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He won.

In the frenzy, his gaze finds mine. His grin is radiant. Pineapple juice glistens on his face and chin. He licks his sticky lips, and with the way he’s looking at me, I feel like he’s telegraphing a message. He’s hungry for a second serving. He’s ready to dive into the water and save me. And, oh my God, I’m ready, too.

Forget palm trees, I want to be a pineapple! I’m so enamored, I almost drop his phone.

Unsure how to handle these intense feelings, I shoot to my feet. My gaze swings left and then right, searching for an escape. The crowd has packed in so close, I’m locked in.

When Gio is crowned the pineapple king, people inch forward and a route to freedom appears. I slip through the mayhem to get as far away from Gio as possible, because the last time I felt this way, I was with Adam.

I’m almost through the festival when someone yells, “It’s Angry Bride!”

Like at a car collision, people turn and stare. Instant recognition paints their faces. Fingers point in my direction. A group of women approach to ask for selfies.

Someone says, “That was the best thing I’ve seen on social media.” Then another asks, “Can I hire you to punch my ex-fiancé?”

Before I make it ten feet, the crowd closes in. All point their phones at my face. Their questions continue, but they become personal and rude.

“Why don’t you respond to Roman’s posts? Are you hiding? Did you know Roman’s at the festival too? Are you going to attack him again?”

Roman’s here? Here, here?

My gaze darts from person to person, searching for him. When I don’t find his face among the crowd, I turn in a new direction to escape, but there’s a chest blocking me in.

25/

giovanni

The Circus Peanut of Zombie Food

I’m not sure what sent Sophia running, but by the time I’ve wrangled my way through the crowd, she’s surrounded by a hundred curious onlookers. And by her terrified expression, these are fans she didn’t realize she had.

I should have never left her alone.

I sprint for her.

While we were enjoying the festival earlier, people stopped to point at us, and some even attempted to take stealthy photos or videos. I’m used to it, but I should have considered it was Sophia they were interested in, not me.

I’m an idiot.

Based on the growing frenzy of social media posts being made about her wedding debacle, it seems like the entire world is searching for her.

Online, they ask, “Where did she go after rearranging Roman’s face? Did he off her?” An anonymous donor offered a five-thousand-dollar reward for information of her whereabouts.

Sadly, that doesn’t include the seventy billion other conspiracy theories that have developed since, mostly based upon what I suspect are lies perpetuated by Roman himself. The man doesn’t shy away from the limelight. He embraces it and then manipulates it as marketing for his own business, a sandwich shop in Chicago.

Meanwhile, Sophia’s been in Hawaii, ignoring everything. Or maybe she’s lying low, waiting to strike. You just never know with her.

I break through the crowd to shield her body. She falls into me, her palms pressed against my bare chest, and peers up with watery eyes. The relief in her expression at my appearance makes something savage awaken inside me. My heart hammers, and my arms wrap tightly around her. She’s shaking.

Did they hurt her?

My jaw tenses. I will destroy anyone who touches her. One arm folds her against my body, and I use the other to keep people at a distance.

“Back it up!” I yell. “Let us through!” We push through the bodies, moving at a glacial pace.

Security officers break up the crowd. An opening appears and I lean down, hike Sophia over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and run for it. Her body bounces with my footfalls.

Across the parking lot, once we’re concealed behind the Jeep, I allow her to slide off my shoulder. When her feet hit the ground, she leans against the door for support.