Page 86 of The Fine Line
Rags scratches the back of his head, glancing at Rhett.
“No, we didn’t. But hey—we’re happy for him.” His eyes flick to me, then back to the press. “Happy forthem.”
“So, no teammates at the ceremony?”
“We kept it intimate,” Rhett jumps in smoothly.
I ignore the two male journalists that clearly don’t realize I’m a few feet behind them whispering, “I bet they did,” as Rhett adds, “Just family.”
My family.
And suddenly I realize—his wasn’t there.
Did he invite them? Did he tell them the marriage is fake? Did they try to stop him?
Why haven’t I asked him any of this?
“Sutty, looking ahead a little—” another reporter says.
“Please,” Rhett says, clearly welcoming the shift in subject.
“The Storm’s annual charity gala is next weekend. That’ll be you and your wife’s first public appearance together, right?”
Shit.The gala. I forgot.
“We’re on a tight schedule,” Dad cuts in sharply. “Let’s stick to hockey questions. We’ve got a full week ahead.”
“Right,” another reporter speaks up. “You’re headed to Toronto later this week. Rhett, that’s your own backyard. How’re you feeling going into that game?”
“Toronto’s off to a strong start,” Rhett muses. “But we’ll be ready.”
“Since you'll be back at home,” another reporter adds, “surely your family will be in attendance to welcome you and your new wife?”
My spine stiffens.
And there’s another thing I apparently had not thought of.
I have to meet Rhett’s parents.
Surely, deep down, I had to have known that if he and I were going to be spending the next three to five years together—deep breath—I was going to have to meet them at some point. I just didn’t expect it to be now. A couple of weeks after our spur-of-the-moment marriage.
Now, I’m suddenly feeling a whole lot like Sanda Bullock inThe Proposal.
Should we start preparing binders of personal information to exchange and study on the flight to Toronto so we actually appear to know each other like two people in love?
Come to think of it—Rhett’s never said much about where he comes from. Besides hockey with Bennett… nothing.
He hasn’t answered the question yet.
When I glance back at the table, he’s tense—rigid—jaw tight.
“That would be a fair assumption,” he finally says.
“Speaking of parents, Bear, we should bring you into this,” the reporter adds. “Since this involves your daughter?—”
Your daughter.
The one who apparently doesn’t have a name. Because—not that I’ve been counting, but—this is verging on the fifthquestion about my and Rhett’s marriage, and my name has not been mentioned a single time.
