Chapter 4
I surface from this surreal experience to thunderous applause along with a familiar song, but I can’t quite place it. I’m aware that it’s New Year’s Eve, but the tune isn’t “Auld Lang Syne.”
Did we miss the countdown? I recall Lucian saying, Three, two, one, but no one shouted Happy New Year!
My entire body goes still and I’m pretty sure my heart stops for a beat.
The song playing is from a wedding—the classic recessional march.
That’s my first clue that something has gone spectacularly wrong.
I look around, my heart now in my throat, trying to figure out what’s happening.
The second clue is the slight pinch on my hand—something that definitely wasn’t there when I went under hypnosis. I squeeze my eyes closed and then open them, trying to clear the golden fog from my vision, and look down to find a simple gold band wrapped around my ring finger.
A wedding ring.
I blink in time with the music as if waking from a dream.
“Nina!” Bree’s voice cuts through my confusion like an alarm clock. “That was incredible!”
I’m still on stage and holding hands with the gorgeous stranger with green eyes—Lane, I remember now. Judging by the matching ring on his finger, we’re both having the same slow-dawning realization.
The crowd is on its feet, cheering like the Knights just scored the winning goal in overtime. Confetti and balloons fall like colorful rain from above us. Cameras flash and people cheer.
All I can think is that this feels remarkably like the aftermath of a wedding.
Because it was a wedding.
My wedding.
To a complete stranger.
Lane’s hand tightens around mine, and when I look up at him, his expression mirrors exactly how I feel: confused, stunned, and rapidly approaching panic.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lucian announces into his microphone, “let’s give our happy couple one more round of applause!”
Happy couple. The words hit me like a rolling pin to the stomach.
“Did we just—?” I start, but my voice comes out as a croak.
“Get married?” Lane finishes, his voice rough.
“I think we did.”
We both jerk our heads toward Lucian, who smiles like he just did us the greatest of favors.
The strange and impossible reality of this crashes over me like a tidal wave.
I’m married.
To a hockey player.
The one thing I swore to my father I would never, ever do—well, date, but still.
No, this can’t be.
Wait. How do I know he’s a hockey player?
“This isn’t real,” I whisper, staring at the ring on my finger. It’s beautiful in a simple, traditional way, but Lane didn’t propose. Margo didn’t plan this event. The girls and I didn’t go on a bachelorette adventure. Lane and I didn’t snuggle up, anticipating our big day and future together.
We don’t even know each other!
Lucian repeats my question, “This isn’t real? Oh, but it is!”
Lane, who may as well be a pillar of stone, comes to life and takes a step toward Lucian, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. His hard expression suggests Lucian has some explaining to do.
As if anticipating being throttled by a hockey player, the hypnotist spins his finger in the air. Is he casting a magic spell? Making a charades gesture? It almost looks like he’s suggesting someone “roll the tape.”
He says, “Would you like to see the ceremony? We recorded the whole thing for posterity. My assistant will also send you each a copy.”
Before either of us can object, a screen appears behind us and suddenly there we are on the big display—Lane and me, holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes with an intensity that makes my cheeks burn.
Up here, mere minutes ago, we looked ... happy. Radiant, even. Like we’re genuinely in love and choosing each other for forever. It’s disturbing, mesmerizing. I can’t tear my eyes away.
Lucian continues as the video plays, “While you were in your relaxed state, you shared some wonderful details about yourselves. Nina, you told us your favorite food is fresh bread with honey butter, just like your grandmother used to make. And Lane, you mentioned that your dream is to coach hockey someday.”
He’s been relatively quiet, but a rumble erupts from somewhere inside him.
Lucian asks us each questions that I hardly remember answering, but it turns out that’s how I know Lane is a hockey player.
However, in my mind’s eye, I can picture all of it.
Hear myself. I was telling them about Bibi’s recipes, from the rugged rugbr?d, a dense rye bread with seeds, to the lighter pumpernickel, to the kringle she’d make for special occasions.
I even told them that Bibi had a saying, a Danish proverb, Spis lige br?d til, which means “have some bread with that.” While it might literally mean to eat some bread, it could also be interpreted as a nudge to calm down, take it easy.
Right now, I feel quite the opposite.
Lucian adds, “You both love the smell of cinnamon. And you, Lane, admitted that fresh-baked bread is one of your few indulgences.”
I arch an eyebrow in question.
He frowns. “I may have mentioned that.”
“This is insane,” I mutter.
I’m watching the video of us exchanging vows. The way we’re looking at each other makes my heart skip. It doesn’t appear as if we’re under hypnosis. It looks like we’re making a choice.
But we weren’t. Were we?
However, a memory, fresh in my mind, playing like a slide show, suggests that I very much did give myself in marriage to this man.
Then, I watch Lane say, “I do” with a smile that doesn’t look forced or like he’s in a trance. It looks genuine.
That’s impossible. Isn’t it?
“Nina’s ‘no way’ moment incoming,” Bree’s voice filters from behind me.
My friends have gathered around the stage like this is an intervention.
“My what moment?” I ask.
Gracie, who owns a bookstore called Once Upon a Romance and runs our book club, casually explains, “Your ‘no way’ moment is when you resist romance and have a small breakdown about it.”
“I am not having a breakdown,” I say automatically.
I totally am.
“You married a hockey player,” Bree points out gently.
And there it is. The full weight of what I’ve done hits me like a freight train loaded with coal, late for arrival on Christmas morning.
I married a hockey player.
Papa made me promise never to date one. It’s the one boundary I’ve maintained my entire adult life—even, somehow, while living in “Hockey Town.” It’s the line I swore I’d never cross because hockey players are unreliable and self-centered and they break hearts as easily as they break sticks.
At least, that’s the story I’ve been told.
Then again, looking around at my gleeful friends, many of whom are married to the aforementioned athletes, they can’t all be bad, can they?
Actually, this is a nightmare. I just need to wake up. I gaze toward the ceiling and am about to pinch myself when reality speeds up.
“Oh no,” My breathing comes short and I press my free hand to my mouth. “Oh no, oh no, oh no. Dad is going to—”
“Nina.” Lane’s voice is gentle, concerned as he steps into my line of sight. “Hey, look at me.”
I do, and those green eyes are warm with something that might be understanding. Or pity. I’m not sure which is worse.
“We’ll figure this out,” he says quietly. “It’s going to be okay.”
He must read the absolute terror on my face and my quickly spiraling panic—available for the public to see as perspiration dots my hairline and burning cheeks.
“But I promised,” I whisper, and the words sound pathetic even to me. “I promised my father I’d never date a hockey player, and I didn’t just date one, I married one.”
“Your father?” Lane asks.
Before I can answer, the countdown to midnight begins. Everything is happening so fast. I should be at home in Cobbiton, where life is normal, predictable, and I’m not about to greet the new year, having just been married in Las Vegas!
“Ten!” the crowd shouts, and suddenly everyone is looking at their watches and phones.
“Nine!”
Can someone please press pause and let me catch up on the plot of this horror movie?! Only, it’s Lane and me on the screen, on repeat, as we prepared to be declared husband and wife mere minutes ago.
“Eight!”
I could make a run for it, but I hardly know where I am. Vegas is a big city.
“Seven!”
The crowd is getting louder, more excited. Someone shouts something about a midnight kiss, and my stomach flips.
“Six!”
My friends nudge Lane and me together. I gently press my first two fingers to my lips. They’re warm. It’s almost like I can feel the soft brushstroke of his mouth against mine.
“Five!”
He’s looking at me with an expression I can’t read, but his fingers still grip mine and he hasn’t run screaming from the stage yet. I’m not sure if this is good or if the hypnotist also somehow glued our hands together.
“Four!”
I tip my head to face Lane and in his eye contact, I feel an unexpected surge of security. Like, amidst this craziness, he’s a safe place to land. A refuge. A protector.
“Three!”
“Kiss her!” someone yells from the crowd. I’m pretty sure it’s Pierre, Cara’s husband, from the Nebraska Knights.
Everyone picks up the chant and it melds with the countdown.
“Two!”
I open and close my mouth, prepared to tell Lane that we don’t have to, but just before the big screen behind us goes dark at the end of our wedding video, we’d kissed.
Lucian said to us, You may kiss the bride.
We’d leaned close.
Heads tilted.
Lips melted together.
I kissed this man? It all comes flooding back. The contact, the heat, the surge inside. But before I can slow things down, Lane’s free hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb sweeping across my skin in a surprisingly tender gesture.
“One!”
“Happy New Year!”
The ballroom explodes in cheers and noise makers and celebration, but all I can focus on is Lane’s eyes searching mine.
“A New Year’s kiss?” I can’t be sure if he’s asking or … but the softness in his eyes suggests he’s waiting for permission.
My chest flutters.