Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Marley
Three months prior
Noah and his wife, Madi, are made for each other.
As they exchange their personally written vows, there’s not a dry eye in the entire place.
Well, except for the grumpy grinch of a boss sitting stiffly in the corner, looking like he’s attending out of obligation rather than joy.
He’s either glued to his phone, probably firing another assistant if Noah’s stories are anything to go by, or using that scowl to booty call some flawless model.
He seems like the type to either run from relationships or run through them.
The evening progresses, the sun dipping below the horizon, as people make their way to the dance floor.
Lights flashing, bass pounding low as it rattles the floor.
We eat cake and bawl into our cocktails, as the two newlyweds look unapologetically in love during their first dance.
The DJ’s voice crackles through the echoey microphone, announcing it’s time for all the single women to line up for the bouquet toss.
Game. Freaking. On.
I have no idea why this weird tradition still exists, but that doesn’t mean I’m sitting it out. I thrive on competition, and one that involves flowers, laughter, and a little elbow-jabbing chaos? Absolutely my kind of event.
From the balcony, Madi leans over, her dress hiked in one hand. “You ready, ladies?” she calls down to the twenty of us lined up below.
I lock my eyes on the bouquet of pale pink peonies, knees bent, barefoot, and poised for action.
The second it’s airborne, there’s a mad scramble among the select few of us who are way too enthusiastic about this.
But I’ve got the advantage. Between a well-timed leap and my long arms, I snatch the bouquet right out of the air.
Holding the flowers above my head like a trophy, I break into a triumphant little victory dance.
Completely sober and utterly unashamed, I milk every second of the moment, making a total fool of myself.
Polite claps ripple through the crowd, but they’re barely paying attention as I cap it all off with a dramatic bow, almost tripping over my own feet in the process.
For the next two minutes, I try to ignore my cousin making a spectacle of himself as he takes Madi’s garter off with his teeth. By the looks of what I saw though, showmanship must run in our family.
As soon as his little performance ends, Noah hollers for the single men, who trickle onto the dance floor.
A few of them throw winks my way, cracking overconfident jokes about how “they’ll see me soon” or “we’ll be next down the aisle” once they catch the garter.
Just like that, they’re off my list of potential hookups.
I don’t do arrogant men. If I wanted cockiness, I’d buy a fucking rooster.
As I take a seat, I spot him, grumpy boss man, two tables over and still planted in the same Chiavari chair he’s been in all evening.
Those unfairly gorgeous lips, wasted on someone so perpetually scowling, curl downward as he watches the spectacle with disdain.
His long legs stretch out, arms crossed, leaning back like he’s above it all.
Like the fifteen or so men out there on the dance floor are ants, and he’s their disinterested king.
Maybe he really thinks that, or maybe I’m assuming it because he looks the part.
He’s handsome to the point of being painful to look at, yet so stoic it’s unnerving.
Noah slingshots the lacy garter across the room. It arcs over dozens of outstretched hands before landing with pinpoint accuracy, right into his boss’s lap.
The man freezes, his expression caught somewhere between shock and utter disgust. He picks it up with the tips of two fingers, as if the garter is made of toxic waste, and places it down on the table beside him.
From across the room, a clueless Noah bellows, “Yeah, Theo! You got it, man.”
The wedding photographer waves me over frantically, urging me to stand directly next to the man now known as Theo. He rises from his chair, and it feels like he just keeps going, his height almost comically absurd. I imagine it must be exhausting having so far to travel simply to stand up.
The red-faced photographer grins as she adjusts her camera, instructing “the two winners” how to pose.
Theo buttons his suit jacket with one hand, his eyes dropping down to meet mine.
I plaster on a smile, hoping it hides how my heart is pounding from standing this close in proximity to him. There’s something unnervingly intense about the way he looks at me.
“Hi,” I say, glancing up at him before quickly looking away.
He doesn’t bother replying. The only sign he hasn’t turned into a literal statue is the subtle tick of his jaw as he looks forward again.
“Okay, on the count of three. Big smiles!” the photographer chirps.
Clearly, she has no idea who she’s dealing with.
I’m practically the embodiment of a smile.
Always smiling so much that I look like an advertisement for toothpaste.
Theo, on the other hand, is the polar opposite.
Not only another side-of-the-planet kind of opposite, more like different solar systems entirely.
At the last second, I panic and throw my arms into the air like I’m leading a cheer. Why? I’ll never know. Even as a dancer, I have no idea where to put my arms for a picture. The camera clicks rapidly, capturing my over-the-top enthusiasm and the utterly unimpressed man standing stiffly beside me.
The photographer glances at her camera screen and beams. “Oh my. Don’t you two look gorgeous together?” she gushes, completely oblivious to the contrast between us, before rushing off to snap photos of the bride and groom’s cutting of the cake.
From beside me, I can feel Theo’s silent judgment radiating in my direction.
I could cut the tension with a knife. Not the good kind of tension you read about or watch on TV. This is the kind where you get the distinct feeling someone wouldn’t mind if you spontaneously combusted.
Normally, I always know what to say in situations like this. But right now, I’m completely thrown off by the sheer awkwardness of standing next to someone who looks like he’d rather die than share air with me.
In a desperate attempt to lighten the mood, I blurt out, “So, what happens now? Are we supposed to bang? Elope?”
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m talking purely for the sake of talking. I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Now I’m not any better than the men I was judging for throwing the same joke my way moments before.
He stiffens, his jaw working as if he’s debating something internally. Then, with a heavy exhale, he turns on his heel and strides straight out the exit without a single word.
I stand there, pretending I don’t care. I do though.
It’s his particular brand of grump that perturbs me. Icy, condescending, and too expensive smelling for his own good.
The only silver lining is that I’ll never have to see him again.