way my mother did. Fuss over me, ashamed by her actions, ready to make amends.
The woman just stands there, smug.
Chandler has nothing to say.
No defense, no apology.
Stands there with a shit-eating grin on her face. I hate to call it a smirk, but there’s no denying that smug countenance. And fuck if one of her brows doesn’t arch in my direction.
An arched brow of victory.
I showed you, that brow is saying, taunting me. Superior.
That’s one chick I’ll never call boring again.
Lesson learned.
“Nothing to see here,” I tell my friends and family, phones pointed in my damn direction. “Put those away, would you?” I shield my face, but the damage is done.
A SportsCenter journalist approaches.
I recognize her from the locker room; it’s Sunny Bellefonte and she often covers our games. Great, just what I needed—media coverage of me being dumped on the ground by a waif.
“That was something I wasn’t expecting to see at a classy wedding.” Sunny is chuckling. “What’d you do to piss her off?”
“Nothing.” Except call her boring and imply that she was less exciting than watching paint dry. “That was not part of your exclusive, by the way,” I complain, dusting off my knees.
Sunny’s laugh is patronizing as she sizes me up. “That hardly matters, Wallace—a dozen other people caught that on their phones and the video has already made it onto the internet.” Her finger hovers over her tablet. “Would you care to name the young lady who flipped you on your back?”
“No.”
“No?” Her blonde brows are raised. “Is she a girlfriend?”
“Hell no.”
“Yeah.” She taps her chin with the tip of her tablet stylus. “The independent, badassery kind of woman hardly seems like your type.”
Is she implying that Chandler Westbrooke is independent and badass?
Mousy and lame is more like it.
I whip my head around to glare at Sunny, reacting to her barb. “Not my type? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“No offense, Wallace, but you seem more like one to go for the flighty, submissive type. Not the kind who’s going to kick your ass in public and leave you lying there.” She’s laughing again, definitely condescending to me. To my face.
Is something in the water tonight? Why am I being ganged up on?
“I heard your speech at dinner.” Another sardonic laugh. “I’m sure half the ovaries in the room shriveled up and died, while the other half still want a piece of you.”
My sister-in-law didn’t invite any bimbos to the wedding, if that’s what Sunny is implying, so her theory holds no weight. Still, the fact that she thinks those are the only women who are attracted to me stings.
I’m butthurt. “Are they paying you to come here and harass me?”
“No, they’re paying me to get a photo of your brother getting a piece of cake set on his tongue by his lady love.”
“That happened an hour ago—why are you still here?”
“You never know what’s going to happen, and you, my friend, just made my whole evening of skulking in the corner worth it.”
“I hope they aren’t feeding you,” I grumble. “You’re nothing but a thorn in my side.”
Sunny laughs. “I think I’m the least of your worries. Everyone watching that video now thinks one of two things: One, you’re a dick who pissed off that girl enough she tossed you. Two, you’re a pussy.”
Are women allowed to use that word?
“Jeez, Sunny, don’t you have someone else to go harass? Noah Harding is here with his girlfriend—why don’t you go stalk them?”
“I talked to them already and got the pictures I needed.”
Dammit. “Go dance.”
“I’m here to work.”
“What about Duke Zemetz?” They call him Z-Man, and he’s actually not a teammate of my brother’s, but a member of another professional football team Buzz happens to be good friends with. A Pro-Bowler running back with a long career in front of him.
Nice dude.
Her ears perk up. “Duke is here?”
Bingo! The diversion I need. “Last I saw, he was by the snack buffet.” Hollis and Buzz had finger foods brought in, as well as food trucks outside, to feed guests and make sure no one left here soaked. Sloshed. Blitzed. Drunk.
Ubers and vans are lined up outside, too.
Sunny is already halfway across the room toward the food and Duke, giving me the chance to slip out the side door.
No one will miss me.
Least of all Chandler Westbrooke.
Eight
Chandler
Voicemail one: **beep!** Chandler, honey, it’s Mom. Are you going to call us back about that Wallace boy? What’s going on, sweetie? Mommy loves you, kiss kiss.
Voicemail two: **beep!** Chandler,