even if this was her wedding. “Not at all. As long as you promise to return him soon.”
“Of course I will,” Caroline laughed. “Promise.”
“Save me another dance, my sweet. I’ll be right back.” Thom drew their fingers to his mouth and kissed her knuckles before he let his parents lead him away.
Elana turned in the opposite direction, relief surging through her as she realized her smile didn’t feel forced anymore. The tension headache that had threatened her earlier had eased considerably. As had that tight band of anxiety and unease that had gripped her for months now. The serious case of prewedding jitters had finally disappeared.
That certainly called for a celebration.
She saw Thom’s tuxedoed personal waiter heading for him with refreshments a second before her own personal waiter, drafted by her mother to serve only her, stopped in front of her with a single glass of champagne set on highly polished sterling silver tray.
Used to beautiful things as she was, Elana should’ve been blasé about the spectacular offer the waiter presented her with. But even she was awed right now as she paused for a moment to study the exquisite cut of the champagne glass and the four impressively large diamonds set within the eighteen-carat-gold stem, and the new name etched into the glass—Elana Marshall-Scott. Elana hadn’t officially decided on her name yet, but she liked how that looked. Decision made. Elana Marshall-Scott. That was now her. She smiled.
She knew how much the stunning piece of glassware cost after overhearing one of her bridesmaids gush over it. Even Elana had to admit she’d been impressed. She also knew there were two security guards dressed as wedding guests keeping an eye on this glass and other priceless pieces her mother had commissioned in order to give Elana the wedding of her dreams.
And it was a beautiful wedding.
That she could finally admit to the fact that she was married, and actually hadn’t ended up in the mental institution in the process of getting to the altar, sent another burst of relief through her.
Those weird moments during the ceremony with Thom’s interruption notwithstanding, everything had gone off without a hitch. She was well and truly, for better or for worse, hitched.
And for once, her mother’s smile was full of pride, with not a hint of the customary quiet despair in sight. In fact, most of the guests here were smiling approvingly.
Power players who used to treat her like an expensive but dumb ornament in the presence of her father, mother and brothers had actually stopped to talk to her like she was a human being with a functioning brain. Sure, it could be because this was her wedding and as guests they were obliged to acknowledge her, but Elana also knew that wouldn’t have stopped those who didn’t feel like acknowledging her if they didn’t want to.
A warm glow welled up within her. Had she stepped into a different class by getting herself respectable? Was this what if it felt like to be deemed responsible?
If so, she’d been an ass to worry so much because, seriously, it wasn’t too bad. In fact, she rather liked it.
She took a sip of her champagne, inhaling with a pleased inner smile. For once, she’d done something right.
She glanced around, basking in the rare moment of peace and quiet. About to raise her glass to take another sip, she paused when her gaze landed on Rafe.
He was seated alone at one of the tables reserved for Thom’s side of the family. The guests in question were on the dance floor, throwing serious shapes to a Bruno Mars number.
Her brother was half a room away from her, but even from that distance, she could tell he was shit-faced. Or making a concerted effort to get there.
She watched him jerk his head at waiter. Seconds later, a fresh bottle of Macallan M was placed before him.
Elana winced. She wasn’t so much worried that her brother was intent on drinking himself under the table with a bottle of whisky worth half a million dollars, more that he was doing it with a drink he’d professed to hate on many occasions. Rafe was strictly a tequila guy.
Making sure to keep the worried frown off her face, she started across the room, smiling her pleasant can’t-stop-to-chat smile at guests who tried to catch her eye.
She arrived in front of Rafe and stood for a good half minute before he raised his head.
He stared her up and down before he raised his glass to her. “My sister, the blushing bride,” he slurred. “No, wait.” He frowned and tilted his head. Or he tried a tilt that wobbled precariously. “You stopped blushing when you were twelve, if I recall. Right after you let Timmy Carson kiss you just so Luc and I would lose the bet that you would never let that acne-faced little twerp touch you in a million years.”
She winced. “Jesus, I could do without that memory. And keep your voice down, Rafe. I may not be your innocent little sister anymore, but I prefer you not air embarrassing stories about me at my own wedding.”
“Oh, you mean you’re actually capable of being embarrassed?” He hitched the glass to his lips and sucked down half its contents.
The words held no malice, but a tiny thread of anxiety fizzled through her anyway. Rafe had been acting odd lately. He’d said all the right words when she’d gotten engaged, and he’d been supportive in the months after. But last night something had changed. Was he not ecstatic about her marriage because he was in love with Thom? Fuck. Now was not the time, but she’d have to talk with him about this soon, get the truth, hope she’d read the look on his face wrong.
With a sigh, she skirted the table, made sure the train of her dress was tucked neatly to the side, and pulled out a chair and sat down beside him.
She set her champagne flute on the table, toying with the diamonds on the stem for a moment before she glanced at him. “Rafe, are you all right?”
Rafe paused for an infinitesimal second before he shrugged. “Sure. Why do you ask?”
“You’re drinking a lot these days. I’m worried about you. Why else would I ask?” she demanded.
“Fuck if I know,” he mumbled, staring into the dregs in his glass. “Maybe you want to pass the time?”
“Or maybe I’m finding it odd that you hate whisky and yet you’re throwing it back by the mouthful?”
“You have nothing better to do at your wedding reception than spy on your big brother, sis?”
Again there was no malice, only a haunting melancholy.
“Is this about Dad? You’re drinking his favorite drink, after all,” she said.
His mouth twisted in a mockery of a smile. “Yeah. Sure. It’s about Dad. Everything’s about dear old Dad these days, isn’t it?” This time there was a touch of bitterness in his voice.
The frown she’d tried to stop before threatened to break through. “Rafe—”
“Do you remember the time we took his Porsche out for a joyride and came back to find he’d called the cops because he thought it’d been stolen?” His chuckle was a little forced.
Elana allowed herself to be
