Page 27 of Fighting Mr. Knight

That means it’s obvioussomethinghappened.

I lean back in the pew, saying through gritted teeth, “I got knocked in the eye. Is it bad?”

“No. It looks a little . . . irritated. Like you have a sore stye on your eye.”

For fuck’s sake. I think I preferred when I was justthe other bridesmaid.

“Can you give me my bag? I need to check the damage.”

She hands over my satin bag made from the same material as my dress. The impracticality of being a bridesmaid: the only thing you can carry down the aisle are flowers.

As I join in a bad warble to “Gloria,” I discreetly search my bag for my phone. If Father Donaghy sees me with my phone, I’m fast-tracking to hell.

Unable to find it, I fling the bag down.

Behind me, a guy chooses this moment to start a conversation. His voice mixes with the chorus.

Becky shoots me a look and I shake my head in disapproval and agreement. It’s damn rude.

Her brows lift pointedly like she wants me to do something. What does she expect me to do? I’m not the noise police. I glance lazily over my shoulder to silence the obnoxious chatterer who clearly doesn’t understand the social mores of not talking through someone’s wedding.

Father Donaghy glances down.

The chatterer has an American accent . . . it actually sounds familiar.

There’s an audible groan over the music.

Holy fucking hell. My phone.

Is this seriously happening?

I fumble with my bag. Oh, my God, where’s my phone, where’s my phone, where’s my goddamn phone?

Please, God, if you are here with us in the chapel as Father Donaghy claims, answer my prayers.

The longer I don’t locate the phone, the more flustered I become. I’m going to have to hurry out of the chapel carrying my bag like it’s a screaming baby.

My ears burn so hot they cremate themselves.

I know what happens next.

The singing peters out as the choir finishes the last few lines of “Gloria.”The sounds of ruthless alpha wolf Caleb from theRed Moon Caninestaking his virgin mate take over.

Nowhere in the order-of-service booklet does it mention howling horny wolves.

Finally locating the phone, I hold my finger on the power button.

Shut down.

Shut down.

The damn thing dies, and I let out the breath I was holding.

“What the hell?” Becky mouths, giving me a sharp look.

This is worse than farting.

“Quiet.” I shush her dismissively, deciding that going on the offensive is the best tactic to sweep this little audio mishap under the carpet.

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