Blaise’s mouth fell open. “How could you forget?”
Dash shrugged. “I don’t think about it. Or marriage. Or anything that isn’t work-related. Unless it’s—”
“A video game,” Blaise and Wes said at the same time.
Wes motioned them toward the dance floor. Blaise begrudgingly went out there.
A drum roll played.
“Are all the single men on the dance floor?” a singer who had recently finished a world tour asked with a grating voice. She glanced around. Her eyes, caked with thick eyeliner and heavy mascara, lingered on him before doing the same to Wes and Dash.
Blaise’s muscles tightened.
Typical.
Except most women only saw their net worth. Much of which was tied up in their respective companies or funds, in his case, but the term billionaire implied an extravagant lifestyle, one with an American Express “Black” card and a Visa “White” card. Few understood the work involved in running a successful company. The attention from gorgeous women used to be flattering to Blaise, who’d been bullied in school, a nerd who girls ignored. Now, he found most women who wanted to date him vapid—the definition of annoying.
The singer glanced at the groom who grinned like a cat waiting for a second serving of canary. “Are you ready?”
Ready for another drink—a shot.
Tequila or whiskey, Blaise didn’t care with the top-shelf liquor being poured by generous bartenders. A famous mixologist had been flown in from New York to create signature wedding cocktails.
Other men, however, whooped and hollered as if the outcome of their evening depended on catching the bride’s garter.
Losers.
But they were welcome to it.
“Smiling won’t kill you, Mortenson,” Wes teased. “Wedding receptions are supposed to be fun.”
“I was having fun until you made me come out here.”
Even if Blaise wanted to argue about being forced to participate, he wouldn’t. A few of his company’s board of directors were here somewhere. They’d been on him about being nicer to his employees. Besides, Mason and his bride deserved better than Blaise causing a scene.
To appease Wes, Blaise forced the corners of his mouth upward in a move he’d perfected.
“Three, two, one…” the singer said into the microphone.
Mason shot the blue and white garter. It soared through the air on a direct trajectory toward…
Blaise cursed under his breath. His tuxedo-clad shoulders sagged.
This had to be a setup.
Too bad because he wasn’t playing.
He shoved the tips of his fingers into his pockets.
The garter hit his left lapel before dropping to the floor.
People gasped.
A few laughed.
Another snickered.
The drummer hit the cymbal.
