Page 2 of The Overtime Kiss
“Hey, hey, Furby.” Chad’s singsong coo addresses the orange kitten I’ve been fostering for a San Francisco rescue. “Guess what today is?”
I’d been pulling on my sheer, white stockings when I first heard the message. Earlier, Chad had called to make sure my uncle Jay knew to go to the grand ballroom, not the band ballroom. I hadn’t picked up in time, and the call went to voicemail. Chad didn’t realize he hadn’t hung up properly before he started serenading the three-pound orange cutie about our wedding.
I’d let the message play as I slipped on one satin shoe because how adorable was that? We’d laugh about it later.
Well, one of us would.
“Guess who’s coming over?” Over the speakers, Chad croons another line of the kitten song.
“What the hell is going on?” my father whispers, low in my ear.
I give Dad one of the polished smiles I’ve been throwing to spectators for years. The one he expects from me. “Just a sweet little something for my groom.”
At the front of the ballroom, Chad cocks his head, his gelled hair unmoving, his eyes wary as I glide up the aisle.
Please, universe, let me pull this off like a triple lutz in competition.
The song plays on. “She’ll be here in a few. Because Madison has something to do. She’s bringing me a secret wedding gift. The one that’ll give my spirits a lift.”
My father’s jaw ticks. “Sabrina Snow,” he hisses to me. Me! He doesn’t yell it to Chad, like he should.
But even as the familiar click of Tessa’s shoes sound behind me—she’s probably rushing somewhere at the speed of sound to hit end on the song that isn’t romanticallynostalgic at all—we’ve already reached the good stuff. The prestige, as they call it in a magic show.
Tessa must succeed since Chad’s voice stops carrying over the sound system.
But a good performer doesn’t let a thing get her down.
I stop halfway up the aisle, letting the weight of Chad’s words so far settle over the entire ballroom full of guests with their jaws agape. My father stiffens beside me, his grip tightening on my arm. All eyes are on me now.
I reach into my bra, tugging out my phone like the plot twist of the century. The crowd gasps as I hit play, letting all the guests take in the grand finale of the groom’s impromptu kitty serenade. “She’s gonna come through, with that BJ courage I need to say…I do.” There’s a chuckle, then Chad speaks the last words. “And then I’ll get my bonus in six months. How smart am I, kitty boy?”
Furby meows angrily, and I swear in feline he’s saying,You’re a dumbass. The red light’s on, recording this session.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I announce, loud and clear, “I’d like to thank Chad Huntington for sharing his musical talents with all of us today. I hope you enjoy the seasonal salad and seared halibut. I hear it pairs great with a cheater’s wedding that didn’t happen.”
With that, I turn on my heel and march right out the French doors, leaving two hundred and fifty guests, my whole family, a backstabbing maid of honor, and a cheating groom and his bonus in the dust.
With tears of rage and hurt stinging at the back of my eyes, I’m halfway to the nearest exit, ready to bolt to who knows where, when my father catches up to me.
My heart is galloping, but he’s barely even breathing hardas he issues an edict in his commanding tone: “Sabrina Snow. Do not even think about leaving.”
He says it like I’m a thief trying to slip out of one of his fancy ski stores wearing the high-end gear with the tags still on.
With my cartoonish dress suddenly feeling far too constricting, I turn to him and lift my chin. “It’s a little hard for me to stay,” I say, hating that my voice is full of potholes. My father won’t want to hear any of my emotions. He’s never been interested in them.
With a dismissive grunt, he reaches into the inside pocket of his tuxedo and hands me a tissue, likeproblem solved. “Straighten up and let’s get back in there. Time to apologize.”
My head spins. My world tilts on its axis. Did he really just say that? “I’m supposed to apologize for my groom cheating on me an hour before the wedding? With the maid of honor, no less? She’s not even a friend of mine! Madison’s your marketing manager—and you asked me to have her as the maid of honor.”
“She’s the VP,” he says, correcting me, since that matters. But to him it does—everything must be precise. “And yes, that’s what you should do, because that ridiculous stunt you pulled was unacceptable.”
“Are you ill, dear?” my mother asks as she arrives—trim, sleek, and impossibly stylish in her off-white sheath dress. Of course, she would wear the same color as the bride. “It’s not even a taboo anymore,” she told me when she showed me the dress her personal stylist had selected for her because it matched her skin tone. “It’s totally acceptable for the mother of the bride to wear cream.”
Sure, Mom.
I swallow another rebel sob. I can’t believe they’re siding with him. Him—the guy I’ve been faithful to since college. The guy my dad set me up with. The guy I’ve been on againand off again with for six years. But I’ve always been faithful to him, even when we were off.
That guy is walking toward me now, shaking his head, tutting like I’m a naughty child.
