PROLOGUE
CRYSTAL
With a large piece of wood between my legs, I stroke the base, eliciting a deep groan from inside.
No, not that kind of groan and definitely not from that kind of wood. I’m not that kind of girl. Not that I’m opposed to sex. On the contrary, I quite enjoy it. I just don’t believe in sleeping around. If I slept with every guy I went out with, I’d bed fifty different men a year.
The wood in question is my cello, which I am playing during the cocktail reception at an upscale wedding.
On an estate just outside New York City, serenading wedding guests with a John Legend ballad, I scope the area for any available bachelors.
There’s a handsome fair-haired groomsman wearing a midnight-blue tux, standing by the caviar. I push my shoulders back, tilt my head, and give him my best smile, all while stroking the neck of the beautiful piece of maple and spruce nestled against the fabric of my long navy dress. His shoulders swivel in my direction. Excellent body language. Good signals. So far, it looks like I’ve hooked myself a—
No, wait, a woman in a Givenchy dress has just approached, wrapping her arms around his waist, like a homesteader in the West, staking her claim—burying his stick in her land, if you will.
As a single woman in New York, I’ve found all the good men are taken. And, if they’re not, it’s because they don’t want to be…by anyone.
The only way to find an available man anymore is through online dating. My apps of choice are Match or Bumble, my days filled with swiping right and adding men to my Hive. Problem is, I end up with more duds than studs. You know how people say there are plenty of fish in the sea? At thirty years old, I’ve realized, if they’re still swimming, they’re there for a reason. That reminds me, Plenty of Fish is another good app.
The more I talk about the havoc of dating in the big city, the more my best friend, Naomi, begs me to move out to the West Coast. She thinks I need a reboot, and living with her will do the trick.
“Excuse me,” a voice croons from just above where I’m sitting.
I look up to see an attractive man with a boyish grin and a double-breasted suit.
I bat my lashes as he leans down to speak in my ear as I play, “I hope I’m not being too up-front when I say, you are a very beautiful woman.”
As far as opening lines go, I am totally okay with being told I’m beautiful. What comes out next is usually the issue.
I mouth the words, Thank you, and give a slight shoulder shrug to show a bashful quality. Not that I’m bashful, but playing coy never hurt anyone.
He leans a touch closer, pulls a card out of his pocket, and holds it up between us. “I’d love if you could provide some private entertainment this evening. I’m in room seven on the third floor.” His voice is smooth, suave, and making my stomach turn.
With a swift motion, as not to disrupt my music playing for too long, I take the card and place it in the Campari cocktail in his other hand. I am no man’s entertainment.
He stalks off with a sneer, probably to find his next target of the night.
I heard on the radio that men like going to weddings because the women are all starry-eyed and filled with romance, so it makes for an easy lay. I might be looking for romance in my life, but I don’t give in that easily. In fact, my criteria are quite specific. If he doesn’t measure up, I won’t settle down.
Been there, done that, and it left me with a broken heart and an annulment.
Looking around at the reception, I see people who are dressed up, here to celebrate the love of a man and a woman. I know it’s total cheese, but I love weddings. Not just weddings. I enjoy every party I am invited to, and I show up with a pretty dress and a gift off the registry. I don’t roll my eyes at having to participate in bridal shower games where you have to cover yourself in toilet paper, and I am genuinely happy to learn the sex of your baby when you open a giant box, and a bouquet of pink or blue balloons come flying out.
I love seeing the groom tear up when his bride walks down the aisle or that first dance when it’s just the two of them in their own bubble. I can picture them now, huddled up in the bridal suite, whispering promises of forever to each other and planning their glorious—
“I can’t believe you wore fucking sneakers to our wedding!”
My internal thoughts of romance are interrupted by the sound of a screeching woman bellowing louder than the music. My hand almost stops playing when I regain my professional wits.
“All you care about is this perfect wedding. You don’t give a shit what I want!” a man’s voice echoes.
The voices are coming from the open windows of the bridal suite that overlooks the veranda. All the guests’ eyes and ears are trained on the source of the outbursts.
The man continues, “You wanted the ice sculptures, the band, the seventeen bridesmaids, and the horse-drawn carriage. I gave you whatever you wanted. All I wanted was to wear an awesome pair of Jordans with my suit! Don’t you even care about what makes me happy?”
Stomping feet—I assume, garnished with three-thousand-dollar Christian Louboutins—are creating a new tempo for the cocktail hour that is supposed to be reserved for love ballads.
“You ruined my wedding!”
“It’s my wedding, too!”
“No.” Stomp. “It’s my day, my day, my day!” Stomp, stomp, stomp.
I am not an impulsive woman.
I have decorum.
I have composure.
Never in my life would I dream of ruining someone’s special day.
That’s why I don’t know why in the world I stand up and scream toward the open window of the bridal suite, “Shut up, you stupid, ungrateful cow!”
All eyes on the veranda are no longer fixed on the window. Instead, they’re all glaring at me.
Yes, me.
When the deafening silence of the moment registers in my brain, I smooth the pleats of my dress, take my seat, and continue playing. This time, it’s Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.”
Safe to say, this is not my finest hour.
And this is not my finest morning.
I wake up with a throbbing in my brain and heaviness in my gut. I slowly open my eyes and have to blink a few times to get my bearings.
This is not my apartment.
Oh no. What have I done?
Well, apparently, I broke cardinal rule number one: Never go home with a man on the first date.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
I attempt to roll over, but a man’s leg is draped over me, and I have no idea whose it is.
No, wait. I do.
It’s Ian, the architect from Manhattan, whom I connected with online.
After getting fired from my weekend job for the ridiculous outburst, I went home and logged into Facebook. If I thought my day had started poorly, well, what I saw on Facebook made sure it ended with some pretty bad choices.
Ian: Tell me, Crystal, what is it you want tonight?
Me: I want to forget.
Forget, I did, and now, I’m remembering more than I wanted to forget. I have an odd vision in my head of Thor and his hammer that I can’t shake. For some reason, I have a vague memory of—
Yep, there it is.
I look down at Ian’s thigh where he has a tattoo of Thor with his arm outstretched up into Ian’s groin, holding on to his, ahem…hammer. Yes, Ian refers to his package as his hammer. And he is Thor.