Page 4 of Mr. Swoony

“Good looking. Cocky. Strong thighs. She doesn’t even know it, does she?” Penelope giggles—which is kind of annoying because it’s clearly at my expense, but I’ll take it over tears any night.

“What am I missing?” I ask.

She points at the other VIP area. “That’s Tweetie Sorenson.”

I shrug and follow the direction of her finger to the tall guy with blond hair cut to his chin who is laughing with three other guys. “That’s his name? Tweetie?”

Conor laughs but doesn’t answer.

“No, it’s his hockey nickname. I’m not sure I even know his real name, actually.” She turns to Conor.

He shrugs as if he doesn’t know either, or he’s not going to tell her.

“He’s your friend?” Penelope asks him.

Conor nods.

“Teammate?” Penelope’s brows lift.

Conor nods again.

“Holy shit! Are you serious?” Penelope slaps the top of the booth cushion. “You don’t even know it, do you?” She flips around and slides down on the vinyl couch, catching herself before her ass slips right off, and she lands on the floor.

“Know what?” I ask with irritation.

“You’re sitting next to a Chicago Falcon.” She shakes her head and glances at Conor.

“Really?” I ask because she could be too drunk, and these guys may look like them, but they can’t actually be professional hockey players.

“Yeah.”

The blond guy on the couch slides over next to Penelope with two shots in hand. He whispers something in her ear, and she downs one.

I need to get us out of here. “Wait here, I’m going to tell everyone we’re leaving.”

I stand and stare at the dance floor, but the rest of our party is on the other side, and I really don’t want to walk through all those sweaty bodies. I could send them a text. I mean, they’re here out of obligation, but they took time out of their lives to come here and celebrate me, even if I think most of them don’t like me very much. When I’m around them, I always feel as though I don’t belong.

A calloused hand falls onto mine. “I’ll take you,” Conor says.

I ignore the flutter in my stomach. What the fuck is that about? I’m going to be a married woman in a week.

He tugs me forward, but I stop and look at Penelope, tugging her up by the hand and making us a chain of three. The blond guy protests, but I put out my hand.

“Stay. She’s done. It’s been fun,” I say.

Penelope’s head lolls to the side. We only have a short amount of time before someone will have to carry her out of here.

“Bye,” she mumbles and waves to the guy, who thankfully doesn’t follow us.

Conor weaves us through the crowd, and I’d be a liar if I said it wasn’t hot the way people part for him. I think maybe I was the only one in this club who didn’t know who he is.

We stop in front of the other bridesmaids, and the guys they’re with corral around Conor, competing to shake hands with him first. Each of them fawns over him as though he’s The Bachelor, and it’s episode one. I tell the other bridesmaids I’m taking Penelope back to the hotel, and they offer to come back too, though I say no. They’re having fun and should stay. Plus, this way I can get Penelope settled and have some peace to myself instead of them thinking they have to entertain me.

Penelope grows heavy behind me, tugging my hand down, and I know from our days in college that I’m on borrowed time. I say goodbye, wrap my arm around her shoulders, and walk us along the dance floor’s perimeter toward the front door, leaving Conor with his wannabe entourage members.

As I’m about to walk out the door, a big body comes along behind me, pushing it open.

“Let me.” Conor’s breath tickles the nape of my neck.

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