Page 40 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)
I stand through pictures and mingle with wedding guests and smile and rehearse the answers to the same questions (“We think the height comes from my dad’s side,” and, “I’m a professional athlete.
No, I don’t ski. Actually, I play softball.
It’s sort of like baseball.”) to nearly every guest I talk to.
I’m finally reunited with Trace, but the space between us is full of unspoken things—things that shouldn’t be discussed in front of practical strangers.
Things that I’d like to discuss in private and follow up with a kiss or three.
By the time we make it through the cocktail hour and dinner, I’m about ready to haul Trace back to the gondola and head down the mountain for some time without anyone else around.
Trace wraps his arm around me and steers me to the edge of the reception area—an outdoor pavilion not far away from the overlook where the chairs from this morning’s ceremony are still sitting, the gauzy material adorning them blowing in the gentle, late afternoon breeze.
He pulls me in front of him, wrapping his arms around me, and rests his chin on my shoulder.
The side of his head presses into mine, and we sway gently to the music that’s quieter now that we’re away from the main area where Jenna and Ryker are celebrating and dancing with their friends and guests.
A few other guests mingle outside of the pavilion, but they all keep to themselves, like they’re trying to find the same peace I’m searching for in Trace’s arms.
I admire the beauty of the mountainside that falls away below us, sloping down to a sparkling blue river in the distance.
While we still have another hour or so before the reception is over, this is the first time we’ve been able to get away from the rest of the guests.
The first time I’ve been able to take a full breath since this morning when Mom and I were assigned the same gondola.
The gentle scratch of Trace’s stubble becomes the soft press of his lips, and everything around me begins to blur a little at the edges as my focus moves from the mountainside around me to the man behind me.
“Have I told you how sexy you look in this dress?” Trace’s lips move higher, closer to my neck, and I try to stay still—try to enjoy the subtle sting of his stubble soothed away by the softness of his lips.
“No, but I’m listening.” I arch into his touch, pressing my shoulders back against his. In my heels, we’re nearly the same height, and I relish the fact that it gives him easy access to the soft skin I want him to kiss again and again.
Trace’s chuckle moves through my body to compound into a bubbly feeling inside my chest.
“You were very distracting during the wedding. How was I supposed to pay attention to your sister when you were standing right there in this dress, looking like my favorite fantasy?”
Trace’s voice is no more than a low rumble against my skin, but his words echo into my very soul like thunder. His hands slide from my arms to my stomach, pressing me back against him and making my legs weak.
“Trace,” I warn as his lips travel up to my ear.
But my warning is lost to the wind as shouting erupts behind us.
“GET AWAY FROM MY BOYFRIEND!”
My fingernails dig into the sleeve of Trace’s suit coat, and we pull apart to look at each other. Trace releases my waist to spin around, pulling me behind him, but I wiggle out of his grasp and step up to his side, clutching his left hand in my right.
Millie Irving, obviously three sheets to the wind, storms toward us, bumping into wedding guests as the alcohol she’s already imbibed alters her course.
She roughly grabs a champagne flute off the tray of a passing waiter, who dances away from her when she wobbles and nearly topples into him.
In a swallow, she downs the drink and points the end of the glass toward Trace as she continues her advance.
“You said you loved me ! You said we’d be together forever.
And now you’re here with her ?” Her pitch rises to a screech on the last word, and the glass gets pointed at me.
The eyes of the closest wedding guests follow her as she crosses the outdoor space.
She stops about ten feet away, wobbling on heels that are too tall for her current intoxication level.
I don’t know how long she’s been at the reception—if her state is from the drinks served here or if she was pregaming elsewhere—but her presence here at all is setting off all the alarms.
Trace takes a step forward, raising a placating hand. “What are you doing here, Millie?”
“You wouldn’t come to me, so I came to you.
” Her voice drops from a screech to something more than a conversational tone, but I’m just glad we’re not garnering the attention of the whole reception, even though the guests closest to us turn their heads in our direction.
She takes a slow step forward, and Trace edges back almost imperceptibly .
“You made it so difficult, coming all the way out here. Do you know how much I had to pay for that last-minute flight?” A hostile edge lines her words, and a dangerous spark flashes in her eyes.
“But I did all of it just to get you back.” Her lips turn up in a smile as she looks up at Trace. “Because you belong with me .”
Trace shakes his head, moving back another step—back to my side. “Millie, we broke up months ago. We’re not together anymore.” His voice is soft, trying to not attract any more attention, but his words are firm like his grip on me.
“You didn’t mean it!” Millie’s eyes jump between Trace and me and our interlocked hands, her voice immediately escalating back to a shout. “We always get back together! It’s what we do!” She tries to take a step but wobbles, her arms going out to balance herself.
“Not this time, Millie. I’m with Naomi now.” Despite the tense atmosphere, Trace’s statement, which just a few days ago, I would have said was a part of the act, sends a rush of butterflies through me.
“No!” Millie sobs, tears beginning to stream down her face, and more wedding guests look over. The music is still going, but it’s obvious the party is not. Behind Millie’s head, I can see both Mom and Dad heading in my direction, disapproval etched deeply into both their faces.
“No!” Millie’s sobs become a scream, ripping my attention away from my approaching parents.
As she cocks her arm back, it’s instinct for me to step in front of Trace.
And as the champagne flute hurtles through the air toward us, I let go of Trace’s hand and move forward.
Snatching the flying glass out of mid-air, I don’t slow my steps until I’m towering over Millie.
“Look, Millie.” I pause to take a steadying breath, and her green eyes go wide as she tips her head to look up at me.
Shock is plastered across her face, and at this angle, she looks more like a petulant toddler than an adult old enough to legally drink.
“I’ve put up with you for a very long time, so you better believe it when I tell you that Trace is done with you.
There won’t be any more apologies and make-ups.
There won’t be any more Trace and Millie. ”
My voice becomes firmer the more I talk—the more I realize that this really is the end of Trace and Millie because it’s the beginning of Trace and Naomi. That truth shines bright within me as the corner of my mouth hitches up. “Because he’s mine now. And he will be for a very long time.”
I slide my hands down to my knees, the green silk of my dress slipping coolly underneath them, as I crouch to be at eye-height with her. “It will never be you.”
Her face falls, and for a microsecond, I feel bad for her.
That this is her ending: turned down and embarrassed at some stranger’s wedding reception.
But that vanishes the moment Millie’s face turns a shade of red I’ve never seen on her before, and with a smug smile, I slip the stem of the flute into her limp fingers that instinctively tighten around the glass.
“You dropped this.” I stand back to my full height as her free hand comes up, obviously looking for a handful of my hair to yank.
But before her fingers can snatch my curls, a large hand wraps around her arm, and she looks up to find a member of the venue’s security team.
I don’t know where he was three minutes ago, but I’m grateful he’s here now.
Millie’s shock and indignation turns into blubbering sobs as she’s escorted away from the growing crowd of onlookers.
Multiple people have phones to their ears, but luckily, none are out and videoing the whole debacle.
I guess there are some perks to attending the wedding of two professional athletes. Privacy is actually a thing .
By the time her noise is muffled by the doors of the event center on the other side of the pavilion, most everyone goes back to whatever they were doing before the rude interruption.
I turn around, finding Trace speaking rapidly into his phone.
When I catch his eye, he smiles tersely at me and mouths “Duke” before reengaging in the conversation.
A hand wraps around my shoulder and pulls, and I spin before whoever it is knocks me off balance.
Mom’s claw-like grip digs into my shoulder as she tries to pull me farther away from the pavilion, but I plant my feet like I'm making a tag at home plate.
“What do you think you’re doing, Naomi?” she hisses, her displeasure morphing into thinly veiled anger.
“I can’t believe you would sabotage your sister’s big day like this!
This is absurd! It’s childish to take the attention away from Jenna on her wedding day .
” She emphasizes those two words like I'm completely unaware of what today is. Like I wasn’t up just as early to get ready so my little sister’s “big day” would go off without a hitch.