Barely concealed laughter.
“This isn’t funny!” I insist.
“Not funny at all,” Rebecca says. Then she slaps a hand over her mouth.
“My definition of funny absolutely includes you and Drake getting bombed and accidentally married,” Bess says with a toss of her red hair. “Who’s with me, girls?”
“Sorry, toots,” Sasha says. “Wait—does Drake have a pet name for you, too? Like pumpkin? Or love bug?”
“No, he does not,” I hiss. “And he never will! This is just a… little mess. Temporary insanity.”
“And a great excuse to go lingerie shopping!” Heidi claps. “And you know what? It’s never too late to throw a bridal shower.”
“Oh yes, it is!” I argue a little hysterically. “There will be no shower. No jokes. No actual marriage. Just some paperwork, eventually. In a couple of months. Neil is in charge of that. Just… forget you ever saw that article. I have to get back to work.”
Trying not to panic, I return to seating customers and taking orders. But after I cash out table fifteen, I catch Silas and Beacon sneaking looks at me. “What?” I bark. “Did you need something more from the kitchen?”
“Got any wedding cake? Seems I missed my slice?” Beacon asks.
“Very funny,” I grumble. “Here’s your check.” I slap it down on the table. “Please don’t talk about this, okay? We’re filing for divorce and hoping nobody really notices us.”
Silas winces. “I don’t know, Charli. I think it’s too late. Look.” He points at something over my shoulder.
Where there’s a TV hanging over the counter. Oh hell.
I turn around slowly as my heart begins to pound. The TV is tuned to ESPN, where there’s a photo of Neil in a suit in front of a private jet. MARRIED screams the graphic at the side of the screen.
“Oh my God,” I breathe. “At least they don’t have…”
My team headshot appears next on the screen.
“Nice picture,” Beacon says gently. He puts his credit card down on the check.
“Thanks,” I say, my throat suddenly dry. “But this still sucks.”
“Hang in there.”
Numb, I carry his card to the register and swipe it through the machine.
“Charli?” Sal says slowly. “I think I gotta ask this again. How was your time in Vegas?”
“I mentioned my hangover, didn’t I?” The snap in my voice is really too much for an employee speaking to her boss. My temper has gotten me fired from more than one job.
But Sal just laughs.
Why does everyone find this so damn funny? I pull out my phone and text a warning to Neil. It’s out. I’m sorry. There goes your day.
“Order up!” calls the cook from the kitchen.
I hurry to the order window to grab a plate of eggs and a stack of pancakes. After delivering them, I drop the receipt on the goalies’ table. I can do this job without actually thinking about it.
That’s a good thing, because I’m spiraling inside. I don’t want to be famous for marrying a billionaire in Vegas. All our friends are going to laugh. The whole world is going to laugh.
Just as I’m finishing this thought, the door opens, and Bruisers winger Jason Castro flies into the room. “Guys!” he calls. “I just heard the craziest rumor!”
Oh man. Here we go.
Castro skids to a stop in front of me. “Uh, hi Charli.”
“Hi,” I say warily.
He grabs the back of his neck, and I watch the hockey player struggle. He doesn’t want to be a dick. And yet his inner gossip hound is trying to claw its way out of his muscular body. “Is it true?” he blurts out.
“Yes and no,” I say with a sigh. “On paper I’m married to Cornelius Drake III. But whiskey made me do it.”
“Wow,” he says. “I mean... we’ve all been there.”
“Really?” I sputter. “You accidentally married someone as a joke—and then woke up to discover that it was legally binding?”
“Well, no,” he admits. “Although I once got so drunk that I pulled a testicle out of my fly instead of my dick and then peed down the leg of my pants.”
We blink at each other for one really awkward moment.
“Your mess was cheaper to fix than mine,” I point out. “Although a little more disgusting.”
“Yeah. Um, well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“Thanks, man.”
I swerve around the diner delivering orders and dropping checks and pouring coffee. But all I can think about is how I just want to run away and hide.
Naturally, the door opens again to admit two more hockey players. And behind them come two more.
“Am I crazy?” Sal asks. “Or are you drawing a crowd?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I hiss. “But if they’re here to stare at me and gossip, they’d better order the caviar eggs and smoked salmon, and tip twenty-five percent.”
“Sounds fair.” I expect Sal to be the one person in this joint who’s too busy to stand around staring at me. But nope. He’s giving me the kind of squint a man wears when he can’t figure out what a woman is thinking. “Did you really get married?”
“Seems so.”
His frown deepens. “This mean you’re gonna quit on me?”
“No!” I yelp. “Do not put your Help Wanted sign in the window. I’m not going anywhere.”
He wipes his hands on his apron. “But the TV said your man owns private jets.”
“Don’t believe everything you see on TV, Sal.”
He hurries off to answer a ringing phone.
The door flies open one more time, and I almost don’t bother to look up. Does it really matter who else has arrived to gawk?
Except everyone in the room suddenly goes quiet. The silence is so deep that I have to wonder if we’re being held up at gunpoint. But when I finally close the cash register drawer and lift my chin, I see Neil Drake standing just inside the door, hands on his hips like Superman, arms rippling, jaw ticking. He spots me and lifts his chin in a solemn greeting.
“Hi,” I whisper stupidly. It’s just hitting me that the whole world is going to know why drunk me couldn’t say no to a sham marriage with Neil. Because when he levels that hazel-eyed stare at me, it’s really hard to stay cool.
“Morning,” he says calmly.
“Your friends are…” I indicate the entire breadth of the restaurant. “Everywhere. I suppose you can just pick a table.”
“No, I’m sitting at the counter. We need to talk.”
“Right now?” I squeak.
Everyone is listening. You could hear a pin drop in here. Until Rebecca Kattenberger stands up with a smile on her face and starts a slow clap. And beside her, Heidi Jo pops up and joins in.
Then someone else starts clapping. And someone else. Until the whole damn room is applauding. Even Beacon’s toddler in his booster seat.
I’m frozen like a proverbial doe on a dimly lit road as the car barrels toward her.
But not Neil Drake. He turns around, gives the whole room a regal wave, and then takes an elegant fucking bow like an Academy Award winner. Some people don’t mind the spotlight, I guess.