Page 61 of Married to the Scottish Player
There are people over there, some of whom are probably observant.People there to make sure guests don’t just wander in out of the woods.
“Walking into a wedding worked for Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn.”
I press my lips together. “This is notWedding Crashers, and you are not charming enough to pull off a lie about being the groom’s second cousin from Tulsa.”
“Rude,” he says, grinning as he adjusts his cuff. “I couldtotallybe charming.”
“You’re wearing designer shoes,” I hiss at him, beginning to unravel.I am not cut out for this life!
Halp!
“Come on,” he says, tugging my hand. “Let loose. A few dances. No one will notice us.”
That’s where he’s wrong: Peoplealwaysnotice.
Because weddings are emotional powder kegs. They magnify everything. Old grudges. Lingering crushes. One too many flutes of champagne, and suddenly Grandma Mabel is dancing with a former college roommate who wasn’t technically invited either.
And here I am, adding myself to that mess.
Except . . .
Except the music is amazing. The energy infectious. Throw in the fact that I haven’t done something reckless in a long time. Not since I started planning other people’s dream days and forgot that I might want my own someday too.
Maverick squeezes my fingers. “You okay?”
I glance at him. He’s looking at me like I’m more than a joke. More than a girl in a pretty dress with a solid bun and a penchant for color-coded spreadsheets.
He’s looking at me like maybe I’m allowed to justbe.
“Yeah,” I breathe, nodding along. “Sure, let’s do it.”
Maverick heads straight for the dance floor.
“Wait—what are you doing?” I whisper-hiss.
“Establishing dominance.”
Oh jeez.
Before I can stop him, he grabs my hand and spins me. Spins me. As if this is something we do all the time. As if we belong here.
My laughter bursts out before I can stop it.
We blend into the crowd like we were always meant to be here. Like we’re not impostors crashing a wedding with no gift and zero shame.
At some point, we end up with drinks. Mine is pink and fizzy. His is brown and dangerous looking, with one large ice cube bobbing around.
We toast. “To what may be a bad decision,” he says again.
“To satin,” I reply, because this dress is doing the most for me.
He smirks. “You know you look like every groom’s worst temptation right now, right?”
I flutter my lashes; they’ve been poppin’ since I began using actual lash serum to grow them. “I take that as the highest compliment.”
He leans in. “You should.”
We make up fake names on the spot—I become Chelsea. He becomes Grant. We fake a shared college experience and pretend to be old friends of the groom. And no one questions it. Maybe because we look the part. Maybe because weddings blur the lines between reality and magic.
