Page 113 of The One Night Dash
I have no idea how I keep my composure, but I do. “You do know she owns a bookstore, right? She doesn’t work for the organization; therefore, she’sworking, so she’s not here.”
“So!”
I look back at the guys. “The villain in this, her name’s not L, is it?”
They all answer nope.
“Then it’s safe to say this is probably not my fiancée.”
“Trash, all of you. Go Rangers!”
“All right, Lauren,” Briar says firmly, voice steady even as her hand slams the button to kill the line. “That’s enough.”
Dead air for half a second. Then Marshall mutters, “Well, that escalated.”
The room bursts again—not with laughter this time, but low curses, shifting chairs, everyone talking at once.
I sit back, pulse hammering, jaw tight, already thinking of the one person who’s not here, who just got dragged into the spotlight by someone desperate to tear her down.
Briar’s trying to find her footing again when the producer signals another call patched through.
“This is … friends from the back corner of a certain wedding,” a voice drawls, familiar, and I can already hear the smirk in it. “Yeah, we were at a function. Just wanted to thankLady Land her husband for being such classless dick pickles that they threatened to sue the organization if they didn’t get refunded for their season tickets. Which, by the way, you’ve got zero grounds for. But we picked up the box, and even though we’re not technically hockey fans, we’re Dash Sterling fans.”
The guys around me break into open laughter, Briar choking on a cough to cover hers.
“If there’s ever a question and it were to go to court,” thecallergoes on, warming to the rant, “we’ve got it all on video. So … suck it, L and your perfect match, that vile, opportunistic louse—I mean, spouse.”
“Holy—” Marshall mutters, doubling over, while Killer whistles low.
“And one more thing,” the caller adds, like a mic-drop. “We’ll match Dash’s giveaway. Ten more tickets, our treat. So thanks again, not even close to a lady, L. You just doubled the good vibes.”
The line clicks dead, and the roomerupts.Briar’s lost her “professional host” mask completely, laughing so hard she can’t get the outro out, and even Coach D’s cracks a smile.
I lean into the mic, grin sharp. “Guess that settles it. Bears book club, cup run, and twenty tickets up for grabs. Thanks for playing.”
The second Briarwraps the show, I’m out of my chair. The guys are still cracking up about Louie’s friends and “dick pickles,” while Briar fields texts from her producer about turning the Lauren mess into a spin segment, but I have to leave when I know Noelle just got dragged on air.
Joel barely stops when I climb into the SUV, and he keeps rolling.
Traffic feels like it’s crawling, my pulse matching every red light, every horn. I’m pacing the inside of my skull, rehearsing apologies I know she won’t want to hear.
When we turn the corner, there’s a line down the block.
Joel whistles. “Damn.”
“I’ll get out here,” I say, already out the door, jogging across the street and pushing my way through the crowd to get inside ofPembrooke Books.
It’s not just the line out there, there’s aline. A line of people wrapped around the stacks, curling past the table, clutching copies ofSteaming Cup of You.
The register’s dinging nonstop, the bell above the door never stops chiming, and Sofie’s in the corner with her damn camera crew, catching every second.
And there’s Noelle, behind the counter, hair half-falling out of her braid, eyes wide like a deer in headlights.
She doesn’t even look at me at first, just keeps moving—scanning books, bagging them, thanking customers with a voice that’s sweet but pitched high, too high.
When her gaze finally snaps to me across the store, it isn’t relief. It’s narrowed eyes and a look that could skin me alive.
Shit.
