prologue
. . .
November 1988
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
Hamilton - O’Halloran Wedding Reception
“Where’s Bobby?” my friend and fellow bridesmaid Leslie Beckett asks. “It’s time for Ash to make his best-man toast, but we’re not all here.”
I roll my eyes as I stand from the head table at Randall and Wendy Hamilton’s wedding reception and scan the tent for the man in question. “I’ll find him,” I assure her.
Five bucks says Bobby Jacobs is off somewhere doing who-knows-what with his date. I saw them locked in an embrace behind a large potted plant earlier. The man is at least thirty-five years old. What’s he doing making out in public?
I weave through the round tables, scanning faces as I go. No Bobby in sight, but his date is chatting with Leslie’s twin brother Shannon and his girlfriend, and I make a beeline for them.
“Have you seen Bobby?” I ask Bobby’s date. I can’t remember her name but I figure there’s no point in asking, since I likely won’t see her again.
“Not lately,” she says. “Last I saw him, he was at the head table.”
My eyes travel to Shannon and Christi, who both shake their heads and tell me they haven’t seen him, either.
“Great,” I mutter as I hurry off. The man can easily broker multi-million-dollar deals for professional athletes but can’t manage to be where he needs to be at a wedding.
I head out of the large tent, my head swiveling side to side as I continue to search and grow more irritated by the second. As I pass the same potted plant I spied him behind earlier, a deep voice catches my attention—Bobby’s voice.
“I know, baby,” his low voice rumbles. “I’m sorry. We’ll figure it out when I get home tomorrow night.”
I stiffen and my irritation morphs into anger. The man’s date is no more than fifty feet away, and he’s over here talking to another woman and calling her “baby”?
“Look, I gotta go,” he says. “This phone’s about to run out of juice. … Love you, too. Bye.”
Bobby steps out from behind the plant with a cellular phone in his hand and nearly bowls me over. He grabs my arm with one hand while sliding the brick-like phone into his tuxedo jacket pocket, making that side hang much lower than the other.
“Whoa, there.” He looks me up and down. “You okay?”
I jerk out of his grasp and shoot him a death glare. “I’m fine. It’s time for the toasts. They sent me to look for you.”
“Sorry,” he says smoothly as he turns toward the tent. “Just needed to make a quick phone call.”
“Why did you even bring that monstrosity to the wedding?” I glance down at the phone sticking halfway out of his pocket. “Can you not take a few hours off work?”
“The call wasn’t for work.”
I wait for him to explain further, but he doesn’t.
“At least put that thing where nobody can see it,” I say. “You look like a tool.”
His eyebrows shoot up as we enter the tent, but he doesn’t respond to my rude comment. Not that he deserves better, since he’s apparently dating two women at once. I briefly wonder if Ishould say anything to his date, but I decide it’s not my place to interfere in whatever they have going on. Maybe she knows and doesn’t care.
On paper, the man is a catch—handsome, rich, and ridiculously successful. But in reality, he’s … well, he’s a tool. He’s gruff and frowny and often rude, and he’s well known for his ruthlessness as a sports agent. He also seems to make it his mission to irritate everyone around him. At least that’s the way he is with me. Why women fall at his feet is beyond my comprehension, but they can have him. I have no desire to spend one more second with Bobby Jacobs.
one
. . .
December 29, 1988
