Page 5 of The Pucking Grump

All of my formerly staunch bachelor friends are getting married. Yet another reason to scorn weddings.

I look at the sobbing girl in front of me. I don’t care much for her, but I could try to be as understanding as possible. She’s about to get married, after all. She deserves as much sympathy as I’m able to muster.

With more compassion than I would have known myself capable of assembling, I mutter, “It’s not that bad.”

“What?”

“The veil.”

She stops crying, blinking up at me. “What?”

I nod toward the tear. “It’s barely noticeable. Also, I’m sure you’ve got a seamstress that can patch it up in no time.”

She sniffs, following my gaze to the tear. Her eyes widen slightly, and I realize that she did not even notice it.

“You thought I was crying about the . . . about the veil?” There’s no trace of sadness in her tone anymore. She sounds . . . mocking.

Something about her voice makes me feel like a damn fool.

I detest that.

“Why were you crying then? Your flowers got delivered late?”

Her face goes brick red with rage. That startles me. Sounds foolish, but I didn’t even think Faye Strummer was capable of feeling angry.

“Who are you?” she asks, a firm edge to her voice.

Rude.

Her words should make me like her less. But watching her exhibit the slightest hint of personality is interesting. Interesting enough that I stop obsessing about how much I hate the wedding and instead focus on her.

“Blake White.” I could say more, tell her about being a hockey player for the Philly Titans. Celebs are usually snobbish unless they think the other person is worth a conversation. But I hold off on that detail. I want to gauge Faye’s reaction to me before she figures out who I am.

“I know you. You’re the hockey player, Kevin’s plus one.”

I raise my brows, taken aback. “Surprised you kept tabs on your extensive guest list.”

She swallows, looking almost mortified. “I didn’t. But Kevin’s a friend, and I invited him personally.”

I open my mouth to say something, but just then, two men spring out from the hotel foyer. They are both dressed in black suits, wearing sunglasses, and they have earpieces strapped on their heads. Faye turns around and sees them. Her eyes go round with trepidation. When she looks back at me, she’s trembling.

What the hell is going on?

Thankfully, I don’t have to ask this time, because she looks back at me, takes a deep breath, and mutters, “I need your help.”

I’m going to say no. There’s no way I’m getting involved in whatever this is. Still, I can’t stop myself from asking, “What with?”

She takes another deep breath. She’s still shaking like a leaf, but there’s a steely determination in her eyes.

“I need you to get me out of this place. As far away as possible.”

Okay, this has to be someone’s twisted idea of a joke. Because there’s no way, in Heaven or Earth or in all of the universe, that I walked into this mess.

“Very funny,” I say. “And while I understand that losing your flowers or your shoes or whatever is enough reason for you to bail out of your wedding, I?—”

Her fingers fold into fists, and she stomps her foot at me. Actually stomps her foot.

“Don’t you get it?” she whisper-screams through gritted teeth. “I don’t fucking care about the flowers or the veil or the dress or the wedding. I just need to leave. Now.”

---