Most Valuable Playboy (Ballers and Babes #1)

Chapter 1 Katie

Chapter 1

Katie

I wasn’t one of those girls who imagined her wedding day from the time she was small.

Or at any time.

I didn’t fantasize about walking down the aisle and into the arms of the Prince Charming of my dreams.

No way.

For one, I was agnostic about the existence of Prince Charming. And two, I was emphatically atheistic about princesses.

Didn’t believe in being one, acting like one, or becoming one.

When I was growing up, my dreams were pragmatic—make friends, be awesome, and kick unholy ass.

I blame my dad.

He instilled in me a belief that I could do anything I set out to if I used my brain and heart.

Getting married was never on my vision board.

But today I am that person.

It’s my wedding day, and I just can’t wait to say I do . Hell, I’ve been floating on air since Silvio proposed four months ago, after two mere months of dating.

“Fair warning. You three are going to have to stop me from running across the lawn and into Silvio’s arms,” I say to my crew as we get ready, my hairstylist working on my updo.

“Ah, so you’re going to be one of those brides,” Emerson quips as she fishes in her makeup bag in the suite at the Legion of Honor, where I’ll be doing the aforementioned forty-yard dash into my tall, dark, and handsome groom’s arms.

I smile, owning it. “Yup. It’s going to be so cheesy, but so romantic, and none of you will be able to stop me. In fact, you’ll all melt into puddles of swoon,” I say.

Ever so briefly, a memory rushes over me.

A pint of Swoon.

But I push away the imaginary ice cream flavor. It’s bad form to think of past men on your wedding day, even for a second. And why would I when my main man might as well have stepped straight out of Central Casting and into the role of my Romeo?

My heart flutters.

I’m getting married.

The girl who never fantasized about dresses or I dos is ready to skip to her guy in about an hour.

Hold me back, world.

As my stylist clips the sides of my hair into a silver barrette, I can’t stop smiling stupidly at my reflection in the mirror. Karissa surveys my peeps—Jillian is perched on the couch; my sister, Olive, sits on the desk; and Emerson stands next to her, still sorting through a makeup bag. Skyler ran out to refill a water bottle but she should be back soon.

“Say the word, and I’ll arm wrestle Katie till she stops waxing on about her groom,” Karissa says to my friends.

Jillian taps her chin, deep in thought. “I’m tempted simply because of the arm-wrestling match.”

I pinch Karissa’s toned biceps. “She’d win. She’s got Gal Gadot arms.”

“I moonlight as Wonder Woman,” Karissa says as she runs a flat iron over one of my blonde curls. My hair has darkened a bit over the years. It was bright blonde when I was younger, golden in my twenties, and now it’s heading into a dark blonde palette. Seems fitting—I still feel perky and bold, but stronger, surer of myself, and maybe a touch more vulnerable too. Time has done its thing. So, letting my natural color shine through fits who I’ve become in my mid-thirties and who I want to keep being—the best me possible.

“But seriously, I am so happy for you I could cry rainbows,” Karissa says as she squeezes my shoulder. “You’re going to be the most gorgeous bride in all of San Francisco. I swear, Silvio won’t know what hit him.”

“I don’t know what hit me. ” I lean back in the chair, catching Emerson’s knowing look as our eyes meet in the mirror.

“What hit you is a smoking-hot Italian artist who’s a real-life Romeo,” my good friend says. Her smile tells me she’s thrilled for me. She has been since he swept me off my feet the night I met him—New Year’s Eve.

Jillian straightens her shoulders, tucking strands of silky black hair over her ear. “And who treats you like the goddess you are.”

“And who’s almost too good to be true,” Olive chimes in as she ties a bow around a bouquet of sunflowers. She holds it up for praise. “What do you think? Maybe if the whole numbers thing doesn’t work out, I could become a florist.”

“Hey! Don’t panic the bride on her wedding day,” I say, only part joking. “I need my numbers wunderkind.”

“I would never abandon Sassy Yoga,” she replies and ties the twine in a bow just so. She can’t help herself. She has a penchant for crafts. “But if I was to start a floristry side hustle, I would never sell sunflowers. They kind of stink.”

“Mom begged me to have them,” I say with a shrug. “She said they’d be perfect, and pretty much got down on her hands and knees. It was easier to let her have her way than to argue. I’m not a big flower person, anyway.”

“You’re a tiger lily,” Emerson announces. “That’s what you should have.”

“Thanks. I’ll have tiger lilies at my next wedding,” I deadpan.

Emerson crosses the suite, stops in front of Jillian, then swipes the brush down my college bestie’s nose. Emerson taught herself classy wedding makeup through YouTube tutorials. No surprise—she loves YouTube.

And I love my friends.

This is my dream come true. A pack of women. Good friends through thick and thin.

“I’m so glad you’re all here,” I tell them, love and happiness rising to bring a shine to my eyes.

“You say that like we’d be anyplace else,” Olive quips, adding a ta-da when she finishes another bow.

“Well, you have to be here. You’re family,” I say to her.

“So’s Mom, technically, but I’d say she doesn’t have to be here.” Olive laughs drily.

“C’mon, you know she can’t resist a wedding,” I tease.

“Who can’t?”

I tense everywhere as my mom’s voice carries across the suite. Is she a freaking cat? I didn’t even hear her enter. But now she saunters in, head held high, clasping a pretty white ribbon and a garment bag, which I presume holds her mother-of-the-bride dress.

I hope she didn’t hear me. She’ll go full drama llama, tears and all.

“No single she in the universe can resist a wedding.” Olive jumps in, and I could kiss her for taking that grenade for me. If my mom knew I’d thrown shade on her love of weddings, she’d fling a hand on her chest, fall to the floor in a fit of tears, and demand to know what she’d done wrong.

I can’t. Not today.

She hangs the garment bag on the hook on the door. “I love weddings. I just do,” Mom says, with a dramatic sigh, and maybe she’s why I never imagined my own nuptials growing up. I witnessed too many of hers.

But this is not the day to think about her four failed marriages.

Today I will zoom in on my one marriage, and the only wedding I plan to have.

My mom crosses the carpeted floor, her dyed red hair styled in a stunning updo, clearly professionally done. She flicks a hand lightly against a few wisps, drawing attention, silently fishing for compliments.

“You look great,” I assure her.

“Thanks. The mother of the bride should look stunning.”

Olive rolls her eyes.

“But do you think I should add this white ribbon to my hair?” she asks.

“No. White is for the bride, Mom,” Olive answers.

Mom ignores her, then parks her hands on my shoulders and plants a kiss on the top of my head. Karissa snaps her gaze up from the front of my hair. “Careful, there. Don’t want to knock a hair out of place. Just let me finish.”

Mom pulls away, scoffing. “I didn’t mess it up. I just gave her a kiss.”

Karissa shoots Mom a sympathetic smile. “Of course you didn’t mess it up. But we want the bride’s hair to be fabulous.”

“Her hair looks perfect,” my mom says, bristling, as Karissa silently returns to her work.

The suite goes quiet. Too quiet.

My friends know not to argue with someone who’s always right.

But my mother can slice through any silence with her voice. “Anyway, let me know what else I can do as the mother of the bride,” she says to the room. Then to me in the mirror, she adds, “Since, apparently, I can’t give you away.”

Again? We’re doing this again ? “Because no one is giving me away,” I say calmly. I’m opting out of some rituals. “Just like I don’t have a dowry. Just like we both have engagement rings.”

“And I disagree. Your father and I should give you away. Wouldn’t that be fair? Aren’t you a feminist?” Mom asks, like feminist is the equivalent of a nose-picker.

But I won’t take her bait.

“Sometimes I am. Mostly on Wednesdays. On Wednesdays, we smash the patriarchy,” I say with a shrug.

Olive snickers.

Jillian reins in a laugh.

Emerson just smiles.

“But it’s Saturday,” my mother points out, flummoxed.

I sigh. “I know. It’s a saying. My point is this is what I want.” I won’t let her win this battle. This is her tenth time trying. “I’m paying for the wedding myself. No one is giving me away. I’m an independent woman. I’m good with this, Mom. The only thing I want that I didn’t get is axe-throwing at the reception.”

She scoffs at me. “Who would do axe-throwing at her wedding?”

“Who wouldn’t? It’s crazy fun.” I had suggested it to Silvio for the reception, but he politely declined. He also politely declined my suggestion that we have a small wedding by the Pacific Ocean, then do bowling and sushi with our closest friends. But hey, I can’t complain about the Legion of Honor and champagne. Or a honeymoon in Dublin, visiting the countryside to take pics, rather than Kauai doing an adventure tour.

“I doubt it’s that enjoyable,” Mom says about the axe-throwing.

“We’ll go do it together sometime, Mom,” I offer as an olive branch. I’m in the mood to spread love, not spew snide. “I swear, you’ll enjoy it more than giving me away.”

“Fine. Don’t let me give you away. I’ll survive,” Mom says as Karissa runs a brush down my bangs, giving them a wispy look. “But I ask you this, darling—are you one hundred percent sure you want to marry Silvio?”

I flinch and hold up a hand to ask Karissa to stop. Then I turn around in the chair, eyeing the redhead who raised me. “Why are you asking this now?”

Olive wheels around from setting the smelly sunflowers on a table. “Yes, Mom. Why?”

My mother squares her shoulders. “It’s important to be certain. Isn’t that what you two preach in your yoga practice?” She gestures from Olive to me and back.

I answer in a rush. “It’s not a religion. We don’t preach it. Also, our brand is yoga that doesn’t take itself too seriously.” There Mom goes again, winding me up, getting me off-topic. “But why are you asking if I’m certain about Silvio?”

Her question irks me. Earlier this year, I’d asked myself plenty of times if he was the one, but that’s normal—it’s smart to make sure you’re making the right choice. I asked myself over and over if yoga was the right business for me before I launched my company. Natch, I’d do the same for marriage.

My mom scans my crew. “Do your friends think it makes sense to marry him?”

Ugh. Now she’s trying to throw me off via my friends?

Jillian cuts in firmly, handling Mom like she handles an out-of-line question from an unruly press gaggle. “We think Silvio is great.”

“We were just talking about what a sweetie he is,” Emerson adds. “How well he treats Katie.”

Skyler strides back into the suite at the tail end of that, water bottle filled and eyes curious.

My mom’s lips curve down. “Does he, though? Does he treat you how you deserve to be treated, honey?” She squeezes my shoulder again.

What is going on? Why the frick is my mother trying to dissuade me from getting married an hour before the ceremony?

“I don’t understand why you’re asking,” I say. Maybe my wedding reminds her of her own marital belly flops, the quartet of I dos that didn’t work out.

With a worried sigh, my mother clasps her hands, her fingers fidgety. “I’m concerned. That’s normal. It seems like it’s all happening too quickly. It seems like you might not really know him that well. Or yourself.”

What the hell? Just because we had a whirlwind courtship doesn’t mean I don’t know him well. I met him at a restaurant when our reservations were mixed up, and we dated for two months before he proposed.

Do I know him well?

As well as I need to.

I don’t believe you need to spend years with someone before you walk down the aisle.

Sometimes love happens quickly, even if you don’t like the same music, food, or wine.

Who cares about that stuff?

“That’s not an issue, Mom. I know he gives excellent foot rubs, he loves to snuggle, and he’ll probably take at least ten minutes to tie his bow tie even though he’s been watching YouTube tutorials for a week. His favorite book is The Little Prince , he loses track of time when he works on his murals, but he showers me with kisses when he comes home from his studio. And I feel like I know myself even better too, now that I’m thirty-five. I trust my instincts. I would love it if you would trust me too.”

By the end, my throat has tightened like a noose squeezing my neck, and tears sting my eyes but don’t fall. I can’t believe she’s doing this to me on my wedding day. Maybe this is another reason why I never imagined a wedding as a kid—because she’d find a way to ruin it with an ill-timed warning.

But screw it.

I’m not going to let her.

I suck in the threat of tears, swallow them down, and raise my chin. “I love Silvio and he loves me, but I appreciate your concern.”

“If you say so,” Mom says, letting the words hang in the air like a cloying, passive-aggressive-scented air freshener.

My friends step in like superheroes. Olive grabs my mother’s hand and escorts her out of the suite, and Jillian swoops in with a tissue. “Don’t let her get to you on your wedding day, or any day ever. She wants to be the center of attention, so she’s looking to make it all about her.”

I take the tissue and dab my cheek, but I don’t think a tear sneaked out. Ha. Take that, Mom.

“Coffee, yoga, and wine, coffee, yoga, and wine,” I say, repeating one of my favorite mantras as Olive returns, shutting the door loudly behind her.

“And tonight, there will be wine,” Olive declares.

Cheers erupt, and we sing an impromptu homage to wine.

That gets my mother out of my system.

When we’re done, Emerson sweeps a tinge more mascara on my lashes, I slide on some lip gloss, and Karissa declares my hair is fabulous. Skyler offers me a sip from the water bottle, but I decline.

“You’re ready,” Olive says.

I am so damn ready.

I look in the mirror, draw a deep breath, and catalogue the woman I see. Bold, honest, strong, outgoing. The dress is my best me too. A chiffon A-line, it swishes around my ankles, with cap sleeves showing off my arms. It’s simple, white, classy.

We’ll exchange our vows at five against the backdrop of the ocean and the Golden Gate Bridge, then we’ll head into the art museum for a reception, surrounded by more than seventy Rodins in the galleries.

No axe-throwing, but hey, I like art too, so it’s all good.

A deep, fortifying breath lets me put my mother all the way behind me.

Time to go.

My friends and I make our way through the Legion of Honor toward the lawn. But nature calls, and the last thing I want is to think about peeing while I’m saying my vows.

“Let me just pop into the ladies’ room,” I say to the bridesmaids when I spot the restroom.

Emerson slashes an arm in front of me like a human stop sign. “That one is too close to where the men are getting ready.” She turns me by my shoulders and ushers me down the hall the other way.

“We definitely don’t want to bump into them. Whatever would we do?” I ask in exaggerated horror. “You superstitious creature.”

She shrugs impishly. “I am what I am.”

“I’m not worried if I see him before the wedding. I don’t believe in all that stuff,” I say, as we reach the other restroom.

I stop with my hand on the door because faint voices carry from the end of the hall.

A man and a woman.

Sounding…worried.

They’re familiar, but muffled, so I strain to make them out.

“I tried,” the woman whispers.

“Of course you did,” the man says, gentle, caring.

Ohhh.

That’s definitely a voice I know.

I swallow roughly, trying to understand what they’re talking about.

Emerson asks me questions with her eyes, and I bring my finger to my lips.

Gathering up the skirt of my dress, I pad as silently as possible to the corner, where I can hear more easily.

“So what now?” the woman whispers.

“There’s only one thing to do,” he says.

The rustle of clothes. The sound of lips touching lips.

My skin crawls.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

All the breath flees my lungs when I peek around the corner for confirmation.

It’s twenty minutes before my wedding, and the man who’s supposed to become my husband is kissing another woman.