Because, while my nametag does sayWedding Coordinator—a title I’m hoping will clear up this absurd misunderstanding—it also has my name on it. Obviously.
The problem?
It’s not the name I gave him.
I told Petyr that my name was Sima. But now, as his whiskey-and-honey eyes scan the writing on the tag, it’s not Sima he’s reading. It’sSammi.
Pretty close, but nowhere near close enough.
And the look in his eyes says he knows I lied.
I scramble to cover the crack in my alibi before it swallows me whole. “Not that it matters what my name is, because I’m not your bride! Obviously. I mean, it’d be bad luck, right? Seeing the bride before the wedding?” I try to wriggle closer to the door, to claw back some personal space. “Very unlucky. I wouldn’t do that to you. If I were, um… your bride.”
He doesn’t so much as blink. “That bullshit was invented back when marriages were arranged. In case the groom caught a glimpse of his bride and decided to back out.”
He takes a step closer.Must not be a fan of personal space after all,I realize with gut-wrenching dread.
My back hits the door.
He takes another step.
And another.
Andanother.
Suddenly, I can feel everything.And I do mean everything. Like the fact that his abs clearly aren’t painted on, that his V-cut could slice me up like warm butter, or that I’m really hoping he’s hiding a gun in his underwear.
Because the alternative is both way better and much, much worse.
I try again to scoot away, but there’s nowhere left for me to go.Petyr advances the last few inches. His voice drops, quiet and slow. “If youweremy bride, though,” he says, eyes locked on mine, “I wouldn’t call it off. Not after seeing you.”
My brain short-circuits so completely it might as well pop up a 404 error.
And still—still—some deranged part of me wants to laugh.
If he only knew.
If he hadanyidea who I was. If he could see past the cheap blazer and the nametag, if he connected the dots between my blunder and his blood feud…
There’s no way he’d want me then.
“You sure we haven’t met before?” he asks, frowning slightly. “You look… familiar.”
My stomach drops. “Positive,” I manage to squeak. “I mean, we obviously run in very different circles. I’m working class, and you’re, um, not.”
“No,” he concedes, “I’m not. But I never forget a face.”
Sweat springs to my skin. My fingers go numb. I drop my purse like it’s a hot potato and all my things go spilling out in every direction.
In any other circumstance, I’d be mortified at the sight of tampons and lip gloss rolling away like loose marbles, but I’m a little preoccupied with my imminent demise. I swear I can hear my own heartbeat in my teeth.
He knows.
He knows.
I open my mouth, no idea what excuse I’ll blurt this time, when?—
BANG!
