Page 36 of Forecasting the Forward

She gives me a soft smile as she nods, and I take the opportunity to kiss her temple. I have a feeling kissing Becca’s lips would make her feel a twinge of embarrassment, and undoubtedly it would set off either her brother or mother. I don’t want to bring any more drama and heartache to Becca tonight. My girl has had enough to last a lifetime.

Mygirl.

One way or another, I’m gonna make this girl mine.

After no more thanthirty minutes of every person in the room ignoring me, barely speaking to Becca, and talking loudly about business acquisitions that really shouldn’t be discussed at a wake — funeral dinner? What the hell is this supposed to be, anyway? — I’m ready to go the minute Becca says so.

These people arehorrid.

I’ve been around my fair share of wealthy people. You don’t own hockey teams unless you’ve got a tremendous amount of zeroes in your net worth. Our team regularly attends fundraisers and galas in the area, and Jamie always wants me to make anappearance at his events when I can. I’ve rubbed elbows with celebrities, politicians, and even foreign dignitaries. Yet none of them have ever gone out of their way to make me feel small.

Even worse is the fact that they’re doing it to Becca, too. I can feel her getting smaller, pushing in against my side, as if I will somehow be able to hide her from the miserable looks we’ve gotten from every snake in this gaudy joint. Baroque tapestries, oversized dark furniture that looks as uncomfortable as it is, and paintings depicting unsmiling faces from centuries ago, tell me that even those people are unhappy here.

When some pretentious ass announces dinner is finally ready, I notice there are name plates at each seat. It’s not lost on me that I’ve been placed as far away from Becca as possible. She’s next to her brother, and across from her mother. Her brother is, of course, at the head of the table.

“They did that on purpose. They’ll say it was due to not knowing about your attendance until earlier,” she whispers, her voice trembling. I can hear how close she is to tears, and I’m two seconds away from pulling the garish tasseled tablecloth completely off the table to end this stupid dinner.

“I’m not having it, darlin’,” I tell her, pulling her around the table. I grab my place holder, then swiftly walk to where hers is. I switch mine with hers so I’m next to her brother, then put hers next to me. Grabbing some random dude’s name plate, I toss it across the table.

“I do believe my dear sister is sitting beside me,” a nasally voice pipes up from behind us. “I don’t think we’ve met. Rodney Stephens, Junior.”

I turn, ready to meet someone eye-to-eye. Instead, I have to look down quite a bit at a man with a badly receding hairline, an incredibly large nose, and one hell of an overbite. It would appear Becca got all of the looks.

As Rodney attempts to squeeze between me and Becca to switch our name plates, I pull out Becca’s chair for her. Once she’s seated, I slam down in the chair next to Rodney. “We’re good, Rod.”

“You may call me Mister Stephens.”

“Nah,” I drawl, casually draping my arm on the back of Becca’s chair. “Nice that you wanted to separate us, though. Good try.”

Rodney’s eyes narrow. “Presenting a unified family front at a meal to honor the life of our father has nothing to do with you. We didn’t know about you until a couple hours ago.”

“So?” I raise my eyebrows at him, sending a silent challenge.

Rodney glares as he slowly sits down. Becca’s mother glides to her seat, her lips pursed so tightly I think she could cut glass if she wanted to. Honestly, I’m surprised she has the ability to move her face that much.

A line of servers walk in, each with one lidded plate. Once the plates are in front of us, the servers dramatically remove the domed lids to reveal … three pieces of romaine lettuce, and a dot of dressing? What the fuck is this?

Rodney carefully taps his fork against a glass of champagne, getting everyone’s attention. Champagne. At a meal to ‘honor’ a dead man. I’ll bet anything the champagne doesn’t even go with anything at the meal. Rod’s celebrating his father’s death, and the look of superiority on his face only cements my hatred for him.

“Thank you all for coming. It is wonderful to have all of dad’s esteemed friends here to celebrate his life,” Rodney begins, his voice bordering on whining. How old is he? It’s no wonder there doesn’t appear to be a woman on his arm. No one could put up with that voice.

“Your father was a brilliant man,” old fart number one calls out from my original seat.

“Here, here,” old fart number two says loudly, pushing his almost empty glass of champagne into the air. Everyone follows suit, except for me and Becca. For the most part, I’m taking my cues from her. If she drinks, I will.

“Rebecca!” her mother hisses, her eyes bugging out of her head. When the woman next to Mrs. Stephens turns toward all of us, Becca’s mother attempts a smile, and I jerk backward. This must be what a demon looks like as it tries to lure the unsuspecting into hell.

Becca giggles lightly next to me, and it breaks a little bit of the tension. I move my arm from around her shoulder, sliding my hand down her arm, and covering her hand with mine. She makes no move to eat the pieces of grass on her plate, nor do I.

So, Rebecca,” the woman next to Mrs. Stephens says, “I hear you’re moving back home.”

“What?” Becca gasps. “No. No, I’m not moving back here.”

The woman frowns. “I was told —”

“I don’t know what you were told, Mrs. Betterson. I am not moving.”

“How will you plan the wedding?” Mrs. Betterson asks.

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