7. Scottie Elise Reed
Scottie Elise Reed
“Hold still, Sophie,” I hiss, my tongue poked out in concentration. “If I slip, you’re going to have a very permanent, very red accessory for the walk down the aisle. Nobody wants blood on the tulle.”
“It’s itchy, Scottie!” the eight-year-old whines. “It feels like a family of angry cactus bugs lives in this dress!”
“Life is itchy. Law school was itchy. Being a woman in a male-dominated industry is exceptionally itchy,” I mutter, but my hands immediately contradict my sharp tongue.
I drop down to my knees, right into the dust of the bridal suite floor, and pull a dramatic, horrified face.
“Wait, did you say cactus bugs? Hold on, let me use my special legal powers to evict them. Ahem. Attention all bugs, you are trespassing on Princess Sophie’s royal tulle, and you have exactly three seconds to vacate the premises! ”
I tickle her ribs just enough to make her giggle and forget the scratching, then give her nose a playful, grounding boop with my index finger. “There. Eviction notice served. Do they still bite, or did my agent voice scare them away?”
“They’re gone,” she giggles, finally standing still as I smooth down the scratchy tulle lining with my thumb so it won’t rub against her bare skin.
I stand up, smoothing my own dress over my hips and taking a breath. I offer her a small, reassuring smile. “There. You look like an absolute princess. Go find your mother and tell her you’re ready to steal the show.”
I check my reflection in a nearby gilded mirror as she runs away.
My red hair is pinned up in a way that looks effortless but actually required half a bottle of extra-hold spray and three separate mental breakdowns in the bridal suite bathroom.
I look amazing, if I do say so myself.
I also look like I’m about to watch my best friend walk away from our us-against-the-world pact and into the arms of a man who literally spends his life getting hit by frozen rubber disks for fun.
Or at least he did, before he decided to take this permanent vacation from reality.
“Scottie! They’re lining up! Move your gorgeous ass!” Jenna’s voice echoes from the stone patio.
“I’m coming!”
I gather my skirt and stride out.
The back lawn of the estate is a goddamn Pinterest board come to life. Rows of pristine white wooden chairs are set up in a perfect arc facing the stone altar, decorated with overflowing arrangements of white roses and eucalyptus.
Ivy is at the very back, hidden behind a tall floral screen with her father.
I catch a glimpse of her through the slats—the intricate lace, the soft glow of her veil, the sheer, breathtaking Ivy-ness of it all—and my throat suddenly feels like I’ve swallowed a handful of dry sand.
“You’re late,” a deep, gratingly familiar voice says.
“I was saving a child from a wardrobe malfunction, Finnian,” I whisper, stepping into my place in front of him, keeping my eyes locked straight ahead so the wedding coordinator doesn’t assassinate me with her clipboard. “It’s called being a hero. You should try it sometime.”
“I’m the Best Man, Scottie. My only job today is to hold the ring and make sure Callahan doesn’t pass out and crack his skull on the flagstones. I’m currently two-for-two. It’s a delicate balance of hydration and emotional support.”
I look back over my shoulder, and my heart does a weird, traitorous little jump.
Cash is wearing a black tuxedo that should probably be illegal in at least forty-eight states. The way the fabric pulls across his shoulders makes me want to find a reason to scream.
“Your tie is crooked,” I lie.
He doesn’t reach for the silk bow. Instead, he steps half an inch closer, his chest brushing my bare shoulder blade where the dress dips low.
“Liar,” he murmurs. “You just wanted me to look at you.”
“I have three hundred people looking at me, O’Connell. I think I’m good on the ego boost.”
“Yeah, but I’m the only one who knows you’re wearing those leopard print Spanx under that dress,” he murmurs, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face.
I freeze. “I am not—okay, maybe I am, but how do you even know that?”
“I never reveal my sources,” he says, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“I hate you so much.”
“Keep saying that, Sharky.” He tilts his head. “Maybe one day it’ll actually be true.”
The wedding coordinator, a woman with a high-tech headset and the eyes of a hawk, signals me. Go.
I step onto the grass, the thin heel of my shoe sinking into the turf before I adjust my weight, regaining my poise.
The walk down the aisle feels miles long. I keep my chin high, my shoulders back, playing the part of the fiercely protective, completely unbothered Maid of Honor.
But then I pass the front row on the groom’s side, and the air leaves my lungs all at once.
Two chairs are left empty, draped with white lilies and framed photographs.
Ivy’s mom. Cal’s mom.
The hollow silence of those empty chairs in the middle of all this wealth and celebration is a brutal reminder of the things we can’t negotiate, the things no contract can fix.
The people who should be here to straighten a tie or smooth down a veil are just pictures in a silver frame.
I glance toward the altar and see the groom.
Callahan looks like he’s about to shatter into a million pieces. He’s standing there, his jaw so tight I can see the muscle jumping, his hands clasped in front of him so hard his knuckles are white.
I take my place opposite him and then the music shifts.
Ivy appears at the end of the aisle.
The entire world goes silent.
It’s like the wind stops blowing just to watch her walk.
Cal makes this choked-off, broken sound in the back of his throat—a wet, desperate breath that I didn’t think a guy that big was capable of making.
The ceremony is a blur of flower petals and spoken promises.
I spend a lot of time staring at the lilies on the empty chairs, trying to keep my Shark mask firmly in place, forcing the tears back until my eyes sting.
My chest feels tight, like the silk of my dress is a size too small and the air in the garden is too thick to breathe.
I feel the weight of time, the way we’re all shifting, moving into these new versions of ourselves, and it’s overwhelming.
I look up, trying to clear my head, and I realize Cash is watching me.
He isn’t looking at the bride. He isn’t looking at the priest. He’s looking across the altar, straight at me, his gaze so heavy that it feels like he’s physically touching me.
“I do,” Ivy says.
“I do,” Cal echoes, his voice ringing out across the lawn, steady and certain.
The kiss is long, messy, and involves a lot of loud cheering from the back rows where the rest of the Reign teammates are sitting.
As the music swells for the recessional, Cash steps forward, closing the distance between the two sides of the altar, and offers me his arm. I take it, my fingers resting on the hard muscle of his bicep, feeling the hum of his energy through the thin fabric.
“Ready?” he asks, his voice low.
“Let’s get to the bar, Finnian. I have a feeling the next few hours are going to be an absolute bloodbath.”
We reach the end of the lawn, shielded by a large, ancient oak tree before the guests start pouring out of their seats toward the cocktail tent.
Cash stops abruptly, turning his body to face me, blocking the rest of the crowd from view. He doesn’t let go of my arm. His other hand comes up, his thumb brushing a stray tear I missed away from the edge of my cheek.
“You okay?” he asks, his bravado gone.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to pull away, but he’s solid, unyielding. “Just a little lighthearted emotional trauma to kick off the weekend. Standard wedding stuff. I’m going to go find a gin and tonic.”
“You looked beautiful back there,” he murmurs, stepping closer, ignoring my deflection entirely. “Scared, but beautiful.”
“I’m not scared of anything, O’Connell.”
“You’re scared of this,” he says, his eyes dropping to where his hand is still holding my arm, then back up to my face. “You’re scared that the minute we get in that van, you won’t be able to hide behind a desk anymore and you’ll realize how much you want me. How much you want us.”
I pull my arm back as if his touch just scorched me, the cold air hitting my skin like a slap.
“Oh, my God. Again with this bullshit?” I toss my hair over my shoulder, the irritation bubbling up quickly to mask the sudden, terrifying pounding of my heart. “Stop acting like you actually like me, Finn. Seriously, just stop it.”
“Scottie—”
“No, I mean it,” I say as I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
“You don’t even know me. Not really. You know the girl who makes sure you don’t spend your entire signing bonus on magic tricks and vintage arcade games.
You know the woman who yells at rink managers. But you don’t know me.”
I take a half-step into his space, my heels sinking into the soft earth, but I don’t care.
“This? Whatever this weird, fixated energy is? It’s physical.
It’s the tuxedo and the open bar and the fact that we’ve been sniping at each other for three years.
It’s convenient off-season entertainment for you because you’re bored and your shoulder hurts.
Don’t try to make it some deep, soul-searching journey just because you bought a van and have a temporary crush on your agent.
If you knew me—truly knew the actual person behind the spreadsheets—you wouldn’t be saying this stuff. You wouldn’t want to. So just stop.”
Cash doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. He just stands there, the shoulders of his tuxedo rising and falling.
“Finished?” he asks quietly.
“I’m going to find a drink that doesn’t come with a side of your projection,” I snap, turning on my heel. “Try not to trip over your own profoundness on the way to the bar.”
“Scottie,” he calls out, his voice cutting through the rising murmur of the crowd.
I don’t stop walking.
I can feel the heat of his gaze on my bare back, tracing the line of my spine, but I keep my head high as I stride toward the white linen tents.
I need a drink, a distraction, and at least twenty minutes where I don’t have to look at Finnian O’Connell’s eyes.
Because the problem with being a shark is that you have to keep moving to stay alive.
And right now, I feel like I’m swimming in circles.