At the mention of his name spoken in such a sweet voice, Coach suddenly comes to, snapping back to reality, a confused smile tugging at his lips as he clears his throat. “Well, hello there, L-Lucky…?” He glances questioningly at me, like he’s not sure he said her name right. I nod, and he reaches his big hand out.
Lucky shakes his hand. “You’re Hannah’s daddy,” she says, startling not only Coach but me too because… holy shit… I am officially a fucking idiot.
“I sure am,” Coach says with another confused smile. “You know my Hannah?”
I swear, it’s as if time stands still, everything around me fading to black, my heart beating so loud it’s almost deafening. And as I watch Lucky nod, her curls swirling around her head with the movement, all I can do is stand here, stunned as she says with such pure innocence, “Hannah’s my daddy’s girlfriend.”
Fuck. Me.
CHAPTER 37
HANNAH
“Will you get off that damned phone?” my mother hisses, her million-dollar smile still plastered across her face. It’s an art, I swear. Virginia Stoneham has her fake-ass smile down pat.
“Thunder won,” I say smugly, tucking my phone back into my purse and taking out my red lipstick, ignoring the glower my mother spears me with in the reflection of the gilded mirror. “They’re headed into the playoffs.”
“Did you really need to wear black,sweetie? It does nothing but wash you out.” Mom tsks, ignoring my mention of hockey to instead criticize me and my choice in attire. I’m not surprised though. I saw it in her face the second I stepped foot in the private dining room of the country club. It’s the reason I chose the slinky, short, black strapless dress on purpose; I knew it would piss her off.
“This is a wedding, not a funeral,” she mutters.
“Sorry,” I say, my tone and my smile completely insincere.
“Well, I hope you have something a little more appropriate for tomorrow. It’s a pastel theme.”
“Got it.” I bite my lips together to stop myself from laughing.
Rolling her eyes, my mom steps back, getting a look at herself in the mirror and fluffing up her already fluffy blonde hair.
I remember when I was little, I used to look at my mother and think how beautiful she was. Like a princess. Because she was beautiful. Inside and out. But one day I looked at her, and I noticed she’d changed without me realizing. She went from being a princess to an evil queen. She’s still beautiful in a generic, artificial sense—blinding veneers, bottle blonde hair, plumped up lips, boobs, and butt. Quintessential diamond-encrusted cross dangling in the valley between the aforementioned fake tits. The embodiment of a middle-aged woman from the south who swears by the Bible but only when it suits her. I’m so glad I grew up to be nothing like her.
“How do you likePeter?” Mom asks, her smirk suggestive and gross.
“You mean my soon-to-be stepbrother?” I grimace because the man is disgusting. I only met the guy three hours ago, and in the span of a few hours, he’s already insulted my job, insulted my and eight million other people’s home—New York City—and he touched my ass (twice), purposely grazed my side boob, and he keeps calling mebabe.
“Oh—” She waves a dismissive hand, blowing a raspberry. “Sweetie, you’re both adults.”
I blink at her. “Okay, so that doesn’t change the fact that by this time tomorrow, he will be my stepbrother. It’s got nothing to do with age. You know that, right?”
She rolls her eyes indulgently, her smirk lingering as she nudges me. “I saw the way his eyes lit up at the sight of you. Even in thatblackdress,” she says, taking the chance to offer me another unimpressed once over.
Grabbing my purse from the marble counter, I spin on my heel and head for the door, choosing not to dignify her with a response. Because, firstly, ew. Secondly, I have a boyfriend, and he is so much more than a man like Peter, who seriously looks like he needs to have his hard drive checked.
I walk with my mother through the quiet corridor toward the dining room, which is alive with the sound of music and voices and the clanging of dinnerware. But just before we reach the doors, the man himself struts out, looking every bit the cokehead douchebag. And I don’t even bother hiding my disdain.
Peter stops in his tracks, a self-assured smile spreading across his face that gives me the ick. “Well now, if this isn’t a vision.”
“Oh, you!” Mom swats a hand in his direction, practically gushing over the compliment.
I roll my eyes.
“My father is looking for hisblushingbride,” Peter says, his southern accent pronounced.
Mom glances from Peter to me, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes as she winks at me before turning and walking back into the party with a breezy, “Y’all have fun now,” called over her shoulder.
I scoff, glaring at her retreating back.
“Hi, babe,” Peter says, holding his hands up and quickly correcting himself with a very derisive, “Sis.”
