She didn’t know. She honestly didn’t.
What in the world had his agent said to him?
When the wedding ended and all the guests began heading for the expansive hotel ballroom, the site of the reception, he still didn’t offer much information.
“We have a possible offer, but there are things to negotiate.” He was holding her hand and walking slowly for her sake, but he didn’t look at her. “I hope to hear more soon.”
She would have asked for details, but the other wedding guests had finally noticed his presence, and a steady stream of fans and friends and Hollywood power brokers descended on him. Some offering seemingly sincere good wishes, others obviously looking for gossip.
He greeted them with a charming smile and kept her by his side in the ballroom, his thumb sweeping over her knuckles. But after all their time together, she recognized signs of his distraction.
His usual knife-edged humor had blunted, and he didn’t seem to notice the incredulous looks she received, or the way a handful of his admirers simply ignored her, even after he introduced her to them.
Normally, he’d make them pay for that. Which would cause a scene, so this was good.
Wasn’t it?
Another hour of schmoozing and occasional slights she swallowed in silence, and then the happy couple arrived, and everyone found their seats at the lavishly decorated tables. That was when the gorgeous bride—Stacia, apparently an award-winning actor on a sitcom Lauren had never seen—appeared nearby and tugged at Alex’s arm. He twisted toward her, startled.
“There’s room at the table next to mine for my favorite ex.” She offered a cheerful but unapologetic smile to the rest of the table. “Come up front, Alex.”
His face creased in a grin, he stood to gather her into an enthusiastic hug. “Congratulations, Stace. I couldn’t be happier for you.”
She hugged him back fiercely, then raised her brows in faux hauteur. “So are you going to rescue me from boring small talk or not?”
“Only if there’s a spot for Lauren too.” Alex slid a hand down Lauren’s lace-covered upper arm. “If not, I’ll keep enjoying the good company at this table.”
Stacia’s smile didn’t falter. “Lovely to meet you, Lauren. Of course there’s room for you both.”
No. No, that wasn’t happening. Not when that other table, given its prime position, would probably be full of Hollywood’s most beautiful and powerful people. If someone insulted her, Alex might emerge from his abstraction and ignite, and then they’d be positioned next to the head table, where everyone of importance could see and hear.
Whatever possible offer he’d received might be withdrawn.
It wasn’t happening again. Not if she could help it.
“You go on without me,” she told Alex, keeping her face placid. “My head is hurting a bit, and this area of the room is quieter.”
Probably. She had no idea, but it sounded plausible.
His brows slammed together, and he gently brushed his fingertips over her temple. “Wren—”
She edged away. “Go ahead. I could use some alone time for my headache.”
Poor Alex. He wasn’t happy about leaving her. But he didn’t want to disrupt a wedding by arguing in front of the bride, so he was stuck. Outmaneuvered, for once.
“Take some medicine.” He allowed himself to be guided across the room, but he was still staring at her over his shoulder. “I’ll be back to check on you, Lauren.”
She imagined he would.
Dinner arrived, and she quietly observed everyone in that old, familiar way as she ate. From a neutral distance. No longer part of the proceedings.
Once Alex had settled across the room, a few whispers from nearby tables reached her ears. I don’t understand how they’re connected and no way they’re actually dating and what do you think happened to her face?
When she was alone with Alex, she fit. They fit together. But his world wasn’t hers, and that obvious disconnection—in looks, in wealth, in personality—was always going to draw attention and elicit commentary. As a lifetime of experience had taught her, such commentary would often prove unflattering. And that—
That was going to cause problems for Alex. She was going to cause problems for Alex.
Maybe not tonight, given his distraction, but soon. Often. Inevitably.
“Excuse me.” A blond man with slicked-back hair bent low to speak to her, his voice quiet enough not to carry. “Lauren Clegg, correct?”
“Yes.” Folding her napkin neatly, she laid it next to her plate. “How may I help you?”