There’s a part of me that thinks Erika is settling. Just days before she met Huck, she told me she felt like she’d been left on the dating shelf and was destined to be single for life. The next thing I knew, she was dating the idiot, which none of her friendsand family could understand. Things got even more surprising when she announced he was moving in with her after only a few weeks, even though he didn’t have a job or much of a career to speak of.
While it surprised her family, it completely caught me off guard.
It should be me standing at the altar with her today, not him.
I dismiss my foolish thoughts, questioning if I’m the naive one. How could it be me when she’s unaware of my feelings for her? Or when her brother is there, shielding her like her bodyguard?
Placing my hand over my stomach, which is flipping about like butter in a churner, I push down the bile rising in my throat. I might vomit again, like I did before I put on my tuxedo. Now I wish I had told Erika I was out of town on business and couldn’t make it. That would have been a dick move; still, the thought of pretending to be happy all day irritates me, and I already dislike the wedding that hasn’t even started.
Checking my mirrors one last time, I hit the blinker, then tap the paddle shifter to quickly move up the gears, slam my foot on the accelerator, and change lanes, overtaking the truck that cut me off in my McLaren W1, flipping him the bird as I go by. I rarely get road rage, but I’m annoyed and need to vent.
My car engine roars, the exhaust loudly rumbling as I shift into another gear and speed down the highway.
Today is not the day to mess with me. In fact, since Erika asked me to be an usher, I’ve been an ill-tempered bastard.
Something everyone has commented on.
Even my mom thinks I’ve been a cantankerous jerk lately, and she’s never spoken a harsh word about me. She’s my biggest supporter and believes that, despite being retired for over ten years, I remain the greatest hockey player in the world. AlthoughI think purchasing a house for her and Dad the year I was drafted strengthened that belief. She still thinks the sun shines out of my ass and I can do no wrong because I’m hergolden boy.
My attention falls on the time on my watch.
“Shit.” I’m running so late. I step on the accelerator of my hypercar, passing streams of vehicles in a blurry tunnel, my eyes fixed on the road ahead before signaling and taking the exit that leads to the boulevard.
With every inch closer to my destination, my throat tightens as if a giant ball of cotton is stuffed in my esophagus, making me run my finger inside the neckline of my wing collar tuxedo shirt to pull the fabric away from my skin. I swear it’s trying to strangle me.
I crawl slowly toward the church, silently begging the big man from above to make this fucker of a day be over already.
Even closer now to the red-bricked church that looks like it’s towering over the street, like the devil himself, I pull up and park, then kill the engine.
Taking a moment to summon the courage to get out of the car, I’m lost in my own thoughts when my focus lands on a woman running, nope, she’s not running, she’s sprinting along the sidewalk in a giant puffball white dress.
She looks like a bride fleeing for her life.
Yeesh, and I thought I was having a bad day.
Barefoot, the bride-to-be runs toward my car, and I frown, confused as she waves at me, flapping the oversized cotton candy-looking dress she’s clutching onto for dear life.
I narrow my eyes and duck my head slightly to get a better look through the windshield just as she lowers the dense layers of sheer fabric away from her face that she’s been holding up so as not to fall over.
Her features hit me all at once: brown glossy hair, angelic face, plump lips, dimples for days, and golden brown eyes I want to lose myself in.
I’d know that face anywhere.
“Erika?”
CHAPTER TWO
Leon
I freeze in shock for a moment, but quickly regain my posture and unlock the car as fast as my fingers will move to let my girl in.
She’s not your girl, Leon.
Hastily, Erika yanks open the gullwing door, jumps in, sounding completely out of breath, then hurriedly shoves her enormous pouffe dress into any space she can find before reaching upward to close her door, not caring if the fabric gets caught.
While she fills the tiny cockpit of my sports car with white tulle, all I can do is sit and watch her with my mouth hanging open.
“Drive, Leon. Drive,” she pants, her chest heaving as she points toward the windshield, gesturing to the road ahead before she wipes the faint sheen of sweat off her forehead. “Drive,” she shrills, sounding desperate.
