Chapter 15 Annabelle
Annabelle
Never have I ever crashed a wedding.
Seriously. Never. Not once.
And I say that as a wedding planner who has seen it all. Lost rings. Drunk uncles. One memorable case of a flower girl projectile vomiting mid-processional. But the one thing that sets my teeth on edge? Wedding crashers.
They are always the same. Tipsy. Entitled.
Showing up for the free drinks and cake with no regard for the hours and hours of work that go into every single detail.
The seating charts. The favors. The late-night texts from brides stressing about their mothers and bridesmaids being difficult.
It is my job to make the most important day of someone’s life seamless—and nothing ruins a seamless day like unexpected guests sneaking in from the sidelines.
Which makes it ironic as hell that I am here.
But the blue satin fits like it was made for me. My hair is twisted into a sleek bun. And Maverick? Maverick is trouble in a fitted white shirt, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and with the confidence of a guy who has never been caught sneaking anywhere.
“Okay,” I hiss, tugging him slightly off the main gravel path and into the shadows of a row of hydrangeas. “We need a plan.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Plan?”
“Yes, a plan. You can’t just walk into a wedding and hope for the best.”
There are people over there, some of whom are probably observant. People there to make sure guests don’t just wander in out of the woods.
“Walking into a wedding worked for Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn.”
I press my lips together. “This is not Wedding Crashers, and you are not charming enough to pull off a lie about being the groom’s second cousin from Tulsa.”
“Rude,” he says, grinning as he adjusts his cuff. “I could totally be charming.”
“You’re wearing designer shoes,” I hiss at him, beginning to unravel. I am not cut out for this life!
Halp!
“Come on,” he says, tugging my hand. “Let loose. A few dances. No one will notice us.”
That’s where he’s wrong: People always notice.
Because weddings are emotional powder kegs. They magnify everything. Old grudges. Lingering crushes. One too many flutes of champagne, and suddenly Grandma Mabel is dancing with a former college roommate who wasn’t technically invited either.
And here I am, adding myself to that mess.
Except . . .
Except the music is amazing. The energy infectious. Throw in the fact that I haven’t done something reckless in a long time. Not since I started planning other people’s dream days and forgot that I might want my own someday too.
Maverick squeezes my fingers. “You okay?”
I glance at him. He’s looking at me like I’m more than a joke. More than a girl in a pretty dress with a solid bun and a penchant for color-coded spreadsheets.
He’s looking at me like maybe I’m allowed to just be.
“Yeah,” I breathe, nodding along. “Sure, let’s do it.”
Maverick heads straight for the dance floor.
“Wait—what are you doing?” I whisper-hiss.
“Establishing dominance.”
Oh jeez.
Before I can stop him, he grabs my hand and spins me. Spins me. As if this is something we do all the time. As if we belong here.
My laughter bursts out before I can stop it.
We blend into the crowd like we were always meant to be here. Like we’re not impostors crashing a wedding with no gift and zero shame.
At some point, we end up with drinks. Mine is pink and fizzy. His is brown and dangerous looking, with one large ice cube bobbing around.
We toast. “To what may be a bad decision,” he says again.
“To satin,” I reply, because this dress is doing the most for me.
He smirks. “You know you look like every groom’s worst temptation right now, right?”
I flutter my lashes; they’ve been poppin’ since I began using actual lash serum to grow them. “I take that as the highest compliment.”
He leans in. “You should.”
We make up fake names on the spot—I become Chelsea. He becomes Grant. We fake a shared college experience and pretend to be old friends of the groom. And no one questions it. Maybe because we look the part. Maybe because weddings blur the lines between reality and magic.
Maybe because, for the first time in a long time, I’m not thinking about work. Or timelines. Or checklists.
I’m just thinking about Maverick.
Callum.
Sexy, romantic Callum McBride.
“Say something Scottish,” I softly plead, tilting my chin up at him as we stand next to the table of mini desserts.
The corner of his mouth lifts, a whisper of amusement in his expression. “In Scotland, we dinnae crash weddings. We take ’em over,” he murmurs, voice low and just rough enough to make every nerve in my spine tingle.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, fanning myself with a cocktail napkin. “Keep talking. Say ‘bagpipes.’”
“Bagpipes.”
I groan. Shiver. Cannot get enough of him.
He grins, entirely unapologetic as he hands me another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. I sip it, giggling. The bubbles hit hard and fast, mixing with the tequila from earlier and the general giddy chaos of pretending to be someone else for a night.
This is so fun.
“You’re trouble,” I tell him.
“You love it,” he counters, clinking his glass to mine again.
“Do I?”
His gaze drops to my lips. “You tell me.”
And just like that, he takes my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor, the thrum of music pulsing through the night like a heartbeat.
We’re drunk. We’re flirty.
Maverick is the kind of drunk that winks for no reason and does finger guns at people and spins me without warning, catching me when I stumble, laughing with his whole chest.
God, it’s so unfair how hot he is.
He is amazing.
“Grant!” someone shrieks over the music.
We both freeze at the sound of his fake name.
I turn my head as a blond in a rose-gold dress barrels toward us with alarming speed, her curls bouncing like she just stepped off a bridal magazine cover.
Maverick recovers first. “Evy from the champagne fountain!” he booms at her, grinning like he’s thrilled to see her—her, whom I’ve never seen a day in my life. “Come say hello to Chelsea!”
How the hell does he know her name? And by Chelsea, is he talking about me?
“Oh my God! Chelsea!” The girl ignores him, throwing her arms around me in a full-body hug. “I’m so glad someone from Syracuse is here!”
From who-see-where now?
“Oh totally,” I say, with the confidence of someone who does not know if Syracuse is a city, a college, or a cheese. “Refresh my memory, how did we meet?”
She pulls back and narrows her eyes at me. “You’re the friend who used to date Bryce.”
Right. “Bryce.” I echo, panic-sweating through my satin dress. “I forgot about him.”
“Bryce Winters! From Sigma Chi? The creep who made out with one of his brothers’ girlfriends at formal and then tried to say it was a ‘fraternal misunderstanding’?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about—obviously—and it shows.
Maverick jumps in to save me with a bark of laughter. “Chelsea dumped him so fuckin’ fast his head spun.”
“Bryce was the absolute worst!”
The woman beams. “I knew I remembered you! God, I love that you’re here. You have to do a shot with me. It’s tradition!”
Evy drags me to the bar and orders three tequila shots. I try to subtly remind my liver that it’s on vacation. Then I down the shot and smile like someone who isn’t actively making life choices they’ll regret tomorrow.
We dance. Hard.
Turns out, Evy is a wild flailer—arms everywhere, hair flying out of its once perfect chignon, heels be damned. She grabs other relatives into our makeshift circle until we’re surrounded by aunts, uncles, and one groomsman, who keeps yelling “Woooooo!” at the top of his lungs.
At some point, I lose track of the beat. Lose track of how many shots we’ve had (hint: too many). Lose track of how many times I’ve laughed so hard my cheeks hurt.
The music slows. A classic wedding slow-dance ballad begins—and Maverick? He’s in front of me, champagne glass now empty, top buttons on his shirt undone. Hair slightly damp from dancing. A lazy, satisfied grin on his face.
“C’mere,” he says, curling two fingers and crooking them in my direction.
“You want to slow dance?”
“I want to do more than slow dance,” he says lazily.
His words land like a punch to the gut when he puts his hand on my arms and pulls me in, sliding his big, rough hand around my waist.
“Oh really?” I ask, heart beating out of my chest. “Like what?”
You know what he means, Annabelle . . .
Maverick dips his head, lips brushing the tip of my ear. “I’ve been thinkin’ about how easy it would be to slide the straps of that dress down. About backing you into the nearest dark corner and making you moan my name.”
My breath catches in my throat. He keeps going, slower now, the words silky and wicked and so damn quiet only I can hear.
Like a dirty secret.
“Wondering if you’re still wearing those tiny little shorts you had on last night or if I could slip my hand under your dress right now and feel how wet you are for me.”
My knees wobble. He tightens his grip just enough to keep me upright, swaying us gently to the beat.
“And if I led you out of here—disappeared with you back to the cottage—how long would it take before you were up against the wall, legs around my waist, begging me to fuck you.”
Oh Lord . . .
Well then.
“Ye ken I could make ye come from my mouth on yer neck?”
Oh. Oh.
I make a strangled noise in the back of my throat and groan, “Stop.”
“Why?” he murmurs. “Ye love it when I talk like this, don’t ye, mo chridhe?”
My heart slams against my ribs. I have no idea what mo chridhe means, but I’m certain it’s sweet. Which is bad.
Bad, bad, bad!
This is bad.
This is dangerous. It goes beyond flirty. This is nuclear-level attraction wrapped in a crisp white dress shirt and a Scottish accent that could bring entire wedding parties to their knees.
“I’m drunk,” I tell him, like it’s some kind of warning.
“Aye.” He smirks. “Me too.”
We sway in silence for a beat, wrapped up in each other, the crowd around us melting into a blur of motion and candlelight.
Then softly he adds, “Lassie, I think you’re the most beautiful thing I ever laid eyes on.”
Well, shit . . .
I should push him away, shouldn’t I?
Instead, I clutch the front of his shirt like I never want to let go.
Lights twinkle above us as the melody plays, the band performing a mix of classic hits and popular new songs, currently playing “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” an achy, soulful version that has me wanting to pretend I’m in my own version of a love story.
“You’re trouble,” I whisper to him, because it’s all my brain can manage.
His hand slips lower, resting against the small of my back. “Aye. But I’m the kind of trouble ye dream about.”
Ye dream about . . .
I let out a shaky breath. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” I swallow. “I might believe you.”
He dips his head, brushing his nose against mine. “Then believe me. I don’t say what I don’t mean.”
God, I want to kiss him.
Really kiss him.
Forever.
His mouth hovers close, just shy of mine. His fingers flex on my back, like he’s waiting for a sign.
I tilt my chin up. Barely.
A breath between us.
And he doesn’t close the distance—he just looks at me, eyes soft and heated and full of everything I’m terrified to feel.
“I’ll never forget you in this dress,” he murmurs. “Or this night. Or the way you’re looking at me.”
Oh my God . . . If only Lucy could see me now. She would be so proud. Probably squealing with glee, encouraging me to go for it.
So I kiss him.
There in the middle of the dance floor at someone else’s wedding, champagne bubbles still tingling my lips and the edges of the world a lot bit fuzzy from tequila and too many shots and too much laughter.
I rise onto my toes, one hand still curled in the fabric of his shirt, and press my mouth to his like I’ve been waiting forever to do it.
He kisses me back.
It’s soft at first. Tender. The kind of kiss you need.
Then his hand slides up into my hair, his other arm tightening around my waist, and suddenly we’re not dancing anymore—we’re clinging.
Breathing into each other. Moving in sync.
His tongue brushes mine, slow and teasing, and I make a noise I don’t even recognize. Desperate. Greedy.
He groans against my lips like I’m ruining him for everyone else.
He’s just as drunk on this kiss as I am.
His hand still fists gently in my hair, angling my face to fit against his like we’re puzzle pieces that finally click. The world narrows—no music, no laughter, no guests swirling around us.
Just him.
Me.
He whispers “Fuck” under his breath, thumb brushing over the curve of my cheek tenderly even as his mouth claims mine in the most wicked way.
I’ve never wanted anyone more in my entire life.
Is this what lov—
No.
Can’t be.
Too soon.
Too fast.
The kiss sinks deep into my bones . . . steals the air from my lungs . . . leaves me gripping the front of his shirt with everything I have. He kisses me like I’m the only girl in the world. Like this is a competition and I’m the grand prize.
When we part, we’re still swaying—his arms tight around my waist, my head tucked into the crook of his neck.
“I don’t want this night to end,” I whisper, meaning every single word.
He presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Then it won’t.”