I don’t know what made me turn around at the reception that night, but I did.
She was standing just behind the entrance to the party tent, staring at the parquet with shining blue eyes and her brow bent in pain. No one had seen her outside of her family since we all got word that the ceremony was off. No one had seen her in that dress — the dress she was meant to get married in.
The light was soft and low, illuminating her pinned-up curls like a halo, casting shadows across her arms and hands clasped in front of her as her fingers gently squeezed and twisted. The dress fitted her perfectly, the curve of her hips and legs swathed in lace, fitting her body close until it dropped behind her in a short train. My eyes followed the line up to the high collar, the loose cap sleeves, and to her trembling chin.
She took a breath. That breath stole mine.
I’d never seen anything so beautiful and broken. Not in all my life.
Her bridesmaids materialized behind her, smiling, and one touched her arm. Maggie’s face changed, brightened to mask the hurt that had been so clear only a second before. She looked brave. And she was.
She said she still wanted to have the party. Said the booze had been paid for, and that we should drink it. God knew we all needed it, Maggie especially.
Everyone drank too much that night except me. I carried around the same glass of scotch for two hours, watching West get tanked as I tried to defuse his desire to find Jimmy and beat him unconscious. They danced to a new setlist that Rose compiled, jam-packed with girl power and pep. But at one point, a slow song came on, and Maggie stood in the middle of the dance floor to catch her breath, smile slipping as everyone paired off. I set down my drink, and in seconds, she was in my arms.
She’d smiled up at me gratefully, her eyes wet with tears. I made jokes, as I do, but with every step, she fell into me a little more until she was flush against my chest. West and Lily were dancing nearby, laughing. Patrick sat alone at the table looking world-worn, and Rose was at the bar. But Maggie was in my arms, and all I wanted in the world was to take away her pain.
It was late by then — most of the guests had already gone, the party having died down after a long night of drinking. And so we danced, shifting in a small circle with her arms hung around my neck and head tucked under my chin. My fingers grazed the tiny buttons on the back of her dress, and I squeezed, pulling her closer to me.
She leaned back when the song changed, and for a long moment, we didn’t move. Just stood still in each other’s arms.
“Come with me, Maggie,” I whispered.
She nodded, never breaking eye contact.
I glanced around — everyone was occupied. So I took her hand, and we slipped out of the tent and away.
We hurried out of the garden and into the hotel, my heart thumping in my ribcage, holding her hand while we waited for the elevator with eyes on us, on her, probably thinking she was my bride, and part of me didn’t mind. And then I stepped into the elevator and into her, until we were breathing each other, until my lips were on hers like they were meant to be there.
The doors opened, and I broke away, my arm around her waist as I swept her out of the elevator and down the hall to her honeymoon suite. She dug out the keycard with shaking hands and unlocked the door, and we slipped into the cool, quiet room. The door closed behind us, taking the light with it.
I reached for her arm, turned her around and cupped her face. And then I looked into her eyes and made her a promise.
“I’ll make you forget he ever existed.”
I kissed her with everything in my heart, hoping that if I did, she would be all right.
There are some things in life that can’t be forgotten, no matter what you do, no matter how you try. I dreamed of my fingers unbuttoning the back of her wedding dress. My hands slipping down to her garters. Unhooking her corset. Her lips. Her eyes. The feeling of waking up with her against my chest, my fingers tangled in her curly hair.
But when she woke, she was flustered, embarrassed. Ashamed. She didn’t have to tell me she thought I was a mistake.
I told myself that we were only caught up in the emotion from the night. I wanted to kiss her pain away, and for one night, I did.
So I turned the charm up to eleven. I made her laugh, made her feel like it was all right, that I felt just like she did. Gave her a final kiss and told her I’d see her around. And then I went back to New York and tried to forget about her.
I’d recently determined that it was impossible.
When I came home, I couldn’t shake her. I dove back into my social life, but it just felt off. Different. I even called a couple of my sure things — the wild, late night girls who gave and gave and gave. But I was just … disenchanted, I guess would be a good word.
Then Maggie came back. I have to admit, when I saw her for the first time again, nothing went as planned. West had sent me to pick her up from the airport, and when I saw her, there was a moment, a long, stretched out moment where we slowed to a stop in the busy terminal, eyes locked on each other across a dozen feet. But then time started again. She brushed me off. So I needled her to cover for the fact that I was hurt.
After the failed reunion, we circled each other like magnets, the tension a force between us, keeping us apart.
Until the club.
Everything in my life had come easy to me — girls, friends, money, even my degree from Columbia. In fact, if I had to work for it, it didn’t happen. There were only two exceptions to that: sailing and Maggie.
Her resistance amused me, mostly because it was so plain to see that she wanted me. Maybe I wanted her to admit that she was into me more than she’d say, more than she would be a no-strings hookup. Because I’d done those before. In fact, it was all I did. And that didn’t feel like this.
I didn’t want to break her. I didn’t want her to submit. I just wanted her to admit it. Preferably to me.
Aside from all of that to intrigue me, there was the matter of her innocence.
She’d only been with one other man, the same one she’d been dating since high school. Which meant he’d had no time to learn anywhere near the number of tricks I’d acquired, aside from all the fucking around he did. I’d discovered that he didn’t know anything about a woman’s body. It was pretty standard missionary with the occasional request for what she found to be obligatory oral. But only for him. The asshole didn’t even go down on her.
The thought made me irrationally angry.
I’d spent the last two weeks digging through my bag of tricks, showing her what it was like to have her body worshiped. There was something unbelievably fulfilling about making her happy, making her feel good. In fact, it was addicting.
She was addicting.
She’d left Habits in such a hurry, and she hadn’t texted. I glanced at my phone, wondering how mad she was for only a split second before picking it up and shooting off a text.
Hey. You left too soon tonight.
My phone buzzed after a second. Sorry. It’s hard to be around you sometimes when everyone’s there, you know?
I do. Intense. Did Astrid have something to do with it?
Nah.
I smiled as I typed out a response. She wouldn’t mind if you came with me to the Gala instead. Imagine it. Me in a tux. You in something sparkly with a long zipper for me to unzip.
That breaks the cardinal rule. No dates. I’m not equipped for public consumption via paparazzi.
Oh, trust me. You are.
Nice try, Coop. Although I wouldn’t mind seeing you in that tux.
I settled back in my pillows, still smiling. We could go as friends.
The rules are in place for a reason, Mr. Moore. Thanks for checking up on me.
You know she’s just a friend.