At least it’s not Vera. Or, God forbid, my dad.
He takes a step further, though he doesn’t let the door close and the light and music spills out of the ballroom behind him.
“Hey,” he calls again, sounding tentative. “Is that Seth?”
“Hello again,” Seth says.
He’s got his arm around me, his palm right where my lower back becomes my ass.
“Huh,” Wyatt says, and leans one arm against the edge of the door, above his head, as though taking his time to consider the two of us.
“Do you have a message, or were you just dispatched to make sure I’m behaving myself?” I ask, my voice pointed.
Wyatt laughs.
“Lucky for you, the first one,” he says, drawing out the words, clearly enjoying himself. “Ava’s gearing up to throw her bouquet, and Aunt Vera has requested the honor of your presence.”
Seth’s hand moves a fraction of an inch lower. I stand a little straighter.
“You mean she’s demanded I stand there and let Ava hurl flowers at my face?”
“That wasn’t her phrasing,” Wyatt says, politely.
“That was her meaning.”
“I’m sure I can’t speak to that.”
Seth’s hand moves another fraction of an inch downward, his warmth soaking through the thin fabric of my dress, drowning out every other thought I’m trying to have. I slide my hand behind myself, put it in his.
“Tell her I’ll be there in a sec,” I tell Wyatt. “I need to…”
My mind goes blank.
“Yes, go on,” Wyatt deadpans.
“Prepare myself for more bullshit?”
That gets a grin from Wyatt.
“I’ll pass along that you’re using the powder room first,” he says. “Get that game face on.”
He turns back and before the door even shuts, I’ve stepped around Seth and grabbed the champagne bottle.
“Preparing?” he asks as I drink, swallow after swallow.
When I finally pull the bottle away I wipe my finger along my bottom lip, short of breath.
“I thought I was done after the shoe game,” I tell him.
He’s just standing there, in the low light, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie loose, collar unbuttoned, and I can barely keep my feet planted on the floor. If Seth is hot in a burlap sack and devastating in a suit, then like this, undone and slightly rumpled, he might be the most fuckable thing I’ve ever seen.
“But no,” I say, tearing my eyes away. “I forgot the bouquet toss, so if you’ll excuse me, I have to go be the desperate and unwanted divorcee who serves as a warning to any woman who thinks —”
Seth kisses me with the words still on my lips. It’s rushed, impulsive. His hand slides around my waist and I step back to catch my balance, find the side table with the flowers behind myself.
“Unwanted?” he says, voice rough, lips barely leaving mine before he kisses me again and this time it’s deeper, harder, his other hand curling around the back of my neck. “Desperate?”
“I wasn’t fishing for compliments,” I say, one hand holding the bottle, the other on his chest.
“I’m not giving you compliments, I’m stating facts,” he says, blunt as ever.
We kiss, kiss again.
“Fact: if Ava thinks you’re the worst-case scenario, her entire worldview is fucked.”
I’m grabbing his tie again, pulling his mouth down to mine. Behind me the side table quivers with the movement of our hips, his hard length against my lower belly, desire and lust and pure, unabated need roiling up inside me.
Does my sweet, angelic little sister really think all those things of me? I don’t know, but after a year of hearing about this wedding constantly and a week of doing almost nothing but helping her prepare, it sure feels like the world revolves around getting that ring and it sure feels like I’m being pitied because I couldn’t keep mine.
Suddenly, someone clears his throat very loudly. I jerk away from Seth, who turns around casually, drifts one hand down my back.
Wyatt’s standing there, at the door.
“In my defense, I don’t love this either,” he says. “But, uh…”
I step forward and smooth my hands over my skirt as if it can erase Wyatt’s memory.
“I’ll wait,” Seth’s voice says in my ear, and I look over at him.
Then I look back at Wyatt, at the light leaking out of the ballroom behind him, and I imagine walking in and Vera steering me to just the right spot and Ava looking over her shoulder to sight me before she throws. I imagine everyone looking at me, each of them thinking didn’t she have her chance already?
I imagine the forest of hands reaching for the bouquet while it’s still in the air, each of them eager for the mantle of next to get married, a mantle I’m not even interested in wearing.
“You’re gonna want to head that-a-way,” Wyatt says, pointing.
“Fuck it,” I say.
Wyatt pauses.
“It being the bouquet toss, right?”
“Right. Fuck the bouquet toss,” I say, glancing from Wyatt back to Seth. “Fuck catching some flowers so Vera can feel better about my life choices.”
“Can I just quote you verbatim?” Wyatt says, sounding exasperated. “‘Hey, Aunt Vera, Delilah says fuck the bouquet toss. Ow, why are you killing me with your mind?!’”
“You’ll live,” I say, and I step closer to Seth.
I take his tie in both hands, adjust it slightly, look up at him through my massive fake eyelashes.
“Want to get out of here?” I ask, too quiet for Wyatt to hear.
Despite all manner of history and evidence, adrenaline spikes through my veins. I’m afraid he’ll say no. Afraid he’s moved on, that this is some fucked up game he’s playing to get back at me.
“Fuck yes I do,” he says, lips curving into a smile.
“Remember me? Still over here, looking at you with my human eyes,” Wyatt calls from the doorway.
I take Seth’s hands in mine. At the foot of the staircase is a dark hallway, leading into some other part of the manor house, and I walk backward, pulling him toward it.
“Wrong way,” Wyatt says, sounding defeated.
“Make up an excuse for me!” I shout.
“What? No,” he calls, but I’m already half-gone.
“Thanks!”
“Delilah! Delilah. Come on.”
“You’re my favorite!” I shout, and then we slip into darkness.
Not complete darkness. This hall runs along the side of the manor, overlooking yet another lawn with yet more perfectly-managed decorative elements, all blue-white in the moonlight that doesn’t come through the windows.
Seth locks his hands around my hips, walks me backward, his thumbs right on the points of my hipbones. He’s disheveled, undone, a look on his face like he might either kiss me or laugh at any moment.
“I bet this place is haunted,” he murmurs, after a moment.
It’s not what I was expecting.
“Haunted?”
“You know, with ghosts.”
“Oh!” I say, and roll my eyes. “I thought you meant the other kind of haunting, with kangaroos.”
“Kangaroos?” he asks, voice low, still walking me backward. “That’s just —”