2. Catching a Falling Star
Alright, let me lay it out.
First, attending a wedding ranks pretty low on my list of desirable activities, somewhere between experiencing an earthquake, standing at the mouth of an erupting volcano, and enduring the gloom of the locker room post-defeat.
To put it mildly, weddings aren’t my scene. But this wedding? The one that’s been the buzz of the entire internet, mentioned by my teammates ad nauseam? The event where Faye Strummer, the era’s reigning pop icon, is poised to tie the knot with her so-called soulmate, a guy with a chin that leaves much to be desired, whom I’ve unfortunately encountered online more than once?
No, I dislike this wedding more than all the others combined. And not just because I don’t believe in the idea of love.
It’s because I can’t stand the idea of her—Faye Strummer, the doe-eyed, dewy-faced girl who does nothing other than release sappy love songs every other month, songs that cause me a headache anytime they blast out around me. She is the opposite of everything I imagine a girl should be, obsessed with romance and love, and suffering from a severe lack of a personality.
The second thing?
Having this perception of Faye Strummer and then running into her at her wedding feels like the universe’s idea of a cruel joke. Like someone up there is intent on punishing me for my past sins.
We don’t exactly run into each other, though. Sheruns into me. Collides against my chest with such force that all I can do is brace myself for the fall before we hit the ground. I don’t even see her. All I spot is the hugest, whitest gown I’ve ever seen and catch a whiff of a flowery, expensive perfume.
The next thing I know, I’m on the floor, my arms wrapped around the biggest popstar of our decade.
I struggle to my feet, pulling her up. She seems to be around five-foot-six, more than half a foot shorter than me. She’s a tiny little thing. But the monstrosity she’s wearing makes it quite difficult to pull her back to her feet. I look around, expecting to see bodyguards. Or at least, some giggling bridesmaids. Celebrities are hardly ever alone.
But there’s no one else around.
“You okay?” I huff the standard question to ask in this situation. She has her head bent low, so all I can see is her auburn hair slicked into a low bun below her veil, a sprawling one that trails a few feet after her.
Talk about decadence.
She runs her hand roughly across her face before she looks up. A small shock spreads through me, and I have to resist the urge to take a step back.
I’ve seen images of her a dozen times before—mostly unintentionally—when I was scrolling through social media. But none of them came even close to experiencing her in person.
She’s . . . exquisite. Her face is a perfect oval with large, piercing green eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. Her dress is huge enough to be distasteful, but the sleeveless bodice outlines the curves of her upper body. I’m surprised to feel a hint of stirring in my groin when I let my gaze settle on her cleavage for a second longer than necessary.
Way to go, Blake. Thirsting over a bride on the day of her wedding.
I take a step back, surprised by my own physical reaction. I can’t even remember the last time I perceived an unattainable woman to be desirable.
“I’m okay,” she sniffs. “Thank you.” Her voice is low, demure, unlike the one in her songs.
Every passing moment in her presence feels like an out-of-body experience. Perhaps because I didn’t expect to run into her. Hell, I would rather spend fifty hours ice skating naked in the middle of winter than be here.
But then, I had to come. So I could speak to Kevin Dickerson, my old agent and the person who signed me up to be his plus one at this party.
“If you want to talk to me in person, Blake, you’ll meet me here,” he drawled over the phone. “I’m only coming to town for a couple of hours, and I intend to spend every damn second at Faye’s wedding.”
Fuck, I thought when he laid out his terms. What are the odds that my old agent, the one guy that I need to straighten out the brand deal mess I have gotten myself into, would only be available at the one event I knew I would loathe more than anything?
Still, I told myself to man up and go. Persuaded myself it was lucky that Kevin was important enough not only to be invited, but also to be getting a plus one. His agency worked with Faye back in the day, but she had since moved on to bigger fish, and there was every likelihood she had lost touch with them. But as it turns out, she hadn’t, and so, here I was, trying to meet up with Kevin at this decadent, over the top wedding in the Hamptons.
If I had known she would be out here, I would’ve thought twice about wandering the hotel grounds.
Time to say goodbye and make my exit. I was supposed to be in the ballroom anyways, not strolling in the garden. Just a quick dash back, and I can put all this behind me.
But then, as much as I don’t want to be around Faye Strummer, it feels wrong to leave a girl in distress alone out here, like a lost little lamb.
“You sure you’re good?”
Before I get the sentence out of my mouth, a sound wrenches itself from her throat. A sob. Unexpectedly, pearly tears are spilling down her cheeks, and she’s holding her hand to her face, her shoulders heaving.
What the hell is happening?
I feel even more uncomfortable now. Can’t say I know exactly what to do when a woman bursts into tears. I have a sister, but I don’t remember what I did to comfort her on the odd occasions she cried.
I look around for a possible reason for her distress. This wedding has been the talk of the town for months. Perhaps something went wrong somewhere. Messed-up makeup? Stained dress? But even with the tears pouring down her cheeks, she’s the very image of perfection. Her dress is immaculate, even though she tripped earlier.
It sure helps that I broke her fall.
Just before I’m about to give up and ask her what’s bothering her, I spot it. A minuscule, almost inconspicuous tear on the portion of the veil she has draped over her shoulder.
Impatience rises within me. I knew this event was going to be hard to get through, but I could never have imagined I would spend the first few minutes consoling Little Miss Perfect Bride and making her understand that her torn veil isn’t a terrible disaster.
Again, I consider walking out on this mess.
Come on, Blake. Be a gentleman.
The voice that springs up in my head reminds me forcefully of Reggie Turner, my close friend and fellow player. Up until about a year ago, Reggie was about the most terrifying man in the whole league. And then, he met a reporter and changed from a howling tiger to a giggling cub. His new catchphrase is, “Love changes people. And you always have to be willing to give it and receive it.”
Honestly, I kind of miss the days when all he had to say to everyone was, “Get the fuck out of my face.”
All of my formerly staunch bachelor friends are getting married. Yet another reason to scorn weddings.
I look at the sobbing girl in front of me. I don’t care much for her, but I could try to be as understanding as possible. She’s about to get married, after all. She deserves as much sympathy as I’m able to muster.
With more compassion than I would have known myself capable of assembling, I mutter, “It’s not that bad.”
“What?”
“The veil.”
She stops crying, blinking up at me. “What?”
I nod toward the tear. “It’s barely noticeable. Also, I’m sure you’ve got a seamstress that can patch it up in no time.”
She sniffs, following my gaze to the tear. Her eyes widen slightly, and I realize that she did not even notice it.
“You thought I was crying about the . . . about the veil?” There’s no trace of sadness in her tone anymore. She sounds . . . mocking.
Something about her voice makes me feel like a damn fool.
I detest that.
“Why were you crying then? Your flowers got delivered late?”
Her face goes brick red with rage. That startles me. Sounds foolish, but I didn’t even think Faye Strummer was capable of feeling angry.
“Who are you?” she asks, a firm edge to her voice.
Rude.
Her words should make me like her less. But watching her exhibit the slightest hint of personality is interesting. Interesting enough that I stop obsessing about how much I hate the wedding and instead focus on her.
“Blake White.” I could say more, tell her about being a hockey player for the Philly Titans. Celebs are usually snobbish unless they think the other person is worth a conversation. But I hold off on that detail. I want to gauge Faye’s reaction to me before she figures out who I am.
“I know you. You’re the hockey player, Kevin’s plus one.”
I raise my brows, taken aback. “Surprised you kept tabs on your extensive guest list.”
She swallows, looking almost mortified. “I didn’t. But Kevin’s a friend, and I invited him personally.”
I open my mouth to say something, but just then, two men spring out from the hotel foyer. They are both dressed in black suits, wearing sunglasses, and they have earpieces strapped on their heads. Faye turns around and sees them. Her eyes go round with trepidation. When she looks back at me, she’s trembling.
What the hell is going on?
Thankfully, I don’t have to ask this time, because she looks back at me, takes a deep breath, and mutters, “I need your help.”
I’m going to say no. There’s no way I’m getting involved in whatever this is. Still, I can’t stop myself from asking, “What with?”
She takes another deep breath. She’s still shaking like a leaf, but there’s a steely determination in her eyes.
“I need you to get me out of this place. As far away as possible.”
Okay, this has to be someone’s twisted idea of a joke. Because there’s no way, in Heaven or Earth or in all of the universe, that I walked into this mess.
“Very funny,” I say. “And while I understand that losing your flowers or your shoes or whatever is enough reason for you to bail out of your wedding, I?—”
Her fingers fold into fists, and she stomps her foot at me. Actually stomps her foot.
“Don’t you get it?” she whisper-screams through gritted teeth. “I don’t fucking care about the flowers or the veil or the dress or the wedding. I just need to leave. Now.”
I blink at her, torn between feeling impressed at the fact that she is a lot more than the ditsy romance-obsessed girl I thought she was and annoyance at her presumptuousness.
“You can’t just ask a total stranger to sneak you out of your wedding and not even give a good reason as to?—”
“You want a reason? Fine!” She lets out a pained growl. “I found my fiancé fucking my stepsister. Like, literally ten minutes ago. And even if no one else seems to think that’s enough reason to call this thing off, Ido. But I can’t make it out of here in this dress all by myself. So, I’m asking you for help.”
I’m genuinely stunned. I don’t even know which sentence is the most surprising. I think of all of the sappy love songs she has released over the past few years for Weak Chin. How in love with him she seemed to be.
And she’s only just realizing that he’s not that into her?
She’s turning again to glance at the security men, and I notice with slight surprise that they are now four in number, spreading out, their heads swiveling as they scan the grounds.
It’s like a freaking spy movie.
“I need this,” she mutters, her lips trembling as her eyes fill with tears. “Please.”
Something about her helplessness strikes me in the middle of my cold, dead heart.
This is not what I signed up for. Not even close.
But I would be the biggest jackass in the world if I just walked away, with her vulnerability bleeding out of her like this.
I close my eyes, letting my thoughts run wild, considering the worst possible scenario in this situation.
Her security detail could come after us.
But so what?
What are they going to do?
Force a grown woman who is very likely the one signing their paychecks to go with them against her will? Or she could change her mind and decide she wants to wed Weak Chin after all, forcing me to turn back around.
What do I care?
When I open my eyes, tears are spilling down her cheeks.
Again.
“Please,” she mutters one last time, her voice cracking.
I force myself to dismiss my earlier concerns. Thiswoman seems done with her fiancé and the wedding. She appears to be sure enough of her decision.
The only way she’s going down that aisle today is if someone drags her by her ears.
And I sure won’t let it come to that.
One of the bodyguards is already drawing closer to where we are. He’ll spot us in a few moments.
I have two choices. To wait and let Faye be confronted. Orto turn around and beat a path to where my G-Wagon is parked, runaway bride in tow.
I look at her tear-stained face and the bodyguard, who is closer now than ever.
My shoulders grow taut as I reach out for her hand. She folds her perfectly manicured fingers into mine. Another dizzying surge runs through my groin.
Fuck. I’m going to regret this.
“Let’s go.”