The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(61)

James looks mildly alarmed. Rather than risk saying more embarrassing and nonsensical things, I wave and start to walk away.

That’s when I step into a sci-fi movie. Or, at least, a sci-fi movie is the best explanation I can think of for what I see just across the lobby. It’s Dale … except not Dale. This is where the sci-fi part comes in, because the first leap my brain makes is that I’m looking at an alien in some kind of body-snatching scenario.

First of all, alien Dale is wearing tight jeans and a Henley—a HENLEY—with all the buttons open, revealing a sickly pale swath of his upper chest. When we were dating, Dale had exactly two looks. Work Dale, which meant a suit, complete with jacket and tie, and Casual Dale, which meant a polo tucked into jeans or khakis with a belt that matched his shoes. I didn’t think the man owned jeans or a Henley, a kind of shirt that acts like catnip to women—when worn correctly. I take a tiny bit of pleasure in the fact the shirt looks terrible on Dale.

Then there’s the woman with him, who must be the other woman he mentioned in our breakup conversation. She has waist-length chestnut hair and a dress that someone’s going to have to cut her out of at the end of the night. Based on the room keys in Dale’s hand, it’s going to be him.

I swallow, waiting to feel some kind of hurt or jealousy. Instead, I’m just perplexed. Dale doesn’t look like himself—or who he was with me—and this woman is certainly nothing like me on the surface.

She inspires so many questions. Like: is it hard for her to sit down without actually sitting ON her hair? And if she does accidentally sit on it, does it strain her neck? Also: is she part of a religious sect where hair-cutting isn’t a thing? Or is this a stylistic choice?

While I’m watching—because I couldn’t stop watching if I tried, just like with every Real Housewives franchise—she hitches her leg up over his hip in a way that does not scream religious sect and does scream yoga practice five times a week for flexibility.

Alien body snatchers aren’t really a thing. What about doppelg?ngers, like in The Vampire Diaries? Because, just like Dale never wore anything like what he’s got on now, he definitely never kissed me with that kind of passion or intensity. Or slobber. There is some serious wetness involved. Ew, ew, ew!

As though he feels me watching, Dale’s eyes fly open, his gaze landing directly on me. I swear I can hear the sound of their mouths pulling apart with a wet smack. Dale blinks, his mouth opening and closing like a caught fish.

There’s no need for this to be uncomfortable. Awkward, sure. But seeing him with another woman solidifies exactly how little of my heart he ever held.

I draw in a breath and start toward them. With every step closer, Dale looks slightly more ill. But I’m determined. Be mature. Be the bigger person. Get in, get out, then walk away.

They’re standing next to a potted plant which an alarming number of people have used as a place to deposit their chewed gum. It’s a perfect way to set the scene for this conversation.

“Winnie, hey,” Dale says, looking sheepish and apologetic and ridiculous in his Henley.

The woman with him, on the other hand, looks strangely ecstatic. Which I quickly realize is due to James, who is standing right behind me.

I tilt my head up, surprised he followed me over. His eyes, which I’m coming to realize are capable of expressing much more than grumpiness, are asking if I’m okay. I give a slight nod, and he steps forward, placing a hand on my lower back.

I could have done this alone. But it’s so much better feeling his warm palm through my shirt.

“I’m Celia,” the woman says, looking right through me as she holds out her hand to James.

He simply stares down at it like he’s never seen a hand before, then nods. Just nods. I love him for it.

Celia wilts a little, then wraps an arm around Dale’s waist, like she wasn’t just turning flirty doe-eyes on another man. I give her an awkward wave.

“I’m Winnie.”

Celia holds out her hand again, much less enthusiastically than she did to James. Unlike James, I shake her hand, which feels wilted and slightly damp, like a lukewarm cafeteria-style fish filet.

“I’m Dale’s ex. Not like a creepy stalker or still obsessed ex. A very peaceful, no-drama ex.”

I attempt to appear and sound nonthreatening. I’m not sure I succeeded based on Dale’s stricken expression and Celia’s narrowed eyes.

“I’m happy for you both,” I add, wiping off her fish filet handshake on my jeans.

This brightens Celia’s expression, and she beams at Dale, who seems to find the carpet especially fascinating. “Thank you,” Celia squeals, again holding out her hand.

Another handshake? What is her deal with handshaking?

But then I notice the very large, very sparkly ring on her finger. Her left ring finger. The diamond’s size falls somewhere between one carat and better-do-some-arm-exercises-to-hold-that-thing-up.

My entire body goes taut. James’s chest rumbles behind me. His hand slides from my back to my waist, gripping me like he thinks I’m going to launch an attack or maybe drop into a faint. I don’t particularly feel like doing either thing, but I settle back against him, needing the stable feel of his chest.

“Oh,” I say, fighting for normalcy. Why is my mouth suddenly the Sahara? “Congrats on the engagement.”

Celia laughs brightly, adjusting her hand so maximum sparkle levels are achieved by the angle. I swear a beam of light coming off it just pierced my retina.