Chapter 4 Outlaws
We are most definitely not allowed to be in here.
This room is a fire hazard. Candelabras: antique, elaborate, Beauty and the Beast–esque candelabras litter the floor. Every candle is lit, and a variety of lavish red sofas have been artfully arranged among the fixtures.
“Wow.” Reed whistles. A caterer looks up as she sets a bowl on a table twenty feet away.
I cringe, braced for a scolding. But a moment later, she skitters wordlessly from the room through a silver door on the far wall.
I unclench. We’re in a dessert area. The offerings are being arranged in an artful arch, framing an elaborate chocolate fountain in the heart of the space.
Curtains of milk chocolate waterfall aesthetically through four different tiers.
All the fixings for fondue are lined up on a long curved table along the wall: cellophane-covered bowls of strawberries, chopped bananas, blueberries, raspberries, sliced kiwi, balled watermelon, pretzels, and marshmallows.
Another caterer comes in. I freeze again, but they just set down a plate of cookies and zip back out.
Two much grander doors sit at the center of the wall we entered from. Those will presumably be opened to the guests later.
I follow behind Reed as he pulls two thin wooden skewers from a bucket on the fondue table. He hands one to me. “You allergic to any fruit?”
“No, but Reed, I don’t think we’re allowed—”
I stop breathing as the first caterer walks in with a tub of ice cream. She sets it down without making eye contact and whooshes out.
Reed takes my hand and places a skewer in it. “Live a little, Rikki.”
A contentious huff slips out of me. “Live a little?” I point the skewer in his direction. “I’m the one who snuck us in here. I am living.”
“You opened a door, and we walked through. If that’s sneaking, I sneak everywhere, all the time.”
Laughter buzzes from my throat as he removes the cellophane from the strawberries. I wander over next to him. “Time to tell me why you haven’t written something in seven years.”
He skewers a strawberry. “I’ve been preoccupied with other projects.”
I stab my own strawberry. “Dig a little deeper for me, Reed.”
Reed chuckles, closing the few steps back to the fountain.
He pops the strawberry under the chocolate waterfall.
“I guess I haven’t been inspired enough.
You need to really believe in the story you’re writing for it to flourish into something worthwhile, and I haven’t felt that way since my first book. ”
I reluctantly stuff my strawberry into the liquid chocolate. “How many books do you have out in the wild?”
“Two . . . I was young, and I signed a two-book deal, despite not having actually planned to make the story a duology. The publishers thought the first book would do really well and asked if I’d write a sequel.
I told them I would. Then the first book did do really well . . . the second one . . . not so much.
“My heart wasn’t in it. I deluded myself into thinking it would do well anyway, and people saw right through it.
” He belatedly removes his strawberry. It’s dripping everywhere as he pulls it off the skewer and eats the entire berry in one bite, somehow managing to escape without a drop of chocolate on his outfit or face.
He watches me watch him chew, amusement flaring in his gaze. He swallows. “What?”
“Were you like some, quote, youth-prodigy author?”
He closes his eyes and nods. “Twenty-three.”
“You published two YA books?”
He closes his eyes and solemnly nods again.
“Reed, why don’t I know your name? I was in college back then, I read all those big titles. How old are you? Thirty-one?”
“Recently thirty-two.”
I stare at him a beat longer before pulling my drenched piece of fruit from the fountain. I take a careful bite before meeting his eyes again. “No matter how long you go without publishing, you still put out two books. You’re still an author. No air quotes.”
His mouth relaxes into a small smile. “Thank you.”
“I’m going to figure out your book.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He watches as I finish off my strawberry.
“Have you been actively trying to write another one?”
“I’ve started maybe seven books over the years, and I’ve yet to make it past Act 1.
My confidence really took a hit back when the second one didn’t come together.
There was this one negative review that really hit home.
My brain always shoves it in my face when I’m having a shitty time in a Word document. ”
I twist the empty skewer between my fingers as my brain rifles through old YA titles. “Did that one review mess with your head so hard that you won’t let yourself even attempt to finish another project?”
He crosses his arms and eyes me thoughtfully, leaning against the marble table. “It’s complicated.”
I cock a brow. “I’m sure it is.”
He peers at me harder, those laser beam eyes of his melting through my protective outer shell to liquefy my organs.
I take a lazy step away. “All right, let’s circle back to another mystery. Why are you actually single?” I saunter backward toward one of the blood-red sofas (I hope I’m sauntering).
He grins down at his tan lace-up Timberland boots. “It’s a variety of things.”
“Is one of them the tendency to shove an entire piece of fruit in your mouth and swallow it whole?”
He snorts, and I decide it would be sexy to throw my arms out dramatically and sit on a red sofa while I await his response.
I know the sofa’s behind me because I can feel it against the back of my calves, so I go for it. I throw out my arms as I collapse backward. My right hand cuts smoothly through the air, but my left knuckle slams into something hot.
And said something—goes flying.
Reed’s head jerks up, eyes following the projectile I just sent slow-motion soaring through the air via pure stupidity, as my ass flops down against the curved edge of the couch.
It hasn’t even hit the ground, but I can already see the police report.
Thirty-year-old woman without a plus-one dressed as cartoon character accidentally burns down wedding.
The candle thumps against the floor and immediately starts searing the carpet. A larger flame flares to life. That’s gonna need to be smothered.
In one fluid motion, I rip off my lavender skirt, hop up, and chuck it toward the flames. But Reed’s there next to the fire—he catches the skirt, tosses it away, and stomps out the flames with his boot.
Shit.
The two of us stare at the smoldering new black circle in the red carpet, catching our breath. Reed looks up at me wide eyed, hair flopped out of place.
My legs are bent, and my arms are thrown out like I’m going to catch something in my black lace thong and heels, wearing a princess blouse, purple corset, stuffed iguana, and a flower crown.
My stomach dips into my ass as another caterer punches through the doors with a stack of bowls. He stops short, gaping before dropping the stack on the nearest table and bolting back out.
Reed catches my eye and starts to laugh.
And once he starts to laugh, I start to laugh.
And we cackle at each other cackling, until we’re both bent over in hysterics, unable to breathe.
I point to the charred circle, unable to articulate words.
He points behind us at my skirt, the bottom of which is—now in the damn chocolate fountain.
That’s definitely not hygienically sound.
I stumble over, yank it out, squeegee the bottom, and drunkenly laugh my way back to Reed, who catches me by the arms. There’s chocolate all over my hands. I smear it off on some napkins from the fruit table.
“We have to get out of here,” he hisses.
I nod in assent. We really do.
Reed inhales, steadying himself. “And as great as that thong is, I think you should put the skirt back on before we stealth back into the party, or you’re gonna draw some unwanted attention.”
I push him with all the strength of a feather because I can’t stop laughing and my limbs have turned to rubber. I bumble into the skirt and straighten it into place. Our heads drop at the same moment to assess the chocolate damage.
“Reed. It looks like I walked through a puddle of shit.”
Air hisses out of his mouth as Reed takes my hand and pulls me toward the door.
My heart pounds as we slip back into the ballroom. The DJ provides a decent amount of cover, shielding us from the eyes of all the guests currently jamming to a classic rock song on the dance floor. (They mixed up the Disney playlist. Good for them.)
Reed power walks the perimeter until we reach the door to the lobby. He shoves it open.
We breeze past a table full of lavender wedding goody bags, across a brightly lit empty marble-tiled foyer, and down a polished hallway.
Unisex bathroom signs are stamped on two doors at the end of the corridor.
We fumble into one and slam the door behind us like we’re on the run from the wedding-fire-dessert police.
It’s a single stall room. Very shiny. White. Clean. We’re heavy breathing, watching each other stupidly when there’s a knock at the door. I startle away from it.
Dessert police?
“Rikki?”
Jordyn. A distressed Jordyn. I exchange a look with Reed. His face is lit up, mouth in an open grin. Hair mussed.
“What’s up?” I squeak.
“I’ve been looking all over for you! Babe’s asking me where you are. She wants you for the next wedding thing she has planned. I was about to go CSI on that Reed guy’s ass. All your crap is still at the table, so I jumped to the most likely conclusion: He kidnapped or murdered you.”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine. I just need a second.”
“Are you going to be in there a while? You okay?”
Reed starts to laugh. I swat his arm with the back of my palm. “I’m fine! Just stomach . . . troubles. I’ll be out in ten minutes.”
“Okay . . . you’re okay, right?” she asks one more time. “Patty pebbles?”
“Pineapple crepes!”
“All right.” She hits the door twice and retreats.
Reed arches a brow. “Patty pebbles?”
“Code for ‘all good’ in case we’re ever being held at gunpoint and being told to pretend we’re okay.”
“Ah, of course. Discreet.”
“Women have to plan for these things.” We smile at each other for another moment before I remember my chocolate-soaked skirt. “Shit, I have to wash this, and we have to get back out there.”
“Right. Okay.” He fiddles with his pockets for a moment as we both realize I’ll have to get undressed again. “Meet you in the ballroom?”