“No.” His nostrils flared and he glared at her. “I’ve been me with you this week. That’s who I really am. That wasn’t a lie.”
“The man I fell in love with wouldn’t hurt women. He treats me like gold,” she said softly. “I loved the man who was kind and gentle to me, who held my hand and rescued me from creeps. Not the man who hires the creeps.”
“Marjorie, please.” He grasped her hand in his, pulled it to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “I adore you. I adore everything about you. I’ve never met someone like you and I can’t wait to spend every minute with you. Give me another chance. Let me redeem myself in your eyes. Please. I want you with me. When I go back to California, I want you to come with me and give me another chance. I can change.”
Her heart was breaking at the pain in his handsome face, his smoky green eyes. How many times had she dreamed of having a man tell her that he loved her and wanted her? And how was it that Rob—who was so perfect for her in so many ways and made her feel so cherished and loved—could turn out to be so awful underneath? She felt utterly betrayed, and stupid . . .
And she just hurt, from head to toe. Her heart hurt the worst. “I can’t, Rob.”
“I don’t want to lose you. How much is Brontë going to pay you? I’ll double it. No, I’ll triple it. You can be my assistant. Two of mine are fucking idiots anyhow.”
She reluctantly pulled her hand from his, wanting to weep at how her body still wanted him even though her heart felt torn asunder. “I’m sorry, Rob. I have a rehearsal dinner to get to.”
“Marjorie, please.”
She shook her head. “Just . . . just leave me alone, okay?”
As she walked away on wobbly feet, she kept expecting him to come after her. She looked back, once, and saw Rob still sitting at the bench, a haunted expression on his face.
He could beg her to forgive him as nicely as he wanted, but in the end, she didn’t trust him. She didn’t know the real Rob. Did the real Rob go on moonlit swims with tall girls and take them out for ice cream simply because they wanted to spend time together? Did the real Rob want to impress a girl so much that he wore a sweater-vest and took her to bingo? Or was the real Rob a manipulator who wore a million faces and would say whatever she wanted to hear just so he could get into the wedding?
She felt sick.
Chapter Twenty-two
The reception dinner was lovely. Despite the fact that Marjorie sat alone, the seat next to her uncomfortably empty, her friends did their best to make her feel wanted and happy. She’d never felt more loved by her friends . . .
Which was ironic, because all she wanted to do was run up to her room and have a good crying session. She couldn’t, though, because she didn’t want to ruin Brontë’s happiness. So she smiled and acted like she was fine. She laughed and chatted and shook hands, and gave her small, shaky little speech at the rehearsal dinner. Her smile felt pasted on¸ but if anyone noticed her stiff, frozen look, they kept it to themselves.
And afterward, when all the women piled into several limos and headed out for the official bachelorette party, Marjorie was amongst them, doing her best to have fun. Somehow, she found a seat in the limo next to Brontë, who hugged her and didn’t say anything.
And Marjorie hugged her back, tears threatening.
They were quiet in each other’s arms for a long moment while the others chatted and drank around them. Then, Brontë leaned into Marjorie’s ear.
“I just want you to know,” she whispered, “That the manager told Logan that Mr. Cannon and his people—all of them—left the hotel earlier. You don’t have to worry about seeing any of them again.”
“Thank you,” Marjorie murmured woodenly. She knew Brontë was trying to make her feel better. And she supposed it should have made her feel better. Any more awkward confrontations were no longer something she had to worry about.
But she wasn’t any fun at the bachelorette party, and she ended up sitting at one of the back tables with pregnant Audrey, sipping water and listening halfheartedly to the other woman’s baby plans.
When she finally got back to her hotel room at three in the morning, she fell into bed and tucked her hands under her pillow . . .
Only to find one of Rob’s shirts. She’d slept in it last night and had worn it this morning to return to her room. It was a soft gray t-shirt, and when she put it to her nose, it smelled like sex and sweat and Rob.
Marjorie buried her face in it and burst into tears.
***
A wedding was no place for someone with a freshly broken heart, so Marjorie did the best she could to hide her misery. The good thing was that she never had a moment to herself. From the time she woke up the next morning, she was part of the wedding whirlwind. The bridesmaids had breakfast together again, and gifts were exchanged with the teary—but radiant—bride. Then, the women had hair and makeup done, last-minute fittings and stitchings into their gowns, and then they all took a limo to the far side of the island, where a massive white tent had been erected to shelter the wedding party as the others arrived for the outdoor wedding. The wedding itself would take place on a white pier built especially for the ceremony, with tiers of steps for the bridesmaids to stand on. A cobblestone path had been created through the sand and smoothed over for the high heels of the women, and the chairs for the guests were carved wooden benches placed in the sand with white and red umbrellas dotting the aisles.
It was a mixture of beach, extravagance, and wedding finery, and Marjorie had never seen anything like it. And yet, somehow, it fit Brontë and Logan perfectly.