Maybe because, for the first time in a long time, I’m not thinking about work. Or timelines. Or checklists.
I’m just thinking about Maverick.
Callum.
Sexy, romantic Callum McBride.
“Say something Scottish,” I softly plead, tilting my chin up at him as we stand next to the table of mini desserts.
The corner of his mouth lifts, a whisper of amusement in his expression. “In Scotland, we dinnae crash weddings. We take ’em over,”he murmurs, voice low and just rough enough to make every nerve in my spine tingle.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, fanning myself with a cocktail napkin. “Keep talking. Say ‘bagpipes.’”
“Bagpipes.”
I groan. Shiver.Cannot get enough of him.
He grins, entirely unapologetic as he hands me another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. I sip it, giggling. The bubbles hit hard and fast, mixing with the tequila from earlier and the general giddy chaos of pretending to be someone else for a night.
This is so fun.
“You’re trouble,” I tell him.
“You love it,” he counters, clinking his glass to mine again.
“Do I?”
His gaze drops to my lips. “You tell me.”
And just like that, he takes my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor, the thrum of music pulsing through the night like a heartbeat.
We’re drunk. We’re flirty.
Maverick is the kind of drunk that winks for no reason and does finger guns at people and spins me without warning, catching me when I stumble, laughing with his whole chest.
God, it’s so unfair how hot he is.
He is amazing.
“Grant!” someone shrieks over the music.
We both freeze at the sound of his fake name.
I turn my head as a blond in a rose-gold dress barrels toward us with alarming speed, her curls bouncing like she just stepped off a bridal magazine cover.
Maverick recovers first. “Evy from the champagne fountain!” he booms at her, grinning like he’s thrilled to see her—her, whom I’ve never seen a day in my life. “Come say hello to Chelsea!”
How the hell does he know her name?And by Chelsea, is he talking about me?
“Oh my God! Chelsea!” The girl ignores him, throwing her arms around me in a full-body hug. “I’m so glad someone from Syracuse is here!”
Fromwho-see-where now?
“Oh totally,” I say, with the confidence of someone who does not know if Syracuse is a city, a college, or a cheese. “Refresh my memory, how did we meet?”
She pulls back and narrows her eyes at me. “You’re the friend who used to date Bryce.”
Right. “Bryce.” I echo, panic-sweating through my satin dress. “I forgot about him.”
