Private Player

“Shit,” I said, hopping off Nathan’s chair so I was crouched between the two seats—legs firmly together—fiddling with the fabric of my sleeve.

“Can I help?” Mr. Eyelashes asked, just as I finally released myself from his chair. I tried to stand so I could answer him without having my face at his crotch height, but my hair yanked me back down. Holy hell. Now my hair was caught. These chairs should come with a hazard warning. I tried to tug myself away gently but it wouldn’t free. I scrambled to find where it was stuck but my hair seemed to be everywhere. The more I struggled, the more entangled I got. Bent at the waist, hair over my head, I couldn’t see a thing.

I was defeated.

“Someone’s going to have to cut me free,” I announced dramatically.

And then kill me before I died of embarrassment.

“Hold still,” Mr. Voice-Deeper-Than-Cheddar-Gorge said, crouching beside me. He parted my hair like a pair of curtains. From upside down, he looked like he was around Noah’s age. But his hair was darker—short and functional—and those eyelashes. Jeez, they were wasted on him. I’d pay serious money for eyelashes like that. “You need to stop moving because you’re just making things worse,” he said.

“Hey,” I replied, “this isn’t my fault.” But I stayed as still as I could. To stop myself from moving involuntarily, I rested my hand on my legs, above my knees, as if someone was about to leapfrog over me at any moment. Given how today was going, it was a possibility.

I stood there for what seemed like hours. Mr. Bossy finally stepped back. Was that it? Was I free?

“It’s no use,” he said. “Your hair is matted into the chair. I’m going to find some scissors and get rid of it all.”

“Matted?” It had been styled in smooth, glamourous waves, not a tangle in sight. “Please tell me you don’t have to cut it.” I reached around to the top of my head to assess the damage.

The man chuckled and then patted me on the head like I was a dog. “I’m kidding. You’re all good. I’ve set you free.”

I snapped up to standing and narrowed my eyes at him. “A man should never joke about cutting off a woman’s hair,” I replied. “I could have died of shock and that would have ruined the day for Noah and Truly.” I glanced around to see if there had been any witnesses to this kerfuffle—and my knicker display.

The corners of his mouth twitched and his eyelashes fluttered like they were butterfly wings. “I’m very sorry. I’ll know better next time.” The pulse of his eyebrows suggested he wasn’t sorry at all.

I twisted, pulling my dress sleeve toward me, seeing the gaping hole that had been ripped into it. “I dipped into my house deposit account for this dress,” I said, showing him the hole. I’d felt slightly nauseous when I’d handed over my card to the sales assistant. I’d known I wouldn’t get a lot of wear out of the dress, but it was one of those dresses that went from “pretty enough” on the hanger to absolute magic once it was on. I’d instantly lost a stone, the color made my skin luminescent, and my arse looked like I’d stolen it from Jennifer Lopez. And now I was pretty sure the magic dress was beyond salvageable.

“No one’s looking at the dress,” he replied, pulling out the offending chair and taking a seat.

He was probably right. Everyone would be looking at beautiful Truly. That’s how it should be, not only because she was the bride, but because she was movie-star stunning as well.

“They’re looking at the beautiful woman wearing it,” he said as he glanced at my place card.

I was suddenly a little lost for words. It wasn’t what I’d been expecting him to say and I wasn’t sure if I should swoon or gag.

“Madison, I’m Nathan. Good to meet you.”

“Well, I hope it’s nice to meet you. You’re not actually trying to kill me, are you?” I asked.

He blinked and then frowned slightly—a politician answering tough questions on The Andrew Marr Show. “Yes, actually, I am. I’ve come to the wedding of two of the nicest people in England to commit murder. It’s not going well so far, but I haven’t given up hope. I’ve laced the chicken with poison.”

I rolled my eyes to disguise the smile creeping over my face.

The wedding party took their seats, and waiters and waitresses began to distribute the starters. At least I had food to look forward to, even though I’d just shown the entire room my underwear.

“This looks nice?” I said, as I turned to deaf Tom on my left in the hope he’d been exaggerating his condition.

“Good God, no. I think it’s chicken,” he replied.

I sighed. I was going to have to sit here, mortified, with Mr. He’s-Seen-My-Knickers as company. And then as soon as humanly possible, I’d escape the shame to my hotel room upstairs. While I stabbed at my confit chicken, Nathan Cove picked up his glass, took a swig of wine, and winced.