“The reception is over,” he said.
Brittany gaped at him. “What? You can’t be serious. There are three hundred people here.”
“So?”
“My parents paid for this.”
“That doesn’t buy you the right to put your hands on my mother.”
She insisted she had not pushed me. Her mother begged to discuss it privately, because people were filming. Noah only shook his head. “You were comfortable letting it happen in front of guests.”
A nurse from the crowd checked my wrist — nothing broken, just pain and swelling. And then the photographer approached me, his camera hanging against his chest, looking miserable. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Carter,” he said. “I did take one picture before everything happened.”