Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Ledger
Weddings are supposed to be joyful. A celebration of love, commitment, and all that bullshit. But to me, they’ve always felt suffocating. I’ve spent most of my life dodging family gatherings and emotional heart-to-hearts, so attending this one for a teammate is already pushing my limits.
And yet, somehow, I’d rather be here—halfway across the world in Italy—than dealing with my family right now.
If I weren’t here, I’d be stuck at a dreary family reunion orchestrated by my mother, surrounded by fake smiles and grudges served alongside overpriced wine. Oh, Ledger, how’s . . . who were you dating last time we spoke? Still nothing serious, huh? Translation: When are you going to stop playing and do something respectable with your life?
Then Mom will be lecturing me and my brothers about how we’re the only family we have and family is blah, blah, fucking blah . . . Yeah, no thanks.
So here I am, sharing a honeymoon suite with a stranger who’s been glaring at me like I personally ruined her life. Granted, I did walk in on her while she was half-naked, but hey, that’s not my fault. She should just leave and let me be, instead she says, “Oh, you’re one of those.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” I grab the champagne bottle, pop the cork, and pour two glasses. If I’m stuck here, I might as well drink and enjoy the fucking view.
“What are you doing with my champagne?” she asks sharply, her glare slicing across the room.
“Drinking my champagne, darling. And sharing with you, because I’m that fucking nice,” I reply, smirking. “And for the record, I’m not leaving. As I said, I’m not about to rent a car and go back and forth all week.”
“This is unacceptable,” she huffs, snatching the glass from my hand and downing it like it’s plain water. Then she holds it out, her expression defiant. “Top it.”
I arch a brow but oblige, refilling her glass before setting the bottle down. I take a sip from my own and let the silence stretch, watching her out of the corner of my eye.
“So,” I say finally, my tone deliberately casual, “what’s the plan? Are we flipping a coin for the bed, or are you heading to a different town?” I circle back, hoping this time she’ll say she’ll leave.
She glares at me over the rim of her glass. “Why don’t you leave? I’m the one who booked this suite.” And the woman is stubborn, ladies and gents . . . but I won’t let her win.
“Technically, someone canceled it, so now it’s up for grabs,” I point out with a shrug. “Look, I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here, but the hotel’s fully booked. So unless you’ve got a brilliant idea, we’re stuck.”
She mutters something under her breath that I don’t catch, but judging by her expression, it’s not complimentary.
I lean back, swirling the champagne in my glass and watching her like she’s the most interesting thing in the room. And honestly, she is. The way her jaw tightens when she’s annoyed, the fire in her eyes when she looks at me—it’s refreshing. Most people either fawn over me or avoid me altogether. She does neither.
“So,” I ask, tilting my head, “what’s your story?”
Her scowl deepens. “Why do you care?”
“Because from the looks of it, we’re going to be roommates until Monday, and I’d rather not spend the week in complete silence.”
She hesitates, then sets her empty glass down with a sharp clink. “Fine. My story is that I was supposed to be here on my honeymoon. My fiancé decided he didn’t want to marry me after all, but the trip was non-refundable. So here I am.”
I blink, caught off guard by her honesty. “Damn. That’s . . . pretty fucked up.”
She laughs bitterly, the sound sharp and raw. “You have no idea.”
I don’t respond right away, unsure how to follow that. Comforting jilted brides isn’t exactly my area of expertise.
“What about you?” she asks suddenly, crossing her arms. “What’s your story? Do you crash weddings for fun, or is this a new hobby?”
I smirk, appreciating the jab. “I’m here for a teammate’s wedding. He’s young, in love, and convinced this is the best decision of his life.” I take another sip of champagne, the bitterness creeping into my voice. “If I were a good captain, I’d tell him to call it off and run. But apparently, I suck at it, so I’m here to stand as a groomsman.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Wow. Cynical much?”
“Realistic,” I correct. “Marriage isn’t for everyone. Some people are better off alone.”
Her lips press into a thin line, and I realize too late that I’ve hit a nerve. “Is that why you’re here alone? Because you think being single makes you superior?”
I shrug, keeping my tone light. “No. I’m here alone because as I explained earlier, the woman I invited decided I wasn’t worth the effort. Guess we’ve got more in common than we thought.”
That shuts her up for a moment.
Then she laughs, a soft, unexpected sound that catches me off guard. “Well, aren’t we a pair? The bitter player and the jilted bride. Sounds like the setup for a bad romcom.”
I chuckle, raising my glass. “Here’s to being bitter.”
“And jilted,” she adds, clinking her glass against mine.
The champagne goes down easier after that. We finish the bottle and order another three—along with some food—on the house. Apparently, the hotel is trying to make up for the mix-up by comping everything. It doesn’t fix the situation, but it does make it a little more tolerable.
By the time room service arrives, she’s loosened up enough to smile, and I find myself relaxing too, the tension in my shoulders easing for the first time all day.
“Let’s play a game,” she says suddenly, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“A game?” I echo, my brow lifting.
“Truth or dare,” she declares, leaning forward on her elbows. “Come on. It’ll pass the time.”
I give her a dubious look. “What are we, twelve?”
“Scared?” she taunts, the corner of her mouth curving into a challenging smirk.
Damn it. I’m not about to back down from that. “Fine,” I say, setting my glass down. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” she says without hesitation, sitting up a little straighter.
I smirk, leaning forward slightly. “Do you still love him?”
Her smile falters, and for a moment, I think I’ve crossed the line. But then she takes a deep breath and answers, her voice steady despite the rawness in her eyes. “No, I don’t think I’m in love with him. Actually, I think I hate him. But I hate myself more for not seeing it sooner. I was too busy taking care of Mom, then following all her advice that . . . I didn’t realize we had grown apart.”
“When did you realize that?” I ask.
She points at the bathroom. “While in the bathtub. It’s impressive what can happen when you slow down for five hours and spend all the time soaking in water.”
“You were there for five hours?” I gawk at her.
“Shh, don’t tell Mom. She never liked when I stayed in the tub for too long.”
There’s something in the way she says it—quiet and certain—that makes me pause. Before I can respond or ask about her mother, she narrows her gaze at me, deflecting. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” I say, because I’m not dumb enough to let her dare me.
“Why don’t you believe in marriage?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “That’s a long story.”
“Oh, I have time, at least seven days,” she says.
I stand, motioning toward the terrace. “Come on. We might as well get some fresh air if we’re diving into this mess.”
She hesitates, then grabs her glass and follows me out to the terrace. The cool breeze greets us as we step outside. There’s a small table with two chairs tucked into the corner, overlooking the expanse of the ocean. The soft hum of waves hitting the shore fills the silence between us as we sit.
After we take a seat, I swirl the champagne in my glass, the bubbles catching the faint light. “I don’t believe in marriage because I’ve never seen it work. My parents? A fucking disaster. My father treated it like a game, and my mother let him. They stayed together because of appearances, not love. She didn’t leave him until he died. And every other marriage I’ve seen just feels like a ticking time bomb, waiting for the inevitable explosion. Why gamble on something doomed from the start?”
She doesn’t flinch or look away. Instead, she watches me, her expression softer now. “That’s fair,” she says quietly. “I guess I was just desperate to believe it could be different for me. Mom wanted that for me too—something lasting. Something she didn’t have.”
The atmosphere feels quieter after that, the playful game forgotten. I watch her head back for another bottle of champagne and pour another glass, her movements unhurried, and for a moment, I wonder if this week might not be so bad after all.
The conversation shifts naturally, like slipping into a warm current. She tells me about her parents—how her dad left when she was young and how her mom passed away last year.
“She asked me not to cancel the wedding,” she says, her voice soft but steady. “She thought if I had a man who loved me, it’d make dying less scary.” She exhales, a faint, bitter laugh escaping her lips. “Guess she didn’t see this coming.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. Instead, I grab the bottle of champagne and pour myself more to do something and not think about Mom passing. “What about your family?”
She snorts. “You first.”
I drag a hand through my hair, leaning back in my chair. “My mother’s on a mission to ‘fix’ our family. She has news—probably about retiring and expecting one of us to take over the family business. None of us care about it. Or about her big family reunion plans.” I scoff, taking a sip. “She thinks if we all sit in the same room, we’ll hash out old grudges and play nice. It’s never going to happen, but she won’t stop trying. If I weren’t here, I’d be there, listening to her guilt-trip me into showing up.”
“That sounds . . . complicated,” she says, tilting her head.
I scoff again. “That’s one way to put it.”
Her lips curve into a teasing smile, and for the first time, the weight of the conversation starts to lift. “Sounds like you’ve got a lot of unresolved drama.”
I decide to steer the conversation toward something lighter, yet meaningful. “So, what was your favorite part about growing up?” I ask, watching her expression.
She tilts her head, thinking. “When Mom was on vacation or during holidays. We’d make pies from scratch or find a new hobby. She always liked to discover new things. And yours?”
“Building treehouses with my brothers and uncle Stu,” I admit, and it feels strange to share something so personal. “What about the hardest part?”
She sighs. “Probably when my dad left. Not that I remember. I was very young, and it changed everything. How about you? What shaped you the most?”
The question is so simple. I could tell her when Mom discovered Dad had another kid and he ended up coming to live with us. But talking about Atlas is not my favorite thing. I take a slow sip of champagne before answering. “My parents’ constant fighting.”
She nods, understanding more than I expected. “What values do you hold on too tightly because of your upbringing?”
“Independence, mostly,” I say, finding her gaze. “You? What values are important to you in a relationship?”
“Honesty, loyalty,” she says immediately. “And humor. Can’t deal with life without a good laugh.” She pauses, her eyes curious. “Have you ever had a dream you had to give up on?”
“I don’t think so. When I want something I make it happen,” I respond because honestly that’s what I’ve been doing all my life. I’m not the smartest person, but when I realized that hockey could be my ticket out of Birchwood Springs, I went for it. “What about you? Any tucked-away dreams?”
She laughs softly. “I . . . It’s silly really. I wanted to have my own business. It didn’t matter what. A baker, or selling something. Mom said I had to be practical. Find something that would be fulfilling and yet stable. Hence I’m a college professor.”
“Not silly at all.” I smile, encouraging. “What’s the biggest fear you’ve faced?”
Her eyes darken slightly. “Being alone. Once Mom died, I thought I had Chase but now I realize he left me too. Not physically, but he checked out long ago,” she admits.
I nod, understanding her more with each word exchanged. “What keeps you going after something like that?”
“Hope, I guess. And stubbornness.” She gives me a wry smile. “Your turn. Would you ever give a chance to marriage?”
I laugh, a bitter sound. “Nope. I’ve never seen it work out. It’s always a mess, at least in my world. Not to rub salt in the wound, but . . . your marriage didn’t work out either.”
She considers this, then offers a small, sad smile. “Maybe we’ve just been looking in the wrong places.”
“Or maybe we shouldn’t be looking at all.” I wink at her.
“What’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done for someone?” she suddenly asks.
I pause, not expecting the question. “I once drove three hours just to see someone because she was having a bad day. I obviously got in trouble, since I was fifteen and stole my father’s truck.” I lean forward slightly. “And you? What’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever experienced?”
She bites her lip, considering. “My ex once filled my room with candles and roses. It was beautiful . . . it happened before Mom got sick. Maybe that’s why she believed he was the one.” She sighs, then shakes her head, as if shaking off the memory. “What’s one place you feel most at peace?”
“There are two places. One is in the woods, in front of the fire looking at the stars. The other is the beach at night,” I answer quickly. “The sound of the waves, the stars overhead. It’s perfect. What about you? Where’s your peaceful place?”
“A cozy corner of my local library,” she replies. “I spent hours there as a kid, getting lost in other worlds.”
I nod, appreciating the glimpse into her solace. “If you could go anywhere right now, where would it be?”
She looks away, thoughtful. “Italy—well, more of Italy. This trip was supposed to be about exploration, not just . . . this.” She gestures around, her expression softening. “With the right company, of course.”
“What’s your biggest dream for the future?”
She smiles, a real, hopeful smile. “To be genuinely happy. Whatever that looks like.” She waves as if it doesn’t matter or maybe as if she said too much. That’s when she suddenly says, “Okay, your turn. This time I choose a dare.” Her gaze meets mine, holding it.
“Just don’t dare me to leave the room, because that’s a hard no,” I warn her, the air between us charged with an electric tension.
Then, she surprises me by saying softly, yet boldly, “Kiss me.”
It’s not what I was expecting, but I recover quickly, setting my glass aside and standing. The distance between us shrinks as I step closer. Her breath catches, her chest rising and falling just a little quicker, and I can’t help but notice the faint tremor in her fingers as she rests her hands on the arm of her chair.
Her lips are soft, slightly parted, and when I lean down and press mine against hers, it’s slow, deliberate. Her fingers brush against my chest, a featherlight touch that sends heat spiraling through me. When I pull back, her eyes are slightly dazed, her lips still parted like she’s waiting for more.
A small, almost smug smile curves her lips as she reaches for her glass again. “That wasn’t so hard,” she says, taking a sip as if her pulse isn’t racing.
“You call that a dare?” I counter, my voice lower now, rougher. I settle back into my seat, the adrenaline from the kiss still humming in my veins.
“Can you do better?” she challenges, her eyes shining, daring me.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “How about this? I dare you to show me your pussy.”
Her eyes widen, her glass frozen halfway to her lips. “What?”
“You heard me.” My tone is calm, measured, the same way I’d deliver a challenge on the ice. “I dare you to pull up your dress, open your legs, and show me your pussy.”
She blinks, the crimson spreading from her cheeks down to her neck. “That’s . . .”
“You scared?” I taunt, leaning back, letting the smirk return.
Her jaw tightens, but then her lips curl into a defiant smile. “So if I dare you to show me your cock, are you going to whip it out like it’s no big deal?”
I release a big laugh. Well that’s not what I expected from this woman. Once composed I say, “I’ll do you one better. I’ll let you touch it.”
Her gasp turns into a laugh, high-pitched and disbelieving, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in her eyes that she can’t quite hide. “Like . . . you dare me to touch it?”
“Uh-huh. And if you’re bold enough, I might even dare you to let me lick you. Hell, I’ll suck you dry.” My voice drops lower, letting the words hang between us, heavy with implication.
Her thighs press together almost imperceptibly, but I catch it. She squirms in her seat, trying to maintain her composure, but I can see the shift in her eyes—curiosity, intrigue, maybe even arousal.
“That’s quite the escalation,” she says, her voice laced with a mix of nervousness and laughter. “What are you expecting, exactly? That I’ll drop to my knees and . . . return the favor?”
I chuckle, swirling the champagne in my glass before taking a slow sip. “Not expecting. Just curious how far you’re willing to take this game.”
Her gaze narrows, her lips curving into a wicked smile. “You’ll have to wait and see.”