him tartly.

He winced. “That was my dick talking. I’m sorry, Daley.”

“Sorry? That’s it? Nothing else? I love you, Tristan. I think you know that.”

He shrugged. “You’ll get over it. I’m not a very nice person. You deserve better.”

She was filled with trembling rage and fear and a suffocating certainty that she had no way at all to break through his deliberate wall of indifference.

“Do you love me?” she asked. Her throat was painful.

Blue eyes met hers. In them she finally saw unbelievable suffering. “It doesn’t matter if I do or not,” he muttered. “Goodbye, Daley.”

Then he shut the door in her face.

Monday morning, the Lieberman and Dunn offices reopened. Clients had been understanding, but certain projects were time sensitive. Tristan had no choice but to take the helm.

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