Page 18 of One Weekend in Los Angeles

When the main doors opened and the bridal party came in, the DJ started spinning music. As the bride and groom made their entrance, I was once again struck by the contrast in their facial expressions. He exuded joy and happiness while she wore a guarded smile. There was no mistaking the way Nina surveyed the room until her eyes collided with Deacon.

Her chin lifted, and her shoulders squared.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bride look quite so, uh, determined,” I whispered to him. To do what, I wasn’t sure. Make Deacon jealous, seem happy, appear as though she didn’t care she’d been rejected? It was like watching a reaction roulette wheel and wondering which emotion it would land on.

“I’m hoping to get out of here without having to speak to her again.”

Considering the evil side eye she was giving us, I’d say that possibility was a big fat no.

Luckily we were seated with Deacon’s mom and stepfather, making it easy to take photos and have comfortable conversation while the food was being served. At least up until the point his mom asked what should have been a simple question.

“How did you two meet?”

Deacon took my hand under the table which was quickly becoming a habit.

“We share the same PR rep. When he took her to my last concert, I pulled her up on stage and kissed her in front of thousands of chanting fans. Afterward, I couldn’t stop thinking about her and kept pestering her until she agreed to go out with me. Now here we are.”

My mouth nearly hung open before I remembered to play my part, gulping a swallow of wine and smiling at his explanation.

“Nice to see you doing the chasing for once,” Vivian quipped with a wink. “Are you still planning to leave for Australia on Monday?” She sounded hopeful he might stay local.

“I am.”

He gave no further explanation for his impending departure. While I was relieved he wasn’t expanding on the lie, I did feel disappointed at this reminder that I’d never see him again.

Actually, scratch that. I’d see him plenty. On television, in ads, and on covers of magazines, but I wasn’t delusional enough to believe we’d stay in touch.

After a delicious meal of salmon and risotto, the DJ announced that it was time for the bride and groom’s first dance.

Meanwhile, a large man in an all-black suit and wearing an earpiece came up to have some words with Deacon.

He sighed as the man walked away. “Evidently, we’re here for a while longer. Security is handling some overzealous photogs who jumped the fence.”

“Sorry.” I knew he was anxious to leave.

Others had now joined the dance floor. At the start of the second slow song, Deacon tugged on my hand. “The delay could have one benefit. Dance with me?”

Had any woman ever said no to such an invitation? “I’d love to.”

I could thank my mother for ten years of dance classes so that I could now avoid stepping on Deacon’s toes. Being in his arms left me with a floaty, tingling feeling.

After a couple minutes, he asked, “How would you sum up the evening thus far?” A smirk played on his lips.

My gaze slid to my left, where the bride was throwing daggers at my profile. “Your mom is lovely, your stepfather seems nice, and yes, obsessed with barbeque. I feel bad for your stepbrother, dislike the bride despite never having shared a word with her, oh, and the salmon with risotto was tasty.”

He threw his head back with laughter, the action causing more attention to focus on us. “I can’t begin to thank you enough for coming tonight. You were the bright spot.”

It was amazing how comfortable I’d become with Deacon and how well we were getting along. Perhaps there was something to be said for having clear expectations regarding what this was and, more importantly, what it wasn’t. “You’re welcome. Oh, and incoming.”

“Fucking hell,” he muttered. With the song over, the bride and groom were making a beeline toward us.

“Hi, Deacon. Thanks for coming today,” greeted Bryce, offering his hand to shake.

“Congratulations to you both. It was a beautiful wedding. Let me introduce you. This is Andrea⁠—”

“I was telling Bryce how we spoke before the wedding,” Nina interrupted, as if no one needed to know who I was.

Deacon wasn’t having it. “As I was saying, this is Andrea. Andrea, this is Bryce and his wife, Nina.”