Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Ledger
The reception is in full swing. This is the kind of celebration you’d expect when a bunch of hockey players roll into a small town for a wedding. Laughter and music fill the backyard of the Doherty mansion. The tables are cluttered with half-empty glasses of champagne, and someone—probably O’Connor—is already making a show of balancing three bread rolls on his head like it’s an Olympic sport.
I’m watching it all from the corner, nursing a tumbler of whiskey, and thinking about how surreal the past few hours have been.
The ceremony was short, practically blink-and-you-miss-it. Galeana didn’t want anything elaborate, so we kept it simple—simple vows, simple setting, simple everything.
Her dress, though?
Her dress wasn’t simple, not really. It was understated, sure, but it fit her like it had been made for her and only her. The sleek white fabric traced her curves, soft lace edging the neckline and sleeves. She looked . . . stunning. Not in a bridal-magazine way, but in the kind of way that makes you forget to breathe for half a second.
But she wasn’t excited.
She stood there beside me, slipping that ring onto my finger like it was part of a chore she couldn’t wait to finish—stoic, resigned, her eyes fixed on the task as though she could will herself somewhere else entirely.
And for some reason, that sits wrong with me.
I didn’t expect her to be happy about this, but the quiet indifference rolling off her hits harder than I thought it would. Obviously, this isn’t her dream wedding—this isn’t anyone’s dream wedding—but still, something about her expression makes the air around us feel colder.
We agreed this was business, a deal. We shook hands on it, laid it out logically, even kissed it to seal it. So why does it bother me so much to see her looking like she can’t wait for it to be over?
It makes me feel like the villain in a story I don’t want to be part of.
I take another sip of whiskey, trying to shake it off. My brothers didn’t even show up today. Not one of them.
Keir sent some lame excuse about a client and a “huge deal” he couldn’t miss. Hopper? He’d rather stay at his ranch with his child and horses than come here. Okay, my niece, I get it but the animals not so much.
And Mal . . . well, Malerick claimed he couldn’t take time off. Hard to believe, considering he’s the sheriff and this town isn’t exactly battling a crime spree.
The point is, none of my brothers came to support me or at least pretend they give two shits about me.
It’s not like I expected them to, but still.
Somehow, it feels like I orchestrated this whole thing just to fill the empty spaces with my former teammates—guys who showed up because they wanted free drinks and an excuse to party. It’s loud, raucous, and everything a hockey team celebration should be.
It’s just like it has been since my brothers left for college. I’m fucking alone.
This shit really doesn’t feel like a wedding. And now I understand Galeana.
This is not our celebration.
Across the room, she sits at one of the tables, her fingers tracing the frayed edges of a napkin. I follow Aiden’s voice to the dance floor, where she’s spinning around with one of my former teammates. She’s fun—loud in a way that draws people in—and apparently approved of me as the “get-off-the-funk guy.” Not entirely sure what that means, but hey, I’ll take the seal of approval where I can get it.
I drain the last of my whiskey, trying to ignore the way the room feels too full and too empty all at once.
It’s been eating at me all day.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I set the glass down and make my way across the room. A few guys nod as I pass, slapping my shoulder or grinning like I just scored a game-winning goal. I barely acknowledge them. My eyes are on her.
“Dance with me,” I say, holding out a hand when I stop beside her table.
Galeana blinks, clearly caught off guard. “What?”
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the dance floor. “You’re my wife now, and we haven’t had our first dance. People might start to talk.”
She looks around, and for the first time tonight, she smiles faintly, though it’s laced with sarcasm. “I doubt anyone’s paying attention to us.”
“I’m paying attention,” I reply, keeping my hand out. “Humor me, Gale. One dance.”
Galeana sighs, but she slips her hand into mine, letting me pull her to her feet. “Fine. One dance. And I already told you my name is Galeana.”
“Sure, but wouldn’t it be weird that your friends call you Gale and I don’t, darling?” I grin innocently, feeling like I’ve won something.
Her palm is small and warm in mine as I lead her to the dance floor, the music softening into something slow and lilting. My teammates whoop and holler in the background like idiots, but I ignore them, stopping in the middle of the floor and turning to face her.
“You’re lucky if I don’t step on your toes,” she mutters as I place my hand on her waist and pull her closer.
“You’re lucky I’m a great dancer,” I shoot back, grinning. “Hockey players have excellent balance.”
Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile, but she doesn’t argue. I take that as a win.
We move slowly to the music, and for a moment, it’s just us—the noise of the reception fading into the background. She’s stiff at first, like she’s afraid to let herself relax, but I guide her gently, and eventually, she softens, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder.
“You know,” I murmur, glancing down at her, “this is the part where you’re supposed to smile and look like you’re having the best day of your life.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “I’ll save my acting skills for later. I’m too tired for a performance right now.”
I study her, my gaze lingering on the shadows under her eyes and the faint tension in her jaw. “It’s more than that, though, isn’t it?”
Her eyes flick up to mine, wary. “What do you mean?”
“You look very unhappy,” I insist.
She shrugs. “My first wedding was canceled by the groom at the very last minute and today . . .” she pauses, as if searching for the words. “It’s like I can’t find that happiness. Like I’m waiting for something to change, for someone to come along and?—”
“Save you?” I cut in.
“No. I don’t need anyone to save me, just to love me.”
“You seem like a lovable person,” I say, pulling her closer to me. “Maybe no one has taken the time to get to know you.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she rests her head on my chest, her fingers curling against the fabric of my shirt. Then she finally speaks.
“I don’t know,” she admits, her voice quiet, almost fragile. “It’s like I’ve spent so much time fighting for things—fighting to prove I deserve them—that I don’t even know what happiness would feel like anymore. I don’t even know what I need to do to be worthy of love.”
The honesty in her words knocks something loose in me. It’s raw and unfiltered, and for a moment, I can’t speak.
“You deserve it,” I finally say, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. “Happiness. Love. All of it. You don’t need to do anything. The right person will see it—will see you.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, startled, searching for something in my face. I hold it, letting the words settle, and for once, not hiding the truth behind them.
“What about you?” she asks, her voice softer now. “Do you think you’ll ever be happy? Will you ever fall in love?”
For a second, I can’t look away from her. The question lodges in my chest, sitting there like a quiet challenge. Because the answer is right in front of me, staring up with those guarded eyes that give away more than she realizes. If I just—if I let myself try—if I make an effort to open the door I’ve been holding shut for years, I could find it.
Love. A friend. Everything.
Instead of saying anything, I guide her into a slow spin, letting the music move us, and when she comes back into my arms, there’s the faintest smile—tiny and fleeting—pulling at the corner of her mouth.
“There it is,” I murmur, my gaze fixed on her.
“What?”
“A smile,” I say, grinning down at her. “You look beautiful when you smile.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat behind it, just that familiar spark she tries to hide. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re stubborn,” I counter, smirking. “It’s a good thing we’re stuck together for two years. I’ve got plenty of time to make you smile more.”
Her eyes narrow, but the corners of her lips twitch upward again. I tighten my hold on her waist, guiding her closer. “Two years, darling,” I add, my voice low but teasing. “Long enough to make you my best friend, at the very least.”
The music swells, a wave that crests and carries us with it. I spin her again, deliberately, and she stumbles slightly against me, her hand clutching my shoulder as she glares up at me.
But there’s something softer behind that frustration—something lingering, unguarded. Amusement. Maybe even trust.
I hold her firmly, my smile widening. Two years to figure out my feelings for this beautiful woman. I can work with that.