Page 48 of Player CEO (Billionaire Secrets #4)

He grins. “City Hall or Grace Cathedral?”

“No big show,” I say. “Small. Simple. Just us, Levi, your mom and her boyfriend, and my dad and his flavor du jour.”

“Whatever you want,” he says, leaning in. “Wherever, whenever. As long as it’s you.”

We kiss—slow, sweet, and sure. It tastes like smoke and love and something new, peace.

“I guess we’re getting married,” I whisper.

Theo’s smile grows, the last bit of worry falling away.

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes glowing. “I guess we are.”

Thank you for reading Player CEO . To read Mackenzie and Theo’s first meeting, grab a glass of water, and download it here. Or here https://dl.bookfunnel.com/1m9fbv62uf If you want to see what’s coming next, check out Spark’s Sneak Peek below. (There is based on the previously released as Original Sin.)

Spark Sneak Peek

Jasmine

Atlanta in April isn’t supposed to feel like the inside of a steamy gym sock. I haven’t even stepped out of my hotel room yet, and I’m already drenched in sweat. The buzz of mosquitos outside and the crackle of bug zappers are the soundtrack to my rising stress.

I stare at the monstrosity hanging from the closet door—a cage masquerading as a bridesmaid’s dress. Three hoops in graduated sizes are stitched to a sheer underskirt, with the bottom hoop easily three feet across. It also features a corset to squash my boobs into unnatural positions, and the fabric is heavy silk organza printed with enormous red roses and matching green leaves. I’ll be trussed up like a bouquet, complete with a parasol, elbow-length gloves, and a fascinator adorned with a red feather.

It’s not just not my taste—it’s aggressively against my taste.

I step into the dress’s cage and immediately get stuck trying to adjust the corset. Just breathing feels like a luxury I can’t afford for the next eight hours. All this for a one-time-use, twenty-two hundred outfit that I wouldn’t be caught dead in if it weren’t for Alicia McKay, my childhood best friend and today’s blushing Southern bride.

A knock rattles the door.

“Who is it?” I call, already bracing myself for another wedding task.

“It’s Roxanne. I need help.”

“Give me a sec.”

Roxanne King is another bridesmaid I met this morning over eggs and forced pleasantries. She lives in Chicago, works in PR, and was sorority sisters with Alicia. Like the rest of the bridal party. Unlike me.

I try to get to the door, but the hoops won’t let me.

“Oh, for the love—”

“Try holding the hoops up and at an angle,” Roxanne calls through the door.

I do, and somehow manage to shuffle over. I crack the door open to find her in a hotel robe, dress slung over one arm, hair curled to perfection, and face flushed with heat and frustration.

“I need help, and I bet you do, too,” she says.

“I was just figuring out how not to strangle myself in this thing,” I reply, stepping back.

Roxanne enters and immediately starts helping me out of the tangled mess. “I couldn’t get the damn thing on. Also, is this silk or body armor?”

“I think it’s both,” I mutter as she lifts the dress over my head.

Fresh air hits my face like salvation. “We’re going to need a team of engineers to get through the day.”

“Or a bonfire,” she offers. “I was seriously considering burning mine.”

I grin. “Solid idea.”

We take turns using the bathroom before putting on our dresses, both knowing these skirts won’t fit inside a standard stall. Roxanne laughs about packing flip-flops and yoga pants for the reception, which might be the smartest plan anyone’s had today.

“I’ve got my eye on one of the groomsmen,” she says as I help her into the dress. “This get-up is killing my chances.”

“Not for me,” I say. “No time for debauchery this weekend.”

“Well, more for me,” she chirps. “Bring on the naughty.”

Eventually, I’m wrangled into my full outfit. We grab our touch-up makeup and awkwardly drag our hoop skirts down the hallway, holding the cages at a forty-five-degree angle just to fit in the elevator.

“Do you think Alicia wanted us to look this bad?” Roxanne whispers.

I laugh under my breath. Honestly? Maybe. Alicia’s version of a “true Southern wedding” is a full-blown movie set.

We’re finally dressed—with only minutes to spare—and shuffle toward the elevator like two awkward parade floats, clutching our skirts at a forty-five-degree angle just to squeeze in side by side.

When the elevator doors open, it feels like the entire Ritz Carlton lobby stares at us in stunned silence. The wedding planner beelines toward us.

“You’re the first ones down—thank God,” she says, glancing us over like she’s assessing livestock. “Only one of you will fit in the car at a time.”

She turns to me. “You must be Jasmine Azad. You missed your flight last night.”

I nod. “Dallas delays. We were late because of weather in San Francisco.”

“That’s why you fly direct,” she snarks.

My jaw tightens. I’d love to fly direct. After the dress wiped out me out financially saving the three hundred dollars with a connection was a must.

“I need you to go with Sterling Romano,” she says. “You two will head to the church now so we can use the limo to shuttle the rest of the bridal party. Please don’t dawdle.”

I nod, not trusting myself to say anything polite. This isn’t my day, and I’m not about to cause drama.

The limo driver is holding the door open. Getting this dress into this car is like a complex math problem. I gather the dress in both arms and eye the open door like it’s a hostile battlefield. There’s no graceful way to do this.

I hoist the bottom hoop and wedge myself sideways through the door, hips first, angling like a broken umbrella in a windstorm. The second hoop bangs against the doorframe. The third nearly takes out the driver. Once I finally land on the seat with a heavy whump, the real problem becomes obvious. The hoops don’t collapse and instead the large hoop at the bottom of the dress becomes like a room divider. I’m completely swallowed. All Sterling can see from the far side of the limo is a floating are my bloomers, on proud display. Suddenly I’m grateful I decided to wear them.

“Finally,” I mutter.

“Missing something?” he asks, handing me the parasol.

“Crap. Where’s the fascinator?”

“What is a fascinator?” he asks.

“It’s fancy hat. I can’t leave without it.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got it. I didn’t know what it was. Thought maybe it was a bird.”

“Sorry about the… dress,” I try to explain.

“You must really like Alicia to wear that dress,” he adds.

“I have to keep reminding myself of that. And I’m Jasmine.”

We’re quiet as we drive.

“I’m Steve.”

“She told me your name was Sterling.” I so confused. Am I even in the right car?

“It is, But I go by Steve. It’s just easier.” He quiet for a moment. “This is quite the view,” he says.

I can’t see anything, and I’m trying to decide if I’m going to be sick.

“What do you call those white things you’re wearing? Knickers?”

My breath stills in my throat. I can’t see him, but he has a full view of what I have on under the cage. “I think the appropriate term is bloomers .” I close my eyes for a solid ten seconds. “This must be your dream. You meet a girl. Don’t have to worry about what she looks like. All you see is her coochie.”

I hear him snort. “Does Alicia hate you?”

Suddenly, I feel absolutely protective of my childhood best friend. “No! She wanted a Southern wedding. This is her day. It’s all about her, and I won’t complain.”

“You’re a loyal and devoted friend.”

“It’s not a bad dress. The structure was just meant for a much cooler day. And had the church changing area not been dealing with a broken pipe, we would have been just fine and changed there, rather than at the hotel.

He starts to laugh.

“What is so funny?”

“Like you said, the only thing I can see is your coochie. It’s like it’s talking to me.”

“Just so you know, this coochie is off limits to you.”

“That’s okay. I usually like to see a woman’s face before I bend her over and take her nice and hard.”

I roll my eyes. But my insides do something very different—which I ignore. “Nice. I assume you talk to your mother with that mouth?”

“My parents died when I was fifteen.”

Great. I’m a fucking disaster. This is the guy I’m to spend most of the night with, and I’ve flashed him, threatened him, told him off, and now I brought up probably the worst moment of his life.

“I’m very sorry about your parents. When I was ten years old, I left mine in Iran. They sent me to a smuggler to get me out, and I went to live with an aunt in Los Angeles. I don’t know if they’re alive or dead.”

“That must be hard,” he says.

“I was lucky. But we’ve tried to locate them, but haven’t been successful.”

“That’s really tough.”

The limo rolls to a stop. The door opens, revealing a frazzled woman in a headset.

“Hello!” she sing-songs. “I’m Brittney, the wedding planner’s assistant.”

“Jasmine Azad,” I reply.

It takes a full team effort to extract me from the limo. At one point I hear a rip and hope it’s not my dress.

Steve climbs out behind me, smirking. “You did it.”

I fan myself with the parasol. “Barely.”

“They’re not ready for us yet,” Brittney says. “Please wait by the tree and try to stay cool.”

Cool. Sure. I adjust my fascinator, hoist the parasol, and follow Steve to the shade.

“So now that I’ve seen the bottom half, it’s nice to officially meet the top half,” he says with a sly grin.

I arch a brow. “You’re smooth.”

“I’m a breast man,” he says, gesturing to the corset. “You wear it well.”

“You’re not going to get laid this weekend,” I warn, even as part of me wonders what he’d be like in bed.

“Isn’t that what weddings are for? Groomsmen, bridesmaids, slow dances, bad decisions?”

“Not with this girl.”

“The night is young,” he says, stepping away.

Except it’s four in the afternoon. And yet, despite everything—the heat, the dress, the sass—he’s still kind of magnetic. Dangerous. Beautiful.

And I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m going to regret underestimating Steve Romano.

The moment Alicia’s mom spots me from across the courtyard, her face lights up. She crosses the grass in sandals and pearls, arms wide.

“You made it!” she says, pulling me into a hug.

“I’m sorry I was late,” I murmur. “But I would’ve driven if I had to.”

“You’re here, sweetheart. That’s all that matters.”

I manage a smile. “I just didn’t want to add to Alicia’s stress.”

She waves that off. “Oh, she’s fine. Between the dress fittings and the seating chart drama, she barely slept last night. But seeing you? That’ll calm her.”

I glance back at Steve, who’s chatting with another groomsman, completely at ease, suit jacket tossed over his shoulder like he’s posing for a cologne ad.

Mrs. McKay links her arm with mine. “Let’s go find the bride. I’ve got a cold pack on the back of her neck to keep her from melting.”

Inside the church, it’s thankfully cooler. We slip through a door off the main aisle and into a preparation room that smells like hairspray and roses. Alicia stands near a mirror, radiant in a form-fitting gown that flares into a dramatic skirt at her knees. Her hair is pinned in elegant waves, her veil cascading down her back.

She turns—and bursts into tears.

“Oh no,” I say, rushing to her. “Don’t cry, you’ll ruin your makeup.”

“I’m just so happy you’re here,” she sniffles.

I fold her into a hug, careful not to crumple either of our dresses. “It’s going to be a beautiful day. You look like a dream.”

“I just… I love him so much,” she whispers. “Tom is everything I didn’t know I needed.”

“You’re marrying your person,” I say gently. “That’s worth every hoop, corset, and feather in this outfit.”

Alicia laughs, dabbing her eyes. “You don’t hate the dress?”

I hesitate. “It’s exactly what you wanted. That’s what matters.”

She smiles at me like I’ve handed her a gift. “Thank you for coming. Truly.”

The other bridesmaids begin filing in—satin rustling, complaints buzzing. Roxanne catches my eye and gives me a little thumbs-up. The chaos ramps up as everyone adjusts parasols and fascinators and finds places to stand without knocking each other over with their skirts.

Alicia is pulled into photos with the groomsmen, her mom overseeing every detail. The photographer—young, energetic, and slightly exasperated—herds us like stubborn sheep. The heat creeps in despite the shade, and powder flies as she tries to tamp down everyone’s glow.

Roxanne coughs through the haze. “I hope this isn’t the stuff that gave everyone cancer in the nineties.”

The photographer glares.

We do our best to pose, arms held awkwardly due to the volume of fabric between us. When it’s finally my turn to take a photo with Alicia, I sidestep the hoop with all the grace of a cow on rollarskates and pull her in for a real, close hug. She squeezes my hand, and I see the gratitude in her eyes.

This day isn’t about my discomfort. It’s about her joy. And I can suck it up for a few hours.

“Groom’s coming in!” someone calls.

Alicia is whisked away, and Tom appears, looking sharp and nervous. He takes pictures with his groomsmen while we hover. They’re a good-looking crew—tall, clean-cut, probably all investment bankers or tech guys with expensive watches and smug smiles.

Roxanne nudges me. “You’ve definitely got the hottest one.”

“They’re all attractive,” I say noncommittally.

She laughs. “Come on. You’re telling me you didn’t notice the man bun-free one in the limo? That’s Steve, by the way.”

I glance at her sideways. “You didn’t hook up with him last night?”

“Me? No. I was wiped from travel.”

“He seemed very… focused on the idea of a wedding hookup.”

“Oh, all the other bridesmaid’s flirted with him last night,” she says breezily. “But he went back to his room alone. A total flirt. Probably very skilled in bed.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not trying to be the next notch on his very polished bedpost.”

“Why not? You both live in San Francisco, right? Could be convenient.”

“We didn’t’ talk about where we live. But that alone is a good excuse to exactly why not,” I reply. “He’d pop up everywhere. Pilates class, Trader Joe’s, my dentist’s office.”

“Maybe he’s your meet-cute.”

I snort. “He’s my ‘be-careful-you-don’t-trip-over-that-ego’ moment.”

Before she can reply, the photographer calls for Steve and me. Roxanne shoots me a smug grin. “Have fun.”

I step carefully under the tree, adjusting my gloves and parasol as the photographer arranges me just so. Steve joins me a second later, hands in his pockets, grin tugging at his mouth.

“It’s a modern-day chastity cage,” he murmurs, looking at the skirt’s ridiculous puff.

“If you want to get closer, you’ll have to lean,” the photographer says.

He leans. My dress shifts.

“Closer but not touching the skirt,” she instructs again.

“Got it,” Steve says. “Hover-flirt mode engaged.”

I bite back a laugh.

As the photographer fusses with angles and lighting, I feel the heat rolling off him, the faint scent of cologne, the lazy way his eyes move when he thinks no one’s watching.

I hate how aware I am of all of it.

“Just so you know,” he says under his breath, “you’ve officially upgraded from mysterious bloomers girl to the most captivating woman here.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. My face is already flushed, and not from the heat.

The photographer gives us a thumbs-up. “Perfect! Got it. Thank you!”

Steve steps back, just slightly, and his hand brushes my arm. I jump like I’ve been caught.

“You okay?” he asks, brows lifted.

“I’m fine,” I say too quickly.

The wedding planner rushes over. “Final photos! Everyone get into position!”

I retreat to the edge of the group and try to slow my breathing.

This day is about Alicia. Not Steve. Not his jawline. Not my suddenly unruly hormones.

But when he glances back at me as he walks off toward the groomsmen, flashing that confident half-smile again, something flares low in my belly.

And I can’t help but think—maybe this weekend is going to be more complicated than I thought.