She glares at me, her face red as she mutters, “I should’ve amended that stupid contract. Who asks for sex twice a day?”
“Obviously me,” I say. Will we have time for that? Who knows, but I wanted to have something daring in that contract just for kicks.
But as she stands abruptly, muttering something about needing more tea, I find myself watching her walk away and thinking two years might not be long enough.
What the hell is wrong with me?
ChapterTwenty
Ledger
The reception isin full swing. This is the kind of celebration you’d expect when a bunch of hockey players roll into a small town for a wedding. Laughter and music fill the backyard of the Doherty mansion. The tables are cluttered with half-empty glasses of champagne, and someone—probably O’Connor—is already making a show of balancing three bread rolls on his head like it’s an Olympic sport.
I’m watching it all from the corner, nursing a tumbler of whiskey, and thinking about how surreal the past few hours have been.
The ceremony was short, practically blink-and-you-miss-it. Galeana didn’t want anything elaborate, so we kept it simple—simple vows, simple setting, simple everything.
Her dress, though?
Her dress wasn’t simple, not really. It was understated, sure, but it fit her like it had been made for her and only her. The sleek white fabric traced her curves, soft lace edging the neckline and sleeves. She looked . . . stunning. Not in a bridal-magazine way, but in the kind of way that makes you forget to breathe for half a second.
But she wasn’t excited.
She stood there beside me, slipping that ring onto my finger like it was part of a chore she couldn’t wait to finish—stoic, resigned, her eyes fixed on the task as though she could will herself somewhere else entirely.
And for some reason, that sits wrong with me.
I didn’t expect her to be happy about this, but the quiet indifference rolling off her hits harder than I thought it would. Obviously, this isn’t her dream wedding—this isn’t anyone’s dream wedding—but still, something about her expression makes the air around us feel colder.
We agreed this was business, a deal. We shook hands on it, laid it out logically, even kissed it to seal it. So why does it bother me so much to see her looking like she can’t wait for it to be over?
It makes me feel like the villain in a story I don’t want to be part of.
I take another sip of whiskey, trying to shake it off. My brothers didn’t even show up today. Not one of them.
Keir sent some lame excuse about a client and a “huge deal” he couldn’t miss. Hopper? He’d rather stay at his ranch with his child and horses than come here. Okay, my niece, I get it but the animals not so much.
And Mal . . . well, Malerick claimed he couldn’t take time off. Hard to believe, considering he’s the sheriff and this town isn’t exactly battling a crime spree.
The point is, none of my brothers came to support me or at least pretend they give two shits about me.
It’s not like I expected them to, but still.
Somehow, it feels like I orchestrated this whole thing just to fill the empty spaces with my former teammates—guys who showed up because they wanted free drinks and an excuse to party. It’s loud, raucous, and everything a hockey team celebration should be.
It’s just like it has been since my brothers left for college. I’m fucking alone.
This shit really doesn’t feel like a wedding. And now I understand Galeana.
This is not our celebration.
Across the room, she sits at one of the tables, her fingers tracing the frayed edges of a napkin. I follow Aiden’s voice to the dance floor, where she’s spinning around with one of my former teammates. She’s fun—loud in a way that draws people in—and apparently approved of me as the “get-off-the-funk guy.” Not entirely sure what that means, but hey, I’ll take the seal of approval where I can get it.
I drain the last of my whiskey, trying to ignore the way the room feels too full and too empty all at once.
It’s been eating at me all day.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I set the glass down and make my way across the room. A few guys nod as I pass, slapping my shoulder or grinning like I just scored a game-winning goal. I barely acknowledge them. My eyes are on her.
