And kissing.
Well, almost kissing.
Paige: When have you ever just talked to a woman you were alone with?
“Hey, we’re here,” The Uber driver says from the front seat. Looking up from my phone, I see the stone steps leading up from the sidewalk to the cathedral’s white marble exterior.
Me: I’m pulling up to the church now. I’ll see you when you get here.
Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I mutter a quick thanks before letting myself out. Stepping onto the sidewalk, there are a few of the more diligent members of the pressalready posted up, cameras poised, waiting for the happy couple to make their grand exit. I feel my phone buzz in my pocket again. Undoubtedly Paige. Closing the door behind me, I barely hear the click of it before my Uber launches itself back into traffic.
I should’ve stayed home.
Should’ve ignored that punched in the gut feeling that seeing a miserable-looking Millie on Instagram gave me and just do what I do best.
Yeah—you should’ve but you didn’t, and now you’re here so you might as well get your ass up the steps and get a front-row seat to the shitshow.
Right.
Making my way up the steps, I run the gauntlet, ignoring the scrutinization that always comes with arriving unaccompanied to a Blackwell event. The few times I’ve arranged to meet Paige, rather than arrive on her arm, I’ve had to submit myself for interrogation.
This time is no different.
Walking past the loose knot of paparazzi littering the base of them, I focus on the pair of formidable-looking security agents in dark-colored suits, standing guard at the top of the steps. I’ve gotten to know most of the Blackwell security team over the years.
These men are not them.
“I’m sorry, sir,” one of them says, glaring at me from behind a pair of blackout aviators. “This is a private event.”
“Yes.” I give him a nod, gesturing vaguely at my suit. “The Blackwell wedding. I’m a guest.”
Agent number two makes what I can only assume is supposed to be an intimidating noise in the back of his throat. “Name.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s asking me for mine. “Mercer,” I tell him, regretting not meeting Paige at the Hawthorne, if only so I could get past security. “Dean Mercer. I’m Paige Blackwell’s escort.”
Agent number one looks at me like I’m a filthy liar. “Ms. Blackwell hasn’t arrived yet.”
“I know.” I give him a head bob. “She’s running late.”
Lifting his arm without answering me, he mutters something into the cuff of his suit while his partner stares me down and the paparazzi behind me gets ready to memorialize my humiliation on the front page of every gossip rag in print. I can already see it?—
Paige Blackwell’s Boytoy Bounced down Cathedral Steps.
Dropping his arm, agent one tilts his head slightly like he’s listening to something, mouth held in a tight line while his partner keeps staring. Just when I think the paparazzi are definitely going to get their headline, the door to the sanctuary opens and Millie’s father appears.
“It’s alright—he’s a guest of the bride,” he says before looking past them to give me one of his friendly smiles. “Come on, Dean—you’re cutting it close.”
Thank god.
“You two have a good day.” Flashing them a friendly,fuck yousmile of my own, I blade myself between the two of them, taking the rest of the stairs, two at a time.
“Sorry about that.” Mr. Blackwell’s smile turns slightly exasperated. “Secret Service—Andy’s here. They’ve got the entire place sewn up like it’s the goddamned White House.”
Andyis Anderson Waverly—the Vice President of the United States. I remember reading somewhere that Preston Blackwell and the VP were in Skull and Bone together at Yale. He’s Millie’s godfather.
“Well, I’m sorry you had to come rescue me, sir,” I say as wemove into the vestibule of the cathedral. “I know how busy you are.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Blackwell says, giving my shoulder a fatherly pat. “I just happened to be passing by on my way to find Millie so we can get this show on the road.”
