Page 7 of Icing the Enemy

“Does this woman want to come to Atlanta… for a wedding?” he asks.

“She’s in Georgia, so I assume she lives here.”

“What does her license plate say?” he asks.

I walk around to the back of the car. “Tennessee. Just tell me if I can bring her… and the dog.”

His laugh explodes from the depths of his core as he concedes, “Sure, kidnap a stranger, her dog and crash my wedding.”

“You met your girl at a club. Why can’t I meet mine at a Buc-ee’s? Have you seen this place? It’s crawling with women and snacks. Perfect combo.” I chuckle at my own joke.

"You're really going to pick up a stranded woman on my wedding day? This could go terribly wrong; she could be a serial killer," he teases.

"According to the true crime podcasts I listen to, only 10% of serial killers are women," I reply with a heavy sigh.

"Great, so she might spray you with mace and steal your truck," he jokes. Bryce Wynward, starting center for the Georgia Jets, has been all smiles since he met Emmaline. I’m grateful that he’s worried about me, but I am who I am. Yes, I like helping people. "Just be safe, and I'll see you when you get here."

“Thanks. I’ll be fine and who knows, maybe I’ll catch the garter tonight and have a wedding of my own.”

“I hope so, brother.”

Where is she? There must be one helluva line for the bathroom. I check my phone, and Bryce’s wedding starts soon, so I really need to get back on the road. Being late fills me with anxiety since my entire life has been structured and planned. Once my parents had the “middles,” that’s what my family calls the middle four kids, I would literally feel sick if there was a chance of being late for hockey practice.

Finally, I see Dixie’s owner walking our way. She’s unwrapping a sandwich while trying to eat the bag of homemade kettle chips and her drink. We meet her halfway. “Need help?”

“You really have a savior complex, huh?” she asks while sinking her teeth into a barbeque sandwich.

I take the bag of chips from her and hold them out, so she doesn’t need more hands than she has. “I’m the third oldest of ten brothers and sisters, so it’s how I was raised. If someone needs help… you help them. It’s what I do.”

She swallows and takes a drink of the glass-bottled Coke. “Thank you.”

“What’s your name?” I ask

“Oakley.”

“Is Dixie a cavapoo or a mini goldendoodle?”

“A cavapoo. My mom adopted her from a shelter.”

I like this girl already. Or at least her mom.

“Well, Oakley. I’m on my way to Atlanta for a wedding. Would you be my date? It’s at the Skyloft Hotel downtown. Then I can take you wherever you want to go afterwards.” I extend the chips and say, “I’m Corbin.”

She grabs another chip. “I don’t have anything to wear to a wedding and…”

“And what? My friend Brooke is about the same size as you and lives in Atlanta. I’m sure she’ll have something you can wear but if not, then we can stop at the mall and get you something. But we’ve got to go because I don’t want to be late.”

She mumbles, “My mom would kill me for getting in the car with a stranger.” Her teeth plunge into her ample bottom lip, and I can’t help but stare. She has the most perfect lips I’ve ever seen. Her blond hair is in a short ponytail. “I guess you’re my only option.”

“Thanks for the ego boost,” I laugh while pretending to be hurt. “Do you have luggage or dog stuff that you need me to put in my truck?”

Finally, she smiles, and my heart practically leaps from my chest. What the hell is wrong with me? We’ve exchanged a half-dozen sentences.

“Yes.”

I open the passenger door for her, after I load her luggage. Oakley falters, scans the parking lot like she’s going to make a run for it, but then she climbs in. I pick up Dixie and put her in the backseat. Before exiting the parking lot, I text Brooke.

Me: Do you have an extra dress at the hotel that a friend of mine could wear?

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