Page 4 of The Pucking Grump

I struggle to my feet, pulling her up. She seems to be around five-foot-six, more than half a foot shorter than me. She’s a tiny little thing. But the monstrosity she’s wearing makes it quite difficult to pull her back to her feet. I look around, expecting to see bodyguards. Or at least, some giggling bridesmaids. Celebrities are hardly ever alone.

But there’s no one else around.

“You okay?” I huff the standard question to ask in this situation. She has her head bent low, so all I can see is her auburn hair slicked into a low bun below her veil, a sprawling one that trails a few feet after her.

Talk about decadence.

She runs her hand roughly across her face before she looks up. A small shock spreads through me, and I have to resist the urge to take a step back.

I’ve seen images of her a dozen times before—mostly unintentionally—when I was scrolling through social media. But none of them came even close to experiencing her in person.

She’s . . . exquisite. Her face is a perfect oval with large, piercing green eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. Her dress is huge enough to be distasteful, but the sleeveless bodice outlines the curves of her upper body. I’m surprised to feel a hint of stirring in my groin when I let my gaze settle on her cleavage for a second longer than necessary.

Way to go, Blake. Thirsting over a bride on the day of her wedding.

I take a step back, surprised by my own physical reaction. I can’t even remember the last time I perceived an unattainable woman to be desirable.

“I’m okay,” she sniffs. “Thank you.” Her voice is low, demure, unlike the one in her songs.

Every passing moment in her presence feels like an out-of-body experience. Perhaps because I didn’t expect to run into her. Hell, I would rather spend fifty hours ice skating naked in the middle of winter than be here.

But then, I had to come. So I could speak to Kevin Dickerson, my old agent and the person who signed me up to be his plus one at this party.

“If you want to talk to me in person, Blake, you’ll meet me here,” he drawled over the phone. “I’m only coming to town for a couple of hours, and I intend to spend every damn second at Faye’s wedding.”

Fuck, I thought when he laid out his terms. What are the odds that my old agent, the one guy that I need to straighten out the brand deal mess I have gotten myself into, would only be available at the one event I knew I would loathe more than anything?

Still, I told myself to man up and go. Persuaded myself it was lucky that Kevin was important enough not only to be invited, but also to be getting a plus one. His agency worked with Faye back in the day, but she had since moved on to bigger fish, and there was every likelihood she had lost touch with them. But as it turns out, she hadn’t, and so, here I was, trying to meet up with Kevin at this decadent, over the top wedding in the Hamptons.

If I had known she would be out here, I would’ve thought twice about wandering the hotel grounds.

Time to say goodbye and make my exit. I was supposed to be in the ballroom anyways, not strolling in the garden. Just a quick dash back, and I can put all this behind me.

But then, as much as I don’t want to be around Faye Strummer, it feels wrong to leave a girl in distress alone out here, like a lost little lamb.

“You sure you’re good?”

Before I get the sentence out of my mouth, a sound wrenches itself from her throat. A sob. Unexpectedly, pearly tears are spilling down her cheeks, and she’s holding her hand to her face, her shoulders heaving.

What the hell is happening?

I feel even more uncomfortable now. Can’t say I know exactly what to do when a woman bursts into tears. I have a sister, but I don’t remember what I did to comfort her on the odd occasions she cried.

I look around for a possible reason for her distress. This wedding has been the talk of the town for months. Perhaps something went wrong somewhere. Messed-up makeup? Stained dress? But even with the tears pouring down her cheeks, she’s the very image of perfection. Her dress is immaculate, even though she tripped earlier.

It sure helps that I broke her fall.

Just before I’m about to give up and ask her what’s bothering her, I spot it. A minuscule, almost inconspicuous tear on the portion of the veil she has draped over her shoulder.

Impatience rises within me. I knew this event was going to be hard to get through, but I could never have imagined I would spend the first few minutes consoling Little Miss Perfect Bride and making her understand that her torn veil isn’t a terrible disaster.

Again, I consider walking out on this mess.

Come on, Blake. Be a gentleman.

The voice that springs up in my head reminds me forcefully of Reggie Turner, my close friend and fellow player. Up until about a year ago, Reggie was about the most terrifying man in the whole league. And then, he met a reporter and changed from a howling tiger to a giggling cub. His new catchphrase is, “Love changes people. And you always have to be willing to give it and receive it.”

Honestly, I kind of miss the days when all he had to say to everyone was, “Get the fuck out of my face.”

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