I say nothing in response. It’s as if I’ve lost all ability to speak.

“Or it could just be a night of harmless flirting and that’s it,” he continues. “Never to see each other again. What do you say?”

I gape at him, at a complete loss for words. Oh God.

What do I say?

Eight

Isaac

I wait on pins and needles for Amelia to say something, worried she’s going to tell me to fuck off, yet hopeful she’s going to agree with me. Doesn’t help, that she’s sitting so close and smelling so good, looking at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. Her glossy lips are parted, and I can practically see the cogs turning in her brain.

Should she? Or shouldn’t she? That’s the debate going on in her head.

“I don’t know—” she starts, but her words are cut off.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the couple we’re here celebrating tonight, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan!” the DJ roars into his mic.

Everyone applauds their approval as Charlie and Candice make their way to the center of the dancefloor hand in hand. Charlie lifts his hand in greeting. Candice grins and waves her bouquet back and forth above her head, right before she rises up and Charlie bends his head down, their lips meeting in a lingering kiss.

A collective “aww” rises from the crowd, including Amelia, who’s currently resting her hand against her chest.

I’m grateful for the DJ’s announcement. I think she was about to turn me down. This delay could work in my favor. Maybe I should reel back the compliments. But like I said, when am I ever going to get the chance to shoot my shot with Miss Amelia Lee? I will probably never see her again unless I make a reappearance in her family’s jewelry store, and then she’ll just think I’m a nuisance. Or worse, a stalker.

Yeah. No. Tonight, right now, this is it.

“They look so happy,” Amelia says on a sigh.

“They do,” I agree, not looking at the happily married couple at all. Instead, my gaze lingers on Amelia’s pretty face. Her red, glossy mouth is twisting me up inside, and I normally don’t go for that sort of thing. I don’t normally go for classy, older-than-me-by-five-years women either, so I guess tonight is a night full of surprises.

Once Charlie and Candice appear, the reception is on. Within minutes of the wedding party being seated, servers appear in the tent, wielding giant trays covered with salad plates. We’re served almost immediately, and I excuse myself to grab a beer and another drink for Amelia, because I’m a gentleman like that.

“Where you sitting at, Jonesie?” asks Dave, one of the tree farm managers, who’s standing in line at the bar as well. “Did you bring a date?”

I make a face. I really hate that they still call me Jonesie. It’s a habit I haven’t been able to get them to break, no matter how hard I try. “I’m a single man tonight,” I tell him. “And I’m at table eight.”