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Chapter6
LANDON
He and Harper broke apart like a bomb had exploded.
Thanks to her cherry kisses, he’d forgotten about the gladiator groom and the ballerina bride.
“You’re the singer,” the bride gushed. “You’re Lan—”
“Bartholomew,” Harper corrected, interrupting the woman’s drunken declaration. “His name is Bartholomew,” she sang like the town crier.
He stared at this enigma of a woman. But it wasn’t her voice that grabbed his attention this time.
It was his middle name.
She couldn’t have pulled that name out of thin air. Bartholomew wasn’t a name that rolled off the tongue. She had to have known it was his middle name. Sure, if someone was dogged enough, they could find the information, but it wasn’t common knowledge.
“People tellBartholomewhe looks like Landon Paige all the time. Isn’t that right,Bartholomew?” she said with that plastic grin that saidplay along or we’re screwed.
She wasn’t wrong.
“It’s a family name,” he answered, telling the truth.
Harper wrapped her arm around his waist, playing the part of the fiancée. “I like to tease him about his strong resemblance to the pop god and call him my heartthrob.”
“Pop god?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“Did I say god? I meant pop goober,” she tossed back.
“I bet you call him heartthrob because of Heartthrob Warfare,” the gladiator thundered like he was on the drunk Vegas version of a trivia game show.
And from the gladiator’s mouth to the DJ booth, the track changed, and a techno remix of “Heartthrob Warfare” pulsed through the club.
“I love this song,” Katrina shouted and pulled Jude into the center of the dance floor for a little drunk newlywed bump and grind.
Away from the prying eyes of the hammered bride and smashed groom, he took Harper’s hand as they watched the newlyweds dance their hearts out.
He wanted to revisit the whole pop god moniker, but there was a good chance if he brought it up, she’d bust out that right hook she’d nearly landed smack-dab in the center of Mr. Drunk and Handsy’s shiny face.
He gestured toward Katrina and Jude. “What’s the deal with their outfits?”
“It’s honestly kind of sweet. Katrina always wanted to bang a gladiator, and Jude wanted to nail a ballerina,” Harper answered, straight-faced, as Katrina twirled, then fell on her ass. The ever-helpful leather-clad warrior, Jude, helped his new bride to her feet while pumping his fist to the beat.
To each his own.
“If that isn’t true love, I don’t know what is.”
Or did he?
Harper’s posture stiffened. “You don’t have to hold my hand, Landon. We don’t have to pretend.”
He peered at their joined hands. “Who says I’m pretending? You are my fiancée.” It was his attempt at humor, but she wasn’t laughing.
She removed her hand from his grip and bristled. “There’s no way I could ever be your real fiancée.”
That was blunt.
Was he not good enough—not smart enough?
