Chapter 3

Three

Rowan

I planned to make an appearance during cocktail hour and hightail it out of there with the excuse of being sick.

Jack was my best friend in high school. We played on the same hockey team for years, and when my mom couldn't go on the road trips, Jack's family took me. Jack decided to stop playing after high school, having bigger dreams than playing hockey professionally, and that's when our lives drifted in two different directions. Sure, every once in a while we'd call or text, but he was on his way up the corporate ladder, and I was busting my ass to get where I am today.

He's been in Chicago for four years, and the minute I got traded, he called me. We've gone out for a few drinks, and I met his bride, Mila, when he had me over to their trendy, newly built house in the city. They're a great couple. Mila makes Jack happy. So I'm happy for them.

But when I got the wedding invitation, I wanted to decline. I ignored it as I do most things I don't want to deal with. Until Jack called me and put me on the spot.

Usually I'd let any call I don't want to answer go to voicemail, but I was expecting a call from my agent and answered without checking as I was hustling groceries up the stairs of my building. He told me he really wanted me there, and I said I didn't want my appearance to overshadow his day, take the attention away from him and Mila. But he said he'd take care of it and mentioned that his parents really wanted to see me, which piled on the guilt because they did so much for me since I had a single working mom. So here I am at a wedding alone, not knowing anyone except four people. Five now, if you count the hot brunette sitting next to me.

I'm not sure what Jack did, but no one has approached me for a picture, an autograph, or even to shake my hand.

But I agree to sit with Leigh, the woman I met at the bar after stealing glimpses over my shoulder during the cocktail hour. The eyes of the others assigned to Leigh's table are on me as they pull out chairs and sit down around us. I purposely position myself facing Leigh with my arm slung across the back of her chair while the DJ announces the bridal party, then the happy couple makes their entrance.

"So, what did you pick?" I ask her once the music is back at a normal level. I'm unsure how to keep this conversation going with six other people acting as if they can't hear us, but intently listening to every word.

"Beef wellington. You?" She sips her wine.

It seems like a nervous habit. She picks up her wineglass every time her cheeks flame pink. I haven't figured her out yet. When she was about to leave the ballroom, I followed her with my eyes, hoping she'd look over. When she did, I challenged her, thinking she'd come to the bar, I'd get her a drink, and we'd be up in my room within half an hour.

But she stood just far enough away from me at the bar to tell me that she's not that easy to hold on to. My biggest problem is that I love a challenge. For the entirety of my life, all someone had to tell me was that I didn't have it or I'd never make it. I wasn't fast enough or quick enough or smart enough. Tell me I can't do something, and I'll work tirelessly to prove you wrong.

The problem is that the same mentality has been transferred to women. And I feel like this woman has my blueprint.

"Same, but I might be getting your plus one's meal."

She cringes. "Salmon, I think."

Oh, hell.

"And from the look on your face, I'd say you're wishing you were at table twelve," she says.

"Nah, it's just that my trainer has me on this diet, and I'm eating salmon three times a week right now."

Her lips tip up. She's got a helluva smile. One that knocks me off my axis. "You can have my beef wellington, and I'll take your salmon."

"I'm fairly sure I can secure a beef wellington."

"Excuse me." The woman sitting next to me taps my shoulder.

How am I supposed to get this woman to my room if I can't have a conversation for five minutes?

Leigh glances over my shoulder and raises her eyebrows.

I turn in my chair and find that the woman is probably in her midsixties, with a kind smile. I glance down and see a piece of paper and pen on the table. "Hi."

She leans in close, her attention darting to the head table where Jack and Mila sit as if they're the proctors during an exam. "I know we're not supposed to acknowledge you, but my grandson is a huge fan of yours. He's already bought your jersey and talks about how you'll turn the Falcons around."

I scour the table and see that all the other guests are watching us. If I sign that paper, I'm going to have to sign more stuff, then the pictures will start. Soon it'll be a clusterfuck, and the clinking of glasses for Jack and Mila will be overshadowed by the attention being paid to me. There are only a few ways I could go with this, but damn, I remember when I was a kid and dreamed of running into my favorite player. If my grandma had brought a signature home to me, I would've been ecstatic.

I pick up the pen. "What's his name?"

Her entire face lights up as if I just handed over her first grandchild. "Really? Oh, you're a sweet boy." She leans in closer as I put pen to paper but doesn't lower her voice. "I told my daughter those stories were gibberish. Just gossip."

My head tilts, and I stare up at her through my eyelashes.

Leigh snorts and covers her mouth with her napkin.

As far as I know, there's no bad press about me. I've been cordial to every Chicagoan who has approached me on the street since I arrived here. What could people be saying about me?

"I'm sorry?" My forehead wrinkles.

She leans forward and smiles at Leigh. "My daughter said she's heard you're a real heartbreaker. That you're a love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy. But I've been watching you and your date this evening." She winks.

I want to shake my head. Love 'em and leave 'em? I never loved them in the first place, so there's no leavin' 'em.

"I see it in the way you look at her," she says, placing two fingers to her eyes then pointing them back at me.

Yeah, okay. Whatever. This woman is off her rocker. Leigh and I just met.

"And your grandson's name?" I change the subject, not wanting to entertain this woman's false observations.

"Aster."

I scribble the name with my signature below. "There you go."

"He's going to be so happy. Thank you." She looks past me at Leigh once more. "Don't worry, he won't break your heart. I can tell."

I don't react because I learned long ago that your nonverbal communication says much more than what comes out of your mouth. One nasty look or annoyed expression gets you bashed on social media within a minute or less. I place my arm around Leigh, my palm landing on her warm shoulder.

"I might just break his," Leigh says, laughing and picking up her wineglass.

The older lady laughs and takes her husband's hand next to her. "Or you two could be lucky like us. We met at a funeral and hit it off."

"Now there's a meet-cute," Leigh continues the conversation, selling us as a couple by placing her hand on my thigh.

Fuck, her fingers are a mere six inches from my dick, and he wants badly to puff himself up and make up the difference.

I get it, buddy.

The clinking of glasses finally interrupts our conversation. Everyone turns toward Jack and Mila, watching as they come together for a kiss.

"They're adorable," Leigh says. "She told me how she crushed on him pretty hard for a long time."

I turn to look at her, and our faces are close as if we're a real couple. Our eyes lock, my blue meeting her brown, but neither of us pulls away.

"Jack said he noticed her but wanted to prove himself to her first."

She shrugs as though she's not buying it.

The salads are delivered, and thankfully the other table guests are involved in their own conversations.

"I thought it was admirable." Which is true. I mean, I know Jack. He's a go-getter, has a bunch of life goals in a checklist in chronological order by age that he hopes to reach.

She leans her body into mine, and unlike the grandma on my left, Leigh knows how to lower her voice. "It's nice, sure, but if a man wants me, I hope nothing will hold him back. That all he could think about was me until he had me all to himself." She straightens, and I miss the way her long hair tickled my neck.

"Are you suggesting I throw you over my shoulder firefighter-style and carry you to room 1498?"

She laughs. "I'd settle for a more subtle exit, but once we're in the elevator alone, it'd be game on."

Yeah, she's got my blueprint.

"You say the word, and I'll make our excuse."

She eyes the table. Sure, they're talking with one another, but she sees, as I do, what people think are sly glances our way. "After dinner. When dancing starts, you can make your move, Mr. Heartbreaker."

I lift my wrist to check the time. I can hold myself over for another hour, max. But the urge to impress this woman erupts inside me. None of the bullshit lines will work on her. "An hour of torture. Pain before pleasure. Got it."

She stabs her fork into the lettuce on her plate. "Torture?"

"I'm being polite in abiding by your wishes, but for the next hour, having my mouth between your thighs will be the only thing on my mind."

Her lips part slightly, and a lust-crazed aura washes over her face. The exact expression I was hoping for. "Well, eat fast then."

"Sure, right now I will, but up in room 1498, I'll be taking my time."

"Jesus," she murmurs, stabbing the innocent lettuce again.

Oh, tonight is going to be fun with a capital F. Emphasis on the F.