CHAPTER FOUR
“I’ve never seen so much tongue-fucking in a wedding kiss.”
Veronica nudged the maid of honor in reprimand, hiding her laugh behind her roses and ostrich feathers bridesmaid bouquet. It seemed no one else had caught wind of Kensie’s comment—not the minister, who was flushed at the enthusiasm of Mason Corrine and Grace Smart’s full-contact embrace, and certainly not the masses of guests and VIP media that were mesmerized at the glamour and spectacle of the most extravagant wedding Las Vegas had hosted this year.
Applause, punctuated with catcalls, rang throughout Mandarin Oriental’s foyer and ballroom. Women discreetly dabbed their eyes. Children squirmed and fussed, and one very distinctly whined, “Eew! Cooties!”
As for Veronica, she really wanted cake. A nice fat slice of the six-tiered masterpiece of gourmet delight she knew was waiting to be wheeled into the ballroom. She’d eaten fruit all day to save her appetite for the decadent French vanilla cake she had helped Grace customize with the pastry chef. And after a morning spent holed up in the bridal dressing room, filling in for Kensie, who had been shirking her maid of honor duties from the moment she’d arrived at the hotel late, and an afternoon spent playing nursemaid to a flower girl who’d thrown a tantrum and another who’d puked up a tummy full of rose petals, Veronica thought she deserved the indulgence.
Cheers, and the beginning strains of “Por Ti Volare,” escorted the couple down the petal-littered aisle, followed by the best man and maid of honor. Then the ring bearer and flower girls scampered away, and finally the groomsmen and bridesmaids paired off.
Veronica’s escort, a Wall Street bigwig friend of Mason, was too charming for words and the closest she’d come to a date for the all-day event. Unfortunately, he was also married, and after the outdoor photo shoot he’d be preoccupied with his wife and seven children.
For hours now, she’d been dodging “Who’s your date?” questions and ignoring curious glances, but she hadn’t been able to escape Grace’s mother, the founder of Dating Done Smart, the largest matchmaking business on the West Coast. Now that Willa Smart had successfully married off her only daughter, it was her first order of business to see her daughter’s best friend happily hitched. With Joan Greer already working overtime to make sure Veronica didn’t stay on the shelf too long, it was going to be pretty damn tiresome to fend off two matchmakers and their lists of eligible bachelors.
Veronica was more interested in managing her boys. As she stood outside, letting a makeup artist dust bronzer over her cheekbones, and a seamstress’s assistant adjust the lace halter bodice of her graphite gown, she scanned the closed-off hotel grounds where the photographers were setting up and where three of the groomsmen stood engrossed in something on their phones. She would bet the dainty high heels pinching her feet that a football game was on each and every one of those screens.
Her phone was in her purse, and her purse was with her sister Aly. She was without an immediate way to monitor the gridiron matchup that was happening in Texas right about now. Since becoming GM, she’d maintained perfect game day attendance, and being disconnected from the Villains now made her feel uncomfortable. So she sweetly thanked the makeup artist and the seamstress and raced across to the groomsmen.
“Any of you guys watching the Villains?” she asked.
Two of the men held up their phones, showing off NFL Mobile apps. The third shrugged his broad shoulders. “Binge watching American Horror Story.”
“No judgment here.” She sidled close and took one of the proffered phones. “Just want to check on my men.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be with the other ladies? Gossiping and getting sexy?”
“There’s no downtime for the general manager. I have to always know what’s going on.” She gave him a saucy smirk, then focused on the phone, noting the Villains were behind a touchdown and Brock Corday was gearing up for a second-and-goal. Her brow wrinkled in concentration as she mentally urged, Connect, damn it! Don’t run the ball! Don’t you dare throw an interception!
A defensive lineman made contact with Brock, gripping his waist and dragging the man backward a few paces. But Brock released the ball and it soared like a spiraling arrow toward the end zone…and into the grasp of a Villains wide receiver.
Veronica whooped in triumph, even as she watched referees assemble to review the initial touchdown call. It was clean; New York would confirm that.
Heads whipped around, eyes stared, conversations paused at her outburst.
She composed herself as she returned the phone. “Besides, don’t you think I’m sexy already?”
The trio of men grunted low chuckles at this, taken off guard by the bold question. Coming at a man—any man—from a different direction always kept things interesting. Men were more complex and unpredictable than some women gave them credit for. Veronica herself had discovered that. She never would’ve guessed that her ex-husband, the man she’d given her virginity and fidelity to, had been smashing pussy on the side for months before he’d decided to confess.
And now, in reaction to just a little question, three men showered her with laughs and very appreciative once-overs as she strutted away to join Grace.
Grace was among a crowd of women, a vision in white lace and tulle, with a flute of champagne. “Were the guys hitting on you over there?”
Veronica borrowed the glass and took a refreshing gulp. “We were talking about football,” she answered, handing the drink back to her friend.
“Boo. Work, work, work. You’ll never change.”
“No, why should I? Everything around me is changing plenty.”
Concern drifted over Grace’s face like a veil. But a photographer interrupted her response with “Picture time, ladies and gents! Follow me.”
Veronica was glad to be set free an hour later. She would reclaim her purse from her sister, fade into the background of the reception, and eat her body weight in cake.
Were there now even more guests present? Veronica could scarcely squeeze past the bodies filling the Mandarin Oriental ballroom. Though plenty occupied the tea-light-and-flower-petal-accented tables, even more stood engulfed in conversation while others danced. A tuxedo here, an evening gown there. A child stepped on the hem of her dress. A security hulk bumped her, practically crushing her bridesmaid bouquet. A camera clicked, and behind it was one of the photographers Grace had commissioned to take candid shots throughout the day for her wedding album. None of the people she encountered was the one she was searching for.
Aly, where in fuck’s sake are you?
Veronica changed course, moving with purpose, only in passing noting the impressive floor-to-ceiling windows and the glass bubbles dangling overhead that spun the light so beautifully over the ballroom.
In the hushed, fresh-scented hall leading to the powder room, Veronica froze.
Swaying slowly, in the arms of Jeremiah Tarantino, was her sister Waverly. The sultry country love song overhead was barely audible from the ballroom, but it wasn’t likely that Waverly or Jeremiah noticed. They were fitted together so closely, her mane of blond curls clashing against his black jacket, her arms draped over his shoulders, and his hands molded possessively to her ass.
A simple embrace. But the passion and trust between them wasn’t simple. They’d both risked so much for moments like this. Veronica knew—she was still helping to soften the consequences of their against-the-rules affair during training camp in Mount Charleston. Her sister’s social life wouldn’t be a juicy topic in sports media had she not struck up a relationship with Jeremiah—had she concentrated on her job and only her job. But then she wouldn’t have in her life a man she cared about, and who clearly cared about her. Who could observe them now, so lost in each other that they’d probably forgotten anyone else existed in the world, and not feel Waverly had made the right choice?
Not that it was fair that Waverly could throw out the rule book and wind up with a man who was sexy, smart, and proving hell-bent on sticking with her no matter what, while Veronica had followed the good girl’s guide to love and marriage but would have no man in her bed tonight.
Veronica feigned a cough, but instead of jumping away like a guilty teen, Waverly simply let Jeremiah go and turned so that she remained in his arms with his front to her back.
“I’m looking for Aly. Have either of you seen her?”
“Not since the ceremony,” Jeremiah answered, and Waverly added, “She was talking about getting a slice of wedding cake.”
“The cake hasn’t made its grand entrance yet, and I didn’t see her in the ballroom.” Veronica looked pointedly at the pair. “Waverly, let’s go tidy our lipstick.”
Never mind that Veronica didn’t have a purse—hence, no lipstick. The meaning behind the suggestion should’ve been clear enough: Lose the hot guy. I need to talk to you now.
Waverly finally stepped out of Jeremiah’s arms, but not before twisting around and kissing him. Veronica stepped into the ladies’ room ahead of her sister and swept her gaze across the bank of stalls to find them all empty. “If our too-cute-for-her-own-good little sis isn’t in the ballroom or the potty, there’s a strong likelihood she’s in the parking lot with a different guy than the one she brought to the wedding.”
“Tell me how you really feel, slut-shamer,” Waverly muttered, going to the mirror to smooth her pink silk party dress. She retrieved a tube of lipstick from her bag. “There’re too many cameras flashing around this place. Aly’s probably on her best behavior. Did you try her cell?”
“No phone. It’s in my purse. Aly has my purse.”
“Oh. Now your mood makes sense.”
“My mood?”
Satisfied with her makeup, Waverly offered the lipstick, then dropped it into her evening bag when Veronica made no move to accept it. “You’re giving off a vibe that sort of says, ‘Don’t screw with me.’ It makes sense that you’re missing your phone and you probably want to know what’s going on with the team. Believe me, I get it. I was staring at my phone searching for injury updates like a madwoman until Jeremiah took me out to the hall for a dance—” She suddenly stopped.
Veronica stifled a frustrated sigh. “Why do you feel that you need to walk on eggshells around me, Waverly? Talk to me. I’m your sister.”
“And the general manager. My boss. Not too recently you reminded me of that fact.”
Of course Waverly and Aly wouldn’t understand being expected to juggle managing an NFL franchise and nurturing relationships. Both “professional” and “personal” competed for the first spot on her priority list. When Waverly’s indiscretions had started to put strain on the Villains, Veronica had had no choice but to step in and pull rank. She’d do so again in a heartbeat.
Which Waverly knew. Which was why she could no longer speak to Veronica freely the way she had before their parents had acquired the Las Vegas Villains and put their entire family in the spotlight by hiring Aly as a publicist, Waverly as an athletic trainer, and Veronica as the GM. They were young women in a men’s game, and Waverly’s off-field romp with a colleague had lit the media like a match to flame. Even after Jeremiah’s resignation and Waverly’s preseason suspension, the backlash still blazed.
“Am I not helping you and Jeremiah manipulate this in your favor?” After ordering a few cleverly worded interviews and press releases, the tide was subtly beginning to turn. Accomplishing that hadn’t been as challenging as she’d originally imagined it would be. Part of her was sorry that her true abilities had yet to be tested. The rest of her despised the idea of gossip attached to the Greer name. It was a blemish her family didn’t need when her parents were cultivating a legacy for their daughters to carry on with pride. A sex scandal in football was not something to be proud of. “You’re not doubting my ability to communicate with the media, are you?”
Waverly shook her head. “I’m not doubting you, Veronica. You always seem to get what you want. It’s just annoying that commentators and reporters and analysts and paparazzi haven’t moved on from the fact that two single, consenting adults had sex.”
“And one of them banged on camera for money during college.”
“Veronica, please.”
“Sorry. Anyway, what the public doesn’t yet realize is you two are in love. See, they don’t like to admit it, but sports guys are weak for love stories. Love is something to celebrate, but circumstances encouraged you and Jeremiah to keep it secret. You’re star-crossed lovers.”
“Is that what you’re telling everyone?”
“It’s what they’ll realize naturally.”
“With your encouragement, of course.”
“Of course.” Veronica fiddled with her bouquet, which was a little beaten but still beautiful. She brought it close to her nose, and the ostrich feathers tickled her chin. “I don’t always get what I want, though, Waverly. I wanted a husband who wouldn’t leave me at home to fuck anyone who’d let him.”
Waverly took the bouquet and enfolded Veronica in a hug. As the eldest sister, she was now pulling rank and reminding her that sometimes she knew what was best for Veronica. Over a decade ago she’d tried to warn against a hasty marriage to Chance Kershaw. On the morning after Chance had moved out of the mansion, Waverly had come over at dawn and invited her out for a run—and it had done her a world of good. Now she was giving her a hug in a powder room because she knew Veronica needed it. “Sorry, sis.”
The door flew open and spurts of drunken laughter preceded two young women. One was stumbling with her ebony corkscrews bouncing over her face and her frilly dress fanning out as she spun around in an effort to figure out where she was. The other was Aly, who looked reasonably put together in her chic flapper-inspired outfit and finger-waved red hair, but was loopy from the whatever was in the bottle she held protectively to her chest along with her purse and Veronica’s.
“This is Leigh,” Aly said as her friend leaned on her for support. “She’s in love!”
Veronica lifted a handful of curls from the woman’s face. “Leigh Bridges? Her father’s a CNN reporter—a friend of Grace’s family.”
“But I’m in love,” Leigh insisted, though no one had disputed the announcement. She perched on the countertop and rested her head against the mirror. Dazedly she said, “Don’t you know what it’s like? It’s the best feeling there is. When you fall asleep, you can still hear his voice. And all he has to do is touch you—just once—and the sensation stays with you all night.”
“I want to know what that’s like,” Aly whispered in drunken jealousy, all of a sudden serious beneath the haze of inebriation. She joined her friend on the countertop and began swinging her long legs as if she were a child and not twenty-two years old. “What if I never have what you and Jeremiah have, Waverly? What if I never have what you and Chance were s’posed to have, Veronica?”
Thank you, Aly, and you, too, Jim Beam. Veronica extracted the bottle from her sister’s grasp and poured the remaining bourbon down the drain. “Boozing it up isn’t going to help you get it, Aly.”
“Promise you won’t tell Mom and Dad. Please? I just want some fun, without them breathing down my neck.” Aly frowned defiantly…then promptly tipped sideways and retched into the nearest sink.
◆◆◆
In spite of watching her younger sister get sick on Jim Beam, and working with Waverly to discreetly secure a hotel suite for Aly and Leigh to sober up in, Veronica still wanted her cake. She politely stopped to exchange air kisses with a People photojournalist who was bubbling over about having VIP privileges at Las Vegas’s most darling socialite’s fairy-tale wedding. After cleverly avoiding a probing question about her past with polo player Ollie Johan, Veronica posed for a picture and kept moving. She made it back to the reception in time for dinner, a round of toasts and—finally!—the unveiling of the wedding cake. When she was in possession of a delicate china plate made heavy with a generous slab of French vanilla cake, she escaped outdoors to the spacious terrace to check her phone and eat in solitude.
The game had already concluded, and her parents, the head coach, and the head trainer had emailed her detailed reports. At least she’d have something to read at home tonight.
The text message from her mother begged a response, but how to answer ARE YOU GIRLS HAVING A GOOD TIME AT THE WEDDING?
Without lying outright?
It’d be stupid to divulge the truth. Waverly and Jeremiah can’t keep their hands off each other, Aly’s drunk, and I can’t seem to stop feeling sorry for myself. And, by the way, I didn’t bring a date.
Aiming for nonchalance and brevity, she sent a reply. IT’S A BEAUTIFUL NIGHT. CALL YOU TOMORROW.
A beautiful night, it was. The darkness was bedazzled with city lights. A calm, warm breeze stroked Veronica’s hair as she moseyed to the retaining wall and prepared to fork the cake’s brains out.
Footsteps interrupted her, and she turned around as her best friend stepped onto the terrace.
“Hey, Grace.”
“Hey.” Grace ambled over. “Can you believe I’m married?”
Veronica nodded. “I knew love would find you. So, is the DJ going to play some sappy love ballad or what?”
“Too cliché.” They laughed, and then Grace added, “I shouldn’t’ve switched you and Kensie the way I did. She’s a shitty maid of honor. She’s more interested in the dinner than helping me.”
Veronica peered through the glass but didn’t see Kensie. “I should confess I’ve been thinking about this cake since you said ‘I do.’”
“Thanks for the honesty.” Grace’s smile was pensive. “This—happiness, a good marriage—is going to happen for you, Veronica. You’re out here eating cake alone, but you don’t have a loner’s spirit. Someone’s meant for you.”
“No pep talk. This is your day. Get back in there and enjoy it. Go. I’ll be in as soon as I’m done pigging out away from all those damn cameras.”
“Okay. But hurry. I’m going to toss the bouquet soon.”
Veronica watched her friend slip back inside. Yes, she was on a terrace eating cake alone, and she wasn’t ashamed in the least. As long as she was getting comfortable, she might as well give her feet a few minutes’ relief from the god-awful shoes.
Balancing the plate, her purse, and bridesmaid bouquet, she had no free hands. So she lifted a leg and tried to shake her foot free of the skinny high heel. No luck. She bent and positioned one foot behind the other to give the shoe a nudge—
And pitched forward.
Her plate slipped from her grasp, but her panicked “Oh, shit biscuits!” hung in the air as a man caught the dish in one hand and wound an arm around her waist. She was aware of being crushed against a hard male body, of cologne with hints of rum and spice, yet her eyes were on her plate.
“You rescued my cake! I could kiss you.”
She felt her heart tattoo inside her chest as she looked into Simon Smith’s eyes. He handed her the plate. “What the fuck’s stopping you?”