“Hope you’re getting more than eye candy out of this,” Kami whispers, then she links her hand in Nick’s and they stroll down the path behind Henri and Luca.
I eye Fletcher. “Why are you here?”
“Networking.” He flexes his left shoulder, and I swear he also squeezes his ass cheeks.
There’s something about his posture that saysI’m squeezing my ass cheeks.
“You already know everyone you want to know from the baseball and hockey teams.”
“Doesn’t hurt to see them again with a stamp of approval from their favorite life coach.”
“How do you knowIknow them and wasn’t blowing smoke?”
“Research.” He offers me his arm again, rolling his shoulder and shifting his weight oddly once more. “Let’s go before a bird shits on one of us.”
14
Fletcher
Why am I here?
I shouldn’t be here. I hate weddings. I hate networking. I hate wearing a suit. I hate wearing a suit more when my ass is getting itchier by the minute.
I hate it so much that I told Shade to take the night off instead of following me here for publicity shots.
I hate losing most though, so I’m here, at a wedding, networking in pursuit of my ultimate goal.
And being Goldie’s shield if her knob of an ex tries anything.
Fine.
Fine.
I’m here because Goldie isn’t the type of woman to ask for a date to a wedding so that she doesn’t have to be alone if her ex sees her.
She built her own business. She handles Silasall the time. She’s moving to London solo as the featured guest of a prominent organization.
If she wants a date to a wedding because her ex will be here, then that ex is the biggest shit pile in the history of dung.
If I weren’t here, I would’ve sat at home with Sweet Pea all night wondering if Goldie was having a breakdown in a bathroom if her ex showed up with a new girlfriend. Or wife. Or wife and baby.
If she still loves him.
If she asked me only as a pawn to make a cock-up jealous. A cock-up who can’t possibly deserve her if he’s her ex.
Not that I mind being a pawn.
I’m a fucking good pawn and I know it.
“You want a drink?” I ask her when we’ve found our table and I’ve verified that her facial expression doesn’t sayfuck me, my ex and his wife and their three kids and their rescue dog and cat that does tricks and emotional support parrot are also sitting with us.
This is nothing like any banquet hall I’ve ever seen, likely because I tend to decline invitations to shit like this. Lush green plants are growing around the edges and vines hang from the ceiling. Tables line wider walkways between flower gardens. We’re still in danger of bird shit from the tropical birds squawking and chirping overhead. The head table is in front of a man-made rock waterfall, and the dance floor—what I assume is the dance floor, based on the band setup—is a triangular section of the room carved out between more rock formations and flower beds.
The tables are draped in black linens and a different tropical plant is the centerpiece on each.
The baseball players are at one table. Hockey guys at another. I don’t know all of the women’s soccer team players yet, but there are enough of them that they’re scattered around the room, slowly making their way to seats as more guests arrive from the main part of the indoor gardens.
And the sight of all of the plants and the knowledge that they produce pollen is making my ass itch even worse.
