Chapter Two
VIVI
Trey Hartley …
The man who, despite barely exchanging more than pleasantries at family gatherings, makes my pulse race more in one look than Jameson has in six months of engagement.
Six months of polite dinners and awkward kisses in front of the press.
But one glimpse of those forest green eyes and suddenly I'm achingly aware of every inch of skin beneath this dress.
He blinks at me, confusion morphing into recognition. "Vivi?"
Before I can respond, he's out of the driver's seat, circling to my side of the SUV through the rain.
"What the hell are you doing?" he calls over the rain that's now coming down even harder.
I ignore him, still trying to wrestle a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of tulle into his vehicle.
"Trying to get out of here. What does it look like?"
"You're going in the wrong direction. The wedding's that way."
Can he honestly not see that I’m making a run for it?
"I know, now shut up and help me in. I'll explain later." I say, my foot slipping on the underskirt of my gown as I try to hoist myself up onto the step railing of his newer black SUV.
"Where's your groom? Shouldn't he be with you?" he asks.
"If I had to guess, he's probably standing at the altar waiting for me to walk down the aisle," I say.
There’s a slight pause as if I stunned him, and then I hear his voice again behind me.
“Did he hurt you?” he asks, his voice thick with concern.
“Did he what?” I ask.
“Did he hurt you, Vivi? Do I need to go back there and take care of it?” he asks. “I swear to God…if he laid a finger on you, I’ll…”
He doesn’t have to finish that sentence because from what I know about Trey’s time as a Night Stalker for the US Army Special Operations Forces, I can only guess what he would do to Jameson.
Before I can get a word out, Trey pivots on his heel, the set of his shoulders promising he’s about to storm back into that wedding venue like the Terminator and level Jameson’s entire wedding party.
“No, Trey!” I grab his arm, my voice sharp with panic, fingers tightening into the tattooed flesh of his muscular bicep before he can take another step.
The image flashes in my mind—Trey going full special forces, hockey-enforcer mode on anyone who dared hurt me.
It’s terrifying.
It’s thrilling.
And it warms places in me I shouldn’t admit out loud.
Jameson doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve any of this.
Trey turns back to me, his eyes locking on mine. The look is darker now, edged with something dangerous—protective instinct like a switch he can’t turn off. That’s when I notice it. The hearing aid in his left ear.
I’ve never asked, but Isla told me once about the helicopter crash overseas, how it almost killed him. The device should make him seem more human—vulnerable. But on Trey Hartley, it only underscores the truth I’ve come to know watching him play for the Hawkeyes.
He’s invincible.
“He didn’t hurt me. I swear. I just can’t do it. I need to get out of here, please.”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “I can’t believe I’m helping you do this,” he mutters, and then suddenly his hands are on my hips, lifting me effortlessly into the backseat. I yelp as he tosses the rest of my train in after me and slams the door.
The scent of leather seats and his cologne wraps around me—nothing like Jameson's carefully selected designer fragrance. Everything about Trey is raw, unpolished, and dangerous in a way that makes my skin tingle.
He climbs back into the driver's seat, and I check again to see if anyone is chasing after me, but the coast is still clear.
"Drive," I manage. "Please. Anywhere but here."
His jaw clenches as he slides behind the wheel, those massive hands gripping tight.
"Where do you want to go?” he asks.
Nothing instantly comes to mind. Everyone will be looking for me at my townhouse first so not there.
“I don’t know,” I say as I think through options.
“Where would you feel the safest?”
That question gives me an immediate answer.
"Isla's."
He nods once and pulls the car onto the main road. The wedding fades in the rearview mirror like a bad dream. Rain drums against the roof, windshield wipers keeping a steady rhythm as we drive in silence.
I notice the empty passenger seat with a girl’s backpack lying on the floorboards. His niece’s. "Where's Adeline?"
"Ballet. Dropped her before grabbing Kaenan's cufflinks that he forgot at his house." He checks his watch, the movement drawing attention to corded forearm muscles covered in ink. "I need to pick her up soon. I’ll be a few minutes late, but I’ll drop you off first."
I shake my head. "She shouldn't wait because of me. Let's get her first."
His eyes flick to mine in the rearview mirror, searching my face with an intensity that makes my skin heat.
"You sure?"
"Absolutely. I'm already ruining enough people's day.”
The drive passes quietly except for the soft hum of the heater and the constant rhythmic drumming of the rain against the car’s roof.
I catch him watching me when he thinks I'm not looking, each stolen glance making my heart skip in a way that no lingering eye contact with Jameson would have ever managed. I have to wonder if he regrets helping Kaenan now that he’s stuck with a runaway bride in the back of his SUV.
"Sorry you got dragged into this," I say finally. "Especially when you were just doing Kaenan a favor."
He shrugs, the movement rippling through broad shoulders. "It's fine. Gave me an excuse to skip ballet anyway."
His comment has me curious.
"You don't like watching Adeline dance?"
"Of course I do." He runs a hand through his short dark hair, the gesture oddly vulnerable.
“But… It's just what? Too girly for a man like you?" I tease, trying to lighten the mood and distract myself from how aware I am of him in this enclosed space.
"No." His voice softens. "I like watching Adeline dance. She's a natural at everything she does, but the moms—it’s a circus.”
Right. Because when a tattooed, six-foot-five hockey player shows up at ballet class, the divorced mom brigade loses their ever-loving minds.
I can't blame them, really. Even in profile, he's gorgeous in that dangerous way that makes good girls think bad thoughts.
The kind of thoughts I definitely shouldn't be having right now.
"The moms are a problem? How exactly?" I press, partly to keep us both from dwelling on heavier topics, partly because I'm genuinely curious about what makes this powerful man uncomfortable.
Call it morbid curiosity.
"Me being there seems to cause a distraction, and I don't want anything taking away from her time to shine."
I can only imagine what it's like when women see him out in the wild. I'm sure he gets handed numbers daily, women flirting non-stop. He'd have his pick of anyone he wants. I’ve personally seen plenty of puck bunnies fawning over him at Oakley’s and the times I’ve gone to a Hawkeyes game with Isla.
His female fan base isn’t small by any means.
Six-foot-five—an entire foot and three inches taller than me, of raw power, sharp edges, and tattoos—the kind of man I imagine the special forces deployed as a human battering ram.
He's the kind of man you'd want fighting for you, not with you.
And I don't blame the ballet moms for wondering how that intensity would translate to the bedroom.
I bet the sex is explosive—primal, in a way Jameson's careful touches could never be.
The image of Trey pinning me against my bedroom wall, those massive hands exploring every inch of me …
I squeeze my thighs together, mortified at where my mind has wandered. How can I possibly be thinking about sex with Trey while I'm still wearing my wedding dress for Jameson?
We pull into the dance studio lot just as class lets out.
"Stay here. I'll be right back." His voice is gruff, professional—a complete contrast to the heated looks he keeps trying to hide.
"Trust me. I won't be going anywhere." I gesture at my dress.
“Right…” he says, no amusement in his voice. He’s impossible to read, but I bet that’s what he was trained for.
What exactly was he thinking I’d do if he didn’t tell me to stay put?
Sashay into class in a rain-soaked designer wedding gown, dripping all over the floor, while every woman—poured into a push-up bra and wearing enough makeup to survive a hurricane—shot me death glares for daring to exist near Trey?
No thanks.
The last thing I need is someone tipping off the media that not only did I run away from my own wedding, but that I ran off with the Hawkeyes' left winger. As if this day could get any more complicated.
I watch him slide out of the SUV, closing the car door behind him and leaving the heat running.
He moves with athletic grace despite what I swear is a slight limp—so subtle I might be imagining it. I can’t be sure if that limp is from the helicopter accident or hockey.
Alone in the heated car, I contemplate the ruins of my carefully planned life. Within minutes, the glass door opens, startling me. I dip down in my seat. After all, a woman in a wedding dress isn't exactly inconspicuous.
Barely peeking over the SUV's dashboard, I see Adeline emerge first, bundled in a large jacket with track pants over her leotard.
Trey follows, her duffel bag in one hand and three women flanking him like perfectly coordinated satellites.
All in tight yoga pants with their assets on full display.
Of course they're glued to his side. A herd of horny dance moms circling a gorgeous hockey player, like a pack of hungry hyenas surrounding a water buffalo. It’s a tale as old as time.
I smirk to myself, but when one of the women looks toward the SUV, I duck down so fast I nearly face-plant into the center console. The movement sends a ripple of tulle across my lap, and I have to bite back a hysterical laugh at the absurdity of my situation.
"Such a dedicated uncle," one coos as he loads Adeline's bag.
"Will we see you at Oakley's after the home game this week?" another asks.