Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
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.”
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 not Wedding 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 could totally be 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: People always notice.
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 just be.
“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.
Maybe because, for the first time in a long time, I’m not thinking about work. Or timelines. Or checklists.
I’m just thinking about Maverick.
Callum.
Sexy, romantic Callum McBride.
“Say something Scottish,” I softly plead, tilting my chin up at him as we stand next to the table of mini desserts.
The corner of his mouth lifts, a whisper of amusement in his expression. “In Scotland, we dinnae crash weddings. We take ’em over,” he murmurs, voice low and just rough enough to make every nerve in my spine tingle.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, fanning myself with a cocktail napkin. “Keep talking. Say ‘bagpipes.’”
“Bagpipes.”
I groan. Shiver. Cannot get enough of him.
He grins, entirely unapologetic as he hands me another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. I sip it, giggling. The bubbles hit hard and fast, mixing with the tequila from earlier and the general giddy chaos of pretending to be someone else for a night.