Page 12 of Faking the Pass
“I can’t believe you’re really this stupid,” he barked. “You really are a dumb bitch.”
That last lovely word sailed into the outside air as the door opened and we both emerged from the front of the mansion.
I stopped short at the sight of the paparazzi lining the gilded iron gates of the estate.
Telephoto lenses rose in a flurry of motion, ready to capture my humiliation—and the mascara that was undoubtedly streaming down my face—in high definition.
They were everywhere.
I was trapped.
Whirling back toward the house, I saw two faces—Randy’s infuriated scowl—and a frown of concern from a tall security guy in sunglasses and a dark gray suit. I hadn’t even noticed him standing there before.
The security guard took immediate action, opening the door and ushering us both back inside.
Once we were out of camera range, he stepped in between Randy and me and looked down at me. His tone was gentle.
“Do you need help?”
Somewhere in a detached part of my brain, I noted that he hadn’t asked, “Are you okay?”
I guessed the answer was obvious. When the groom calls the bride a “bitch” on their wedding day, it makes things pretty clear.
“I’m not sure. I want to leave, but…” I gestured toward the doors and the paparazzi that waited beyond them.
And then I realized this guy wasn’t exactly on my side either. Randy had hired the security company.
Backing away from the tall, powerfully built guard, I warned, “Don’t try to stop me. Iwillscream and cause a scene.”
“Stop being so melodramatic,” Randy said in a bored sounding tone.
Then to the security guy, he said, “Do you people carry, like, Xanax for this kind of thing? Where’s that wedding planner? She must have some.”
My fiancé started looking around for Olivia, apparently seeking something to tranquilize me with.
The other guy ignored him and moved me farther from my groom with a light touch to my back.
I skittered away from him, holding my hands out between us. “Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll pay you more to let me leave.”
Of course I had no money, but he didn’t know that. Desperate people said desperate things.
“The only way I’m going down that aisle is unconscious—or kicking and screaming,” I warned him.
“I won’t let either of those scenarios happen, I promise.”
The guard took off his sunglasses, revealing hazel eyes that crinkled in amusement and apparent sympathy.
“Rosie… it’s me. Wilder Lowe. Remember? We’ve met. You went out with my brother Presley?”
Oh.I did know him.
Well, notknowhim, know him, but he was right—I had met him once.
He was a hometown boy, one of the fabulous Lowe brothers. Eastport Bay’s answer to the Hemsworth clan.
There were four of them—all tall, all gorgeous, and all football-playing phenoms who won state championships, dominated the college stadiums, and three of whom had gone on to play in the NFL.
There hadn’t been a girl in our school—or probably a woman of any age in Eastport Bay—who wasn’t aware ofthem.
