Page 60 of Married to the Scottish Player
I take the glass she offers, and we clink. “To terrible decisions,” she says, eyes twinkling.
Clink!go our shot glasses.
As I tip it back, hot liquid burning my throat, I realize I should be worried about someone recognizing me. About her getting bored. About this being a mistake.
But I’m not.
I’m worried I won’t be able to stop looking at her all night.
“Maybe I should have another one.”
Annabelle snorts. “Save it for the dance floor, big guy.”
She grabs my hand—doesn’t ask, just laces her fingers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world—and pulls me toward the front door.
Outside, the sky is painted pink and orange, the last hints of daylight fading as the sun dips behind the trees.
I inhale the crisp air; pine and woodsmoke thread through on a cool breeze as we follow the narrow footpath from our cabin toward the resort. She grips me tighter so she doesn’t trip as her heel catches on a branch. Annabelle lifts the hem of her dress as we go, stepping over roots and ducking under a low-hanging branch.
Suddenly hyperaware of how close we are, the way her shoulder brushes mine every few steps, how the baby bit of tequila hums in my veins and mixes with the clean scent of her skin—like soap and lake water and whatever perfume she probably put on for no one but herself.
“It’s a live band,” she whispers. “I love that.”
“Reception’s in full swing,” I whisper back. “Think they’re ready for us?”
She glances up at me with a sly smile. “They havenoidea what’s coming.”
We break through the trees, emerging from the shaded trail like we’re stepping into another world.
The back lawn of the resort stretches out in front of us, strung with hundreds of fairy lights that zigzag overhead like constellations. Round tables are scattered across the grass, white tablecloths fluttering in the breeze. A hardwood dance floor is laid down at the center, ringed by flickering lanterns and tipsy wedding guests holding champagne flutes.
Perfect.
The bride and groom are nowhere in sight, but the band is already in full swing, music jazzy and current and enough to make you want to tap your feet. A group of older women are camped out at a table near the bar, giggling behind their wineglasses.
I feel Annabelle’s hand tighten in mine. “Here goes nothing.”
Chapter 15
Annabelle
Never have I ever crashed a wedding.
Seriously. Never. Not once.
And I say that as a wedding planner who has seen it all. Lost rings. Drunk uncles. One memorable case of a flower girl projectile vomiting mid-processional. But the one thing that sets my teeth on edge? Wedding crashers.
They are always the same. Tipsy. Entitled. Showing up for the free drinks and cake with no regard for the hours and hours of work that go into every single detail. The seating charts. The favors. The late-night texts from brides stressing about their mothers and bridesmaids being difficult. It is my job to make the most important day of someone’s life seamless—and nothing ruins a seamless day like unexpected guests sneaking in from the sidelines.
Which makes it ironic as hell that I am here.
But the blue satin fits like it was made for me. My hair is twisted into a sleek bun. And Maverick? Maverick is trouble in a fitted white shirt, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and with the confidence of a guy who has never been caught sneaking anywhere.
“Okay,” I hiss, tugging him slightly off the main gravel path and into the shadows of a row of hydrangeas. “We need a plan.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Plan?”
“Yes, a plan. You can’t just walk into a wedding and hope for the best.”
