And if she has him as her friend, why the hell did she try to feed me that line of bullshit earlier about us being fated to be together? Her date is a much better target than I am. He's plenty rich, and-unlike me-probably doesn't know what kind of a viper she is.
But I dismiss the two of them. I have other things to worry about-mainly my wife.
Belle is seated next to me. She is stunning, absolutely gorgeous in that ice-blue dress. It brings out the fire in her hair and deepens the color of her eyes to forest green. More than a few men look at her admiringly, and I give them a warning glance. Most get the hint; for the ones who don't, a second long, cold stare while fondling my steak knife gets the point across.
This isn't like me. I don't usually go all caveman over a woman, but I don't give a fuck. Belle is my wife, and I'll be damned if some loser is going to drool all over her. Even the huge Asscher-cut diamond and wedding band on her finger seem inadequate to show our union , and it doesn't help that she's careful to not touch me … which, perversely, makes me want to touch her. And I do-my elbow brushes hers and I let my fingers caress hers when I hand her the salt. Each time, she gives me a reserved smile. She gives the same smile to the other people around us, but it becomes strained every time she happens to glimpse Annabelle Underhill.
Belle's mood affects mine.
No, that isn't entirely a fair assessment. It is her mood plus Elizabeth's vodka-infused comments earlier.
I study the way my wife lets her mouth smile. Her eyes are watchful and dark. Never once do they brighten with good humor.
Is this how people slowly retreat? Is this what happens when they start to become indifferent?
Even as I wonder, resentment stirs inside me. Why should she be upset when I'm the one who was wronged? I've given her chances. If she'd come clean at any of those times, I would have never held it against her-
"Great fish," a man who's been sitting to my right says, looking at me expectantly. He's at least in his late fifties, his hair more gray than black.
I look down at my plate. Sure enough, it's some kind of white fish with some kind of white sauce, and I've already had a few bites. The problem is I don't remember how it tasted. "Yes … succulent," I manage.
"Your sister always knows how to put these things together."
"That she does."
I signal for more wine, and drink while pretending to enjoy the meal. Gavin and Amandine didn't come-she isn't feeling well-and now I wish I'd canceled, too. Elizabeth wouldn't have minded as long as she got my donation.
"Your brother and his wife seem to be quite the happy couple," the man continues.
"Ryder would've never married a woman he didn't love, and I can say the same about Paige," I answer, taking a quick glance in their direction.
Ryder whispers something in her ear; she flushes and giggles, slapping his shoulder affectionately. Even if I had no clue how they really felt, watching them would dispel any doubts. My brother can pull off the lovesick routine. He's a brilliant actor, after all. But Paige? She couldn't act for shit, even if her life depended on it. Her reaction to him is one hundred percent genuine.
"Surprising, isn't it? Didn't really seem like she'd be his type." The man looks at me expectantly, like he honestly thinks I'll pursue this brain-cell-killing line of conversation. When I ignore him, he says, "Don't you think?"
"Think what? Who says she's not his type?" I ask tersely.
"Um. I'm saying … she's a little on the heavy side. Not"-he clears his throat-"your usual Hollywood beauty."
Shallow asshole. "Ryder prefers inner beauty. At least it doesn't decline with age or need periodic plastic surgery to maintain."
"Ah. You're probably right." He leans forward and looks at my wife. "Inner beauty. That is indeed important."
Doing my best to rein in my temper, I put down my utensils. I turn to face the annoying bastard fully, my tight fists on the table. "You have a point you'd like to make?" My nerves are frayed, and if the other man weren't so damn old, I would've knocked his teeth out by now, Elizabeth's function or not.
"Nothing, really." He eyes my fists uneasily. "It just seems odd … you and your brother marrying so quickly, back to back."
"Maybe true love found us back to back." I give him a hard stare. "What's odd is people being ungracious about others' good fortune."
The man flushes and turns away. He starts chatting with the woman seated on his other side, but I can sense he's talking about what I said about Ryder and Paige. Just what the hell gives him the right to question what Ryder and I do?
My wife excuses herself and leaves the table, her face pale and strained.