But the kiss.
Lane gently tugs on my hand. It’s probably to ensure I don’t run, making it so he has to track me down later to resolve this. “Come on. Let’s go find our New Year’s Eve wizard.”
We make our way off the stage and through the crowd, accepting congratulations and deflecting questions with vague—and slightly dazed—smiles. My phone keeps buzzing in my tiny purse, but I ignore it. Whatever is happening on social media can wait.
We search the ballroom, then the lobby, and the hotel bar. No Lucian. It’s like he vanished into thin air, which seems fitting given the circumstances.
“Maybe he went backstage?” I suggest.
Lane nods toward a door markedAuthorized Personnel Only.
While I wonder how we might get access, the man just barges through like he owns the place. Knowing what I do about hockey players, they like to party, so perhaps he has a swanky hotel side hustle.
The backstage area is a maze of hallways and storage rooms, mostly empty now that the show is over. In what very much feels like mutually agreed-upon silence, our footsteps echo in the quiet corridors.
“This is outrageous,” I mutter, checking my phone for the time.
It’s well past midnight now, officially New Year’s Day, and I should be on my way back to my hotel room to sleep off this surreal evening. Also, I have more notifications than normal, but it is a holiday and, despite my reluctance to admit it, I did just get married.
Publically.
To a stranger.
My brain rebels against the notion, but my body—the backstabbing traitor—likes the feel of Lane’s hand around mine. The touch of his lips. The rush of the kiss.
Naturally, this only makes me more determined than ever to hunt down the hypnotist who may have committed some kind of fraud.
We take a few more turns and we’re in the depths of the building with metal pipes overhead and flickering fluorescent lighting. I should be gravely concerned because this seems like the kind of place where I could be murdered.
But Lane charges ahead as if prepared to fend off any bad guys lurking in the hallways.
I remind myself it’s late. I’ve been up since yesterday. I should be home. Never mind hypnosis. There’s a good chance I’m hallucinating.
All of this is merely a projection of my imagination.
Then my phone buzzes again, jarring me with the reality that I’m awake. I have eight missed calls from Bree, forty-three text messages in the group chat, and so many notifications from my social media accounts—even the bakery ones—that my stomach knots with the particular feel of pressure I experience when I’ve fallen behind on things.
Then another possibility crashes the party. Someone must have posted the wedding video. All I do is tap one message and my fears are confirmed.
“Lane,” I say weakly, showing him my phone. “I think we might have a problem.”
He looks at the screen and groans. “My agent is going to kill me. I’m supposed to be keeping a low profile.”
“Your agent?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “This can’t turn into another PR nightmare.”
We stare at each other for a moment as if through heavy fog. It’s different from when we were on stage. That was sweet, warm. This is dark, disorienting.
Squaring his shoulders, Lane says, “We’ll find Lucian. Get this sorted out.”
“And if we can’t?”
His jaw tightens. “Then we’ll figure out another way. Annulment, divorce, whatever it takes.”
The words should be reassuring, but they still sting. Of course, he wants to get rid of me as quickly as possible. We’re strangers. This was an accident.
A very public—and suddenly very complicated—accident.
