Page 4

Dane

"Ivy."

Her name hits me like a revelation as I listen to the guy outside call for her. Not what I expected–not that I expected anything, actually. Delicate, classic. Like her.

She'd rushed out moments before, barely taking time to straighten her dress. "Don't go in there, Dorian" she'd told the guy, with perfect deadpan delivery. "The flush is... well, let's just say even the plumber would need therapy after this." Quick wit, that one.

Who the fuck is Dorian and why was he looking for her?

Without thinking, I'd leaped into the nearest stall, feet planted on either side of the toilet like some kind of bathroom ninja.

Hockey reflexes, apparently good for more than just dodging pucks.

Though this might be the first time I've used them to hide from someone while shirtless in a luxury hotel bathroom.

I stay quiet, heart still racing from that… kiss, listening to their exchange through the door.

"There you are! Everyone's looking for—wait, have you been crying?"

"I'm fine. Just needed a minute."

"A minute turned into forty-five. I had to dodge your ex twice. 'Where's Ivy?' Like I'm your keeper or something."

"You kind of are tonight."

"True. But I'd rather be keeping an eye on that groomsman with the dimples..."

Ah, Dorian is her plus-one. Safe.

Her laugh carries through the door—lighter now, genuine. Different from the broken sound I first heard. I close my eyes, remembering how that laugh felt against my mouth just minutes ago.

I wait until their voices fade before emerging. My shirt's a lost cause—wine-stained and wrinkled beyond salvation. But I can't bring myself to regret a single moment that led to it being discarded on the bathroom floor.

When I slip into the hallway, I catch them just ahead—Dorian's arm around her shoulders, protective and casual. She's luminous in the proper light, her hair catching the chandeliers' glow like spun gold. No trace of tears now. Just grace and quiet strength.

"Did a man just come out of the bathroom you were in?" Dorian's asking as I pass.

"What? No. Don't be ridiculous." But there's a smile in her voice that makes my pulse skip.

I need my jacket. And probably a drink. Definitely a drink.

I spot my teammates at their assigned table—Axel sprawled in his chair like he owns it, Claude nursing what looks like his third whiskey.

I’d invited a few of the guys as a last-minute move when I realized I didn’t want to suffer through this thing alone.

Plus, the bride is apparently a hockey fan, so no one blinked when my buddies showed up in tuxes. Especially not her bridesmaids.

"Where's Victoria?" I ask Axel, dropping into an empty seat.

"Shoe emergency." He rolls his eyes. "Apparently the backup heels she brought are now causing a different kind of blister than the first pair."

"Women," Claude mutters into his glass.

"Hey," Axel protests. "Not all women. Just the ones who pack three pairs of shoes for a four-hour event."

Claude snorts. "Tell her to switch to skates. Best ankle support in the game."

"Great," Axel deadpans. "Nothing says elegant like a Vera Wang gown and Bauer Supremes."

I chuckle. "Hey, they matched my suit last season. Don’t knock it."

Claude lifts his glass. "To blisters, Bauer boys, and being the only sober people on the ice come next season."

Axel side-eyes him. "You? Sober? Since when?"

"Since this is whiskey number three, not seven."

I shake my head, smiling. Just for a moment, everything feels normal..

I scan the room, spotting Hortensia holding court near the dessert table. "Speaking of women—Claude, I need a favor."

"No."

"You haven't heard what it is yet."

"Don't need to. Your favors always end in disaster."

“What, you’re not grateful I brought you to my cousin’s wedding, man? To see if you could find here the next love of your life? I’m hurt.”

“Fine, what do you want Whitmore?”

"See that woman by the chocolate fountain? Tall, dark hair, green dress?"

Claude looks, then whistles low. "Damn."

"That's Hortensia Beaumont. My mother's latest matchmaking attempt."

"The poetry one?" Axel snorts. "The one who wrote an ode to her trust fund?"

"The very same. Claude, I need you to run interference."

"By interference, you mean...?"

"Distract her. Talk to her. Dance with her. Anything to keep her away from me for the next few hours."

Claude studies Hortensia thoughtfully. From this distance, you can't tell she's awful—you just see the perfect posture, designer dress, family money written all over her.

"What's in it for me?"

"My eternal gratitude?"

"Pass."

"Season tickets?"

"Have those."

"I'll owe you one."

Claude's eyes narrow. "A big one."

"Huge. Massive. Whatever you want."

"You're that desperate to avoid a gorgeous woman?" Axel asks. "What's wrong with you?"

"Trust me," I mutter, "her looks are the only thing not terrible about her."

"Fine," Claude says finally. "But you're going to regret this IOU."

"Probably." I grin.

That's when I hear it—a male voice cutting through the crowd.

"Ivy!"

I turn, watching her freeze mid-step. The man approaching her radiates smug confidence, dragging a blonde behind him like an accessory.

Ivy's spine stiffens. Dorian steps closer to her side.

"Marcus," she says, voice carefully neutral. "Hi."

"Your hiding spot didn't work," Dorian mutters.

Marcus either doesn't hear or doesn't care. "You look amazing! This is Jessica." He gestures to the blonde. "Jess, this is Ivy. We used to date."

Date? Didn’t she say they were engaged? Asshole.

I'm moving before I realize it, something protective and possessive surging through my blood.

His eyes rake over Ivy, landing on Dorian. "I should have known you wouldn't be seeing anyone.”

I reach them before she can reply. Without hesitation, I slide my arm around Ivy's waist.

"Sorry I'm late, baby." I press a kiss to her temple, feeling her slight start of surprise. "Got cornered by my PR agent again."

Her body relaxes against mine instantly, like she knows exactly what I'm doing. What we're doing.

"Marcus," she says, voice stronger now. "This is my fiancé."

I extend my hand, grip firm enough to make him wince. "Dane Whitmore. You must be the dick she mentioned—it’s Dick, right? Pleasure's all yours."