I grin. “See, you’re not such a pushover. You can stand up for yourself.”
“Thank you. I’m practicing. But it’s not easy.” She hiccups. “Damn hiccups.”
“We’ll get you something to drink. But if you insist on champagne, have a water as well. You’ll be glad tomorrow.”
She tries to wave me away. “I’m sure you have better things to do than hang out at my sister’s wedding. And, while I’m super glad to get reacquainted with you and your lovely muscles, I’m wondering why you’re here. I mean, don’t you have big and important things to do?”
I cross my arms. “Most people want me at their events. And you look like you need some help.”
She smiles, a real one this time. There’s that dimple. Why is it the same, yet so different from her sister’s?
“I do. I do want you.” She gives me a slow once-over that heats my blood and makes me want to taste those full lips, makes me wonder if she still smells like berries.
“But you don’t need to feel sorry for me,” she continues. “I have my friends and family here.”
“Are they okay that your ex is at your sister’s wedding?”
She slumps a little at that. “Yes. But to be fair, Derek and I dated since high school, and they consider him to be part of the family. We have so many friends in common, and we even teach at the same school. My parents thought if they invited him, he might decide he was lost without me. Instead, he brought his new girlfriend, the French teacher.”
I clench my fists. What an ass.
She hiccups again, then looks around, this time more wildly. “I really need that drink now.”
“I’ll get it for you. Stay here.”
I wander into the reception and walk up to the bar.
“Holy shit. You’re Ronan Masters!”
I tilt my head in assent. I’m not even wearing a hat or sunglasses, the most basic of disguises. It’s pointless to pretend.
“Ronan fucking Masters!”
I nod again and rub my jaw, wondering how long this will take.
“Ronan Masters! You’re a badass. I can’t believe it!”
“Yup. Still Ronan Masters. Champagne and a sparkling water, please.” I don’t drink when I’m filming. Being an action star known for my eight-pack means I have to have one-hundred-percent discipline and zero-percent wasted calories.
“Coming right up. I lovedThe Escape.”
He pours two glasses and presents them with a flourish. “Anything else you want? I’ll hook you up with the top shelf, dude. Anything, just ask,” he says, as if he’s tending bar in a high-end LA nightclub and not a cash bar at a small-town inn. I have to admire his hustle.
I put a generous tip in the jar and grab my drinks.
“Anything at all, you got it!” he calls after me.
When I get back to Poppy, she’s standing with a beefy guy and a girl.
“Hey.” I hand her the champagne.
“Thank God.” She takes it and drinks deeply.
“I’ve been called that a time or two,” I say, hoping to get any reaction from her besides “hell-bent-on-drunk.”
It works. She rolls her eyes at me, and her dimple peeks out.
The couple next to her are staring at us in open shock. I can tell they recognize me.
