22. Shelby
SHELBY
“Ihate you.”
“No you don’t,” Beau says, kissing my neck as we wait in line at the first wedding chapel we could find that was open all night. Bonus, it’s Elvis themed. How Vegas is that? “You dared me to marry you, Belle, and I’m going to do that.”
“Should I be videoing this part?”
The question comes from the young kid Beau paid to video our ceremony.
Ha! Ceremony! I’m freaking marrying Beau. Isn’t that fucking hilarious? Because I hate him. Which makes this even funnier.
“Yes,” Beau says, pulling out his wallet and handing him another hundred. “And do you mind if we jump ahead of you in line? We have to play tomorrow and we need to get back to our room. You know. Be responsible and shit.”
The kid—who’s in his twenties, but I’m old, so therefore he’s a kid—grins from ear to ear. “Absolutely! You’re Beau fucking Devereaux!”
“Thanks,” Beau says as the Elvis in charge calls up the next couple in line. “Hey! That’s us!”
“Damn right it is!” I shout, grabbing the bouquet we bought from the souvenir counter and adjusting the dollar-store veil I also picked up. “How do I look?”
“Like a bride,” Beau says. “You ready, Belle?”
“Am I ready? For a dare? You bet your ass I am!”
Beau laughs and takes my hand as he pulls me up front. “Then, let’s go, Belle. It’s time to make you my wife.”
“I told you two to get along. In what world did you take that directive and turn it into getting fucking married!”
Neither Beau nor I answer as we sit in Ethan's office, fresh off a plane from Las Vegas, having just watched our apparent wedding video. And when I say fresh, I mean there was a driver waiting that neither of us were expecting, but told us to get in the car and not ask questions.
We didn't need to. We both knew what was happening.
We were being driven to a scolding, and then likely getting dropped by our agent. The video replay was an unfortunate bonus.
Which, I get, especially in my shoes. I’m not the easiest client to work with.
I don’t do a lot of campaigns that bring in extra money, for me or Ethan.
I hate interviews, have a constant resting bitch face, and drunkenly marry men who I also beat up in front of a camera. I wouldn’t want me as a client, either.
“I don’t know if this is the right time to say this…” Beau speaks up, and I already start shaking my head because I have a feeling it’s going to be ridiculous. “But, I think it’s being lost that we also won the tournament. And frankly, more people should be talking about that.”
Yup. The preemptive head shake was the correct move. Even if he’s right that no one is talking about our comeback win.
After the news of our wedding was dropped on us like a bomb, the next hour was a blur of Beau and I trying to piece together what actually happened that night.
We both remembered leaving the bar. But where he’s insistent that I double-dog dared him to marry me, I maintain that even with all the drinks in all of Vegas, no way I’d be drunk enough to suggest that.
Except… I did. I remembered doing it after the fact. I just blocked it out, figuring if I denied it hard enough, I could make it untrue.
Enter the video. God damn receipts going to get you every time.
Wife. Me. A wife. Beau’s wife. Absolutely the fuck not.
When we entered the press room after the course-side interview, not a single reporter asked us about our win.
No one gave a fuck about the shot I hit on eighteen, or the birdie putt Beau made on seventeen.
The fight? The only reason that was brought up was because someone asked if it was our first official spat as husband and wife.
It took all I had to not tell that reporter to go fuck themself.
Luckily, Beau stopped me from saying anything that would’ve gotten us into a bigger PR clusterfuck than we already are.
He took all the questions that weren’t specifically directed to me.
I know I told him earlier in the week I hated when he did that, but in that moment, I was grateful.
Because when I was asked a question, I was back to one-word-answer Shelby.
I couldn’t focus. Everything was running through my mind at a million miles per hour.
Until I heard a voice that yanked me back to the present so fast, my head almost snapped off.
Fucking Michael. I believe his question was, “Is this why you moved back to Nashville? To start a relationship with Beau Devereaux?”
The only reason I didn’t jump over the table and physically beat the hell out of him was because Beau’s hand was on my leg in a nanosecond, his best discreet way to hold me back. Because what the fuck?
I know he's a reporter and he has a job to do, but every question this week had a jealous undertone. Or a personal one. Did someone tip him off about our wedding? Did he just randomly stumble onto it? Something is off, and I don’t know what the hell game he’s playing.
Especially since he broke up with me. Why does he care?
He ended things. He had the wife. I moved on.
That's what you do when you find out the man you thought you loved doesn't actually give a shit about you.
So why is he coming after me like I was the one who did him wrong? It doesn’t make any sense.
Unfortunately, I can’t focus on that right now. No, I have to figure out how the hell I’m going to divorce my husband.
That is, after we’re done being yelled at and fired.
“No one is talking about you winning the tournament because tournament wins happen every weekend. But two players getting married in a Las Vegas chapel? Then the next day trying to tear each other’s heads off? That doesn’t. So, Beau, that’s why no one’s talking about it.”
I feel my cheeks heating in embarrassment as Ethan continues on his tirade of how we behaved this weekend. I don’t say anything, because every word he’s saying is correct. I was an ass. I acted like one. And I need to be punished in every way I can be.
Especially for my choice in spouses. That’s the most unforgivable of all.
“I need to apologize,” I offer quickly, not able to meet Ethan’s eyes, but wanting to rip off the Band-Aid and quit before he fires me.
“We acted stupidly this week. I acted… I’m embarrassed for so many things I did and said, both on the course and off.
” Finally lifting my chin, I focus directly on my agent.
“Ethan, you went out on a limb for both of us to get us into the tournament, and it was supposed to be our bounceback. Instead, we went and made asses of ourselves, and also got married without knowing it. So, whatever you feel is an appropriate punishment, or if you feel that you need to sever ways with me, I completely understand.”
I have more to say, but Beau chimes in when I take a breath.
“I second everything Shelby just said. Also, I can’t ever apologize enough for how you’ve had to navigate me and my actions this past year. You shouldn’t have to keep putting yourself in that position just to be my agent."
Ethan pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a heavy sigh. “You two are fucking killing me. Here I thought football players were going to be my nightmare as an agent. Maybe a few basketball guys. No...my two biggest pains in the ass are fucking golfers!”
“They might be your two biggest pains in the ass, but if you all play this right, they could be your biggest cash cows.”
Everyone’s eyes swing toward the door, where Ethan’s newest secretary is ushering in a man and a woman who…
I don’t have words. I mean, they’re both gorgeous in their own ways.
But it’s the aura they’re giving off. Like they’ve owned every room they’ve ever stepped into.
I’m a little scared and a lot impressed.
The man is tall, over six feet, with red hair and a scruffy beard, wearing a suit that I know cost a pretty penny. He’s put together and commanding in his own right. But the woman? She’s only said a single sentence, but I’m pretty sure I have a girl crush.
She's wearing a fitted blouse with a pencil skirt and heels, and her figure is giving a fifties pin-up girl in a power suit. Her hair is perfectly styled, her lips are red, and I know without her saying another word that I would follow her into battle.
“Beau, Shelby, this is Kat Smith and Grayson Ross—also known as the public relations duo that is going to fix this situation.”
“Fix?” I ask. “You’re not dropping us?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Ethan says. “But if Kat is saying you’re my next cash cow? Then color me interested.”
“Me too,” Beau whispers and I slap him on the arm. “Ow! What was that for?”
“I don’t know. It just felt right,” I grit out. “I’m not a cash cow.”
“Oh, but you could be,” Kat says, handing each of us a folder. “I know today has been crazy for the both of you. Have either of you looked at articles or social media since everything broke?”
“I skimmed headlines, but didn’t read anything,” Beau says. “Nothing seemed too out of pocket.”
“You’re right, nothing crazy,” Kat agrees as Grayson brings Ethan’s big screen TV to life, a PowerPoint slide of some kind displaying on the screen. “But there are a few we want to highlight.”
Obviously, the original article is number one. A close second is the video. The next is a timeline of events from the tournament. Which, I should probably review, because I’m sure I’m forgetting something.
“The first two make media sense,” Grayson says. “Every news outlet wants to get the search engine hits, and having the article and the video does that.”
“At least we have a video,” Beau says. “I don’t remember much, so I’m glad I paid a kid to take it.”
“Not helping,” I grit out, slapping his arm for good measure. “Please continue, Kat.”
I want to say the knowing smile she gives me is because I just shut Beau up. Except, I have a sinking feeling the girl I’d follow into battle is about to hand down a death sentence.