Reese got an idea, it was nearly impossible to change her mind. She was a peacekeeper, a smoother-outer, the perfect hostess who wanted everyone to participate and have a good time. Reese had been born on the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon line; for a Yankee, she could channel a Southern matriarch with the best of them. Marnie could give in gracefully now or be politely and lovingly badgered to death.
“Fine.” She took a long swallow from her glass and stood. Dylan, wearing a look that might have been boredom or annoyance—it was really hard to tell which—pushed to his feet, as well. Talk about rude...
“Excellent.” Reese smiled as Mason pulled her back into his arms.
Marnie let Dylan lead her to the dance floor, his hand at the small of her back, and she caught at least one or two jealous looks being shot her way by other women. She totally understood why. Dylan Brookes was smart, successful and handsome, and the news he was back on the “eligible bachelor” list had brought a cheer to the lips of nearly every unmarried woman in the city looking to marry well.
Dylan looked every inch the Park Avenue aristocrat he was—which seemed a ridiculous contrast to the all-American frat-boy good looks of his best friend, Tuck. He radiated a suaveness, like he belonged in a tuxedo drinking dirty martinis at swanky events. Even tonight, with his dark hair slightly mussed, collar open and shirtsleeves rolled up over tanned forearms, the adjective that sprang to mind was “debonair.”
Her departed mother might be mollified now, as Dylan Brookes—the smart, rich, well-connected and respected attorney and philanthropist—was exactly the kind of man Miss Marnie Suellen Price, the only daughter of Marshall and Alma Price—God rest their souls—of Savannah, Georgia, was supposed to dance with.
And she hadn’t danced with that kind of man—intentionally—in over five years.
She knew Dylan’s type—she’d grown up surrounded by men just like him. Well-bred, well-read, and well-groomed, raised with every perk money could provide and trained to step right into their daddies’ shoes and run the world. Bloodless, boring, and usually arrogant, but disguised under a thousand-dollar suit.
But she’d suck it up for one dance.
Dylan took her right hand in his, placed his other at her waist, and they moved gently to the music, both of them staring off into the distance.
God, this was worse than junior prom. A good foot of space separated their bodies. She bit her lip to hold back the snicker as the memory flooded back. Peter Stevenson, son of Savannah’s mayor and the young man lucky enough to win the Price family seal of approval as a proper escort, had had sweaty palms. Looking back, it may have been the first time he’d ever actually laid hands on a girl. They’d kept that respectable distance between them all night—up to and including the chaste and proper good-night handshake on her front porch. And she’d been both satisfied and pleased, convinced it was proof Peter respected her.
Even now, she could still hear Gina’s bark of laughter at the recounting of that story, and her sincere judgment of “How very pathetic.” Even after everything that happened, Marnie had always been thankful to Gina for opening her naive eighteen-year-old eyes to the real world.
“What’s so funny?” Dylan’s question caused her to jump and brought her back to the present.
Her cotillion instructor would be horrified to know that she was neglecting the most basic rules of etiquette by ignoring her dance partner. But since she doubted Dylan would be happy to hear himself compared to her nervous seventeen-year-old prom date, she rapidly searched her mind for something appropriate to say.
She’d met Dylan a few times in social situations after he and Reese moved from coworkers to couple—their engagement party, that Thanksgiving she’d had lunch at Reese’s parents’ house—but she’d never really spent much time talking to him. She knew all about his career achievements, giving her a specific picture of Dylan, and she’d always been a little sad Reese had engaged herself to someone so dry, staid, and frankly unexciting. And if there was more to him—a hidden fire, exciting depths—Reese had never shared that information. Reese was just so private about things that there hadn’t been much girl talk deconstructing their relationship during their infrequent lunches in the city.
So while she kind of knew Dylan, she couldn’t say that she knew him well. And what she did know wasn’t all that helpful at the moment.
The obvious seemed the safest conversational course. “Just thinking what an odd couple Cassie and Tuck are, but yet they’re so happy together.”
Dylan nodded. “You ladies did a good job with this party. I know they both appreciate it.”
She grabbed the conversational rope gratefully. “Tuck...yes, and Cassie wouldn’t care unless Tuck did. We just couldn’t let her get married without some kind of celebration. It just seems wrong not to. It’s one thing not to have the big white wedding, but just a run to the courthouse wasn’t nearly enough.”
Dylan nodded, and that topic was finished. How long is this song?
She laughed. “It just seems like I’ve been neck-deep in weddings since June...”
“I know the feeling. I’m rather tired of them myself.”
Damn it. I shouldn’t have brought that up. “My apologies. That must be a sore topic.”
Dylan shrugged. “Not really.”
Her curiosity got the better of her manners. “Does it not bother you?”
“Does what bother me?”
“Being around Reese. Seeing her with someone else like that.” Seeing Reese so openly cuddly with Mason made Marnie realize that she’d never really seen Reese act openly affectionate toward Dylan when they were engaged—nor vice versa. Reese and Dylan had made a good-looking pair, but it would be a stretch to call them a “couple” based on their behavior.
“I’m not a huge fan of witnessing large amounts of PDA from anyone, but beyond that, no.”
Maybe that explained the lack of showy affection between them when they were together. “Well, you’ve been very understanding and decent about it.”
His eyebrows went up. “There was another option?”
She tried to picture Dylan in a jealous rage or even a mopey lovelorn depression. Neither image worked. “I guess not.”
“We’re friends and I wish her well. I just hope she’s not making the same mistake twice—”
It was rude to interrupt, but... “You think Reese and Mason are a mistake?”
“For her sake, I hope not. But the odds aren’t good.”
She rushed to defend Reese. “I’d say that after all they’ve been through, their odds are pretty damn good. They love each other—”
Dylan actually snorted.
“What? It’s true.”
“Yes, and love is probably the worst reason there is to get married.”
That threw her off her game. “What other reason is there?”
“You’re a romantic.” His tone clearly said he saw that as a fault.
That wasn’t entirely true. She had no starry-eyed misconceptions about the realities of relationships, but to just dismiss love outright? “For thinking love is a good reason to get married?”
“Love is ephemeral. Good marriages need a stronger foundation than that for a solid and successful partnership.”
Ugh. She’d heard variations of that before. But even being taught that marriage was about creating a strong family foundation—usually with the wife playing the helpmate to her husband—love was still at least given lip service in the equation. “So you think that Mason and Reese won’t have a solid and successful partnership? Simply because they’re in love?”
“Would