Running in five-inch stilettos is an art form.
Leaving your fiancé at the altar on live television is a disaster. Lexie Kowalsky thought she was ready to get married in front of millions of people, but at the last minute she fled the set of television’s hottest reality show, Gettin’ Hitched. Wearing a poofy white dress and a pair of 5 inch sparkly shoes, Lexie hopped a float plane for Sand Spit, Canada. She figured no one would find her there. But she was wrong.
Sharing her flight was the Seattle Chinooks biggest star, Sean Knox. Lexie wasn’t just a reality-show runaway, she was his pain in the butt coach’s daughter. She was chaos and temptation and definitely off limits, but getting her luscious body out of that wedding gown, he couldn’t resist getting her in his bed for one amazing night.
Then a photo of Sean and Lexi breaks the internet—and suddenly they’re both swept up in a crazy plan to spin the whole story. But you can’t run from love…
“It’s been ten minutes.” He drained the glass and turned toward Jimmy. “Maybe your passenger isn’t going to show up.”
“It’s been less than five.” The pilot pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his bomber jacket and glanced at it for several seconds. “It’s an emergency.” He turned his attention toward shore as if he waited for some sort of signal.
Emergency or not, Sean hoped like hell the person they were waiting on wasn’t trying to drive from anywhere within a twenty-mile radius of downtown Seattle. If that was the case, the
other passenger was probably stuck in chaotic traffic due to that shitty show, Gettin’ Hitched, and the mob surrounding the Fairmont Hotel, fighting for a glimpse of the latest reality show couple and cheering like the Seahawks had won the Super Bowl again. NBC had even set up jumbotrons downtown so fans could capture the happy couple exchanging their vows on live television with the rest of the country.
Sean had never watched the television program, but he couldn’t escape it. Gettin’ Hitched fever had spread across America faster than a virus in flu season, and it seemed everyone but him had become infected. Even the guys in the Chinooks locker room had talked about each episode like they were getting paid for their own personal recap and review. They’d discussed the scheming and backstabbings and had placed bets on which girl would be sent home each week. Of course, their interest had a lot to do with Lexie Kowalsky. Some of the guys knew Lexie, and her ability to back-check and deke the other bachelorettes off the show made them proud. It was probably no coincidence that the daughter of John Kowalsky had the grit and determination to cut each girl off at the knees and had won the privilege of gettin’ hitched on live television.
Sean had never met Lexie. She’d been three weeks into a twelve-episode season when he’d signed with the Chinooks. He’d seen her, though, on commercials and magazine covers and on mobile billboards driving around Seattle, every pixel photo-shopped, bright white teeth, brighter blue eyes, perfection from the top of her blond head to the tips of her pink toenails. She looked bigger than life, sitting on a tractor and towing a man all trussed up in bailing twine. The guy had a stupid smile on his face that made him look like a real pussy. No way on earth Sean would ever agree to something like that. He didn’t care if he was being judgmental. Those two had signed up to be judged. His verdict: The bride was probably dumb as the billboards, the groom was likely a pussy, and both were as fake as their shitty show.
Sean felt the vodka kick up his comfy glow a few more notches. Lexie Kowalsky probably wasn’t as pretty in real life as in pictures, and those boobs that practically fell out of her shirt in every photo were likely bought and paid for with her daddy’s money. If Coach Kowalsky wasn’t such an asshole, Sean might actually feel sorry for the guy.
It had been no secret that Kowalsky hadn’t wanted to trade Kessel and Stamkos for Sean, and the thought of John “The Wall” dressed up in a tuxedo and forced to perform in the Gettin’ Hitched chaos brought a smile to Sean’s lips.
Sean turned his attention from the parking lot to Jimmy. “What kind of dire emergency can there possibly be that someone would have to get to Sandspit in a hurry?” He took off his sunglasses and shoved them in the pocket of his jacket. “A local jam or jelly heist?”
“What?” Jimmy glanced at Sean, then returned his attention to the shore. “Not dire, but I. . . .” Jimmy’s voice faded to a whisper, “Holy shit. We’re a go.”
Sean’s gaze followed Jimmy’s as a silver MINI Cooper screeched to a stop in the parking lot. The door flew open and a white pouf erupted from the car like an old-school pan of Jiffy Pop. The pouf struggled for several seconds, expanding and growing, then it practically fell from the car, getting poufier. The whole scene was so unreal, Sean half expected clowns to start jumping out, one after another, honking party horns, and acting like fools. Yeah, Sean was a little drunk. Maybe more than a little, but he wasn’t stupid drunk. He wasn’t on his lips, hallucinating drunk. Just to make sure, he said, “Tell me you’re seeing what I’m seeing.”
“Yep.” The driver stuck a hand out the window
and waved as if signaling something. Jimmy waved back, and the MINI Cooper sped away, leaving behind all that pouf. The setting sun reflected within the pouf like twinkly lights, and the cold breeze caught the ends of a veil and whipped it about a woman’s head. At least Sean assumed it was a woman as he watched her swat at the veil like she was being attacked by bees. In all that over-the-top froth and twinkles, it could be a drag queen, he supposed. All at once, it spun right then left, bent forward, grabbed an armful of dress, and sprinted toward them.
“Get in. We’re taking off.”
“It’s been ten minutes.” He drained the glass and turned toward Jimmy. “Maybe your passenger isn’t going to show up.”
“It’s been less than five.” The pilot pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his bomber jacket and glanced at it for several seconds. “It’s an emergency.” He turned his attention toward shore as if he waited for some sort of signal.
Emergency or not, Sean hoped like hell the person they were waiting on wasn’t trying to drive from anywhere within a twenty-mile radius of downtown Seattle. If that was the case, the
other passenger was probably stuck in chaotic traffic due to that shitty show, Gettin’ Hitched, and the mob surrounding the Fairmont Hotel, fighting for a glimpse of the latest reality show couple and cheering like the Seahawks had won the Super Bowl again. NBC had even set up jumbotrons downtown so fans could capture the happy couple exchanging their vows on live television with the rest of the country.
Sean had never watched the television program, but he couldn’t escape it. Gettin’ Hitched fever had spread across America faster than a virus in flu season, and it seemed everyone but him had become infected. Even the guys in the Chinooks locker room had talked about each episode like they were getting paid for their own personal recap and review. They’d discussed the scheming and backstabbings and had placed bets on which girl would be sent home each week. Of course, their interest had a lot to do with Lexie Kowalsky. Some of the guys knew Lexie, and her ability to back-check and deke the other bachelorettes off the show made them proud. It was probably no coincidence that the daughter of John Kowalsky had the grit and determination to cut each girl off at the knees and had won the privilege of gettin’ hitched on live television.
Sean had never met Lexie. She’d been three weeks into a twelve-episode season when he’d signed with the Chinooks. He’d seen her, though, on commercials and magazine covers and on mobile billboards driving around Seattle, every pixel photo-shopped, bright white teeth, brighter blue eyes, perfection from the top of her blond head to the tips of her pink toenails. She looked bigger than life, sitting on a tractor and towing a man all trussed up in bailing twine. The guy had a stupid smile on his face that made him look like a real pussy. No way on earth Sean would ever agree to something like that. He didn’t care if he was being judgmental. Those two had signed up to be judged. His verdict: The bride was probably dumb as the billboards, the groom was likely a pussy, and both were as fake as their shitty show.
Sean felt the vodka kick up his comfy glow a few more notches. Lexie Kowalsky probably wasn’t as pretty in real life as in pictures, and those boobs that practically fell out of her shirt in every photo were likely bought and paid for with her daddy’s money. If Coach Kowalsky wasn’t such an asshole, Sean might actually feel sorry for the guy.
It had been no secret that Kowalsky hadn’t wanted to trade Kessel and Stamkos for Sean, and the thought of John “The Wall” dressed up in a tuxedo and forced to perform in the Gettin’ Hitched chaos brought a smile to Sean’s lips.
Sean turned his attention from the parking lot to Jimmy. “What kind of dire emergency can there possibly be that someone would have to get to Sandspit in a hurry?” He took off his sunglasses and shoved them in the pocket of his jacket. “A local jam or jelly heist?”
“What?” Jimmy glanced at Sean, then returned his attention to the shore. “Not dire, but I. . . .” Jimmy’s voice faded to a whisper, “Holy shit. We’re a go.”
Sean’s gaze followed Jimmy’s as a silver MINI Cooper screeched to a stop in the parking lot. The door flew open and a white pouf erupted from the car like an old-school pan of Jiffy Pop. The pouf struggled for several seconds, expanding and growing, then it practically fell from the car, getting poufier. The whole scene was so unreal, Sean half expected clowns to start jumping out, one after another, honking party horns, and acting like fools. Yeah, Sean was a little drunk. Maybe more than a little, but he wasn’t stupid drunk. He wasn’t on his lips, hallucinating drunk. Just to make sure, he said, “Tell me you’re seeing what I’m seeing.”
“Yep.” The driver stuck a hand out the window
and waved as if signaling something. Jimmy waved back, and the MINI Cooper sped away, leaving behind all that pouf. The setting sun reflected within the pouf like twinkly lights, and the cold breeze caught the ends of a veil and whipped it about a woman’s head. At least Sean assumed it was a woman as he watched her swat at the veil like she was being attacked by bees. In all that over-the-top froth and twinkles, it could be a drag queen, he supposed. All at once, it spun right then left, bent forward, grabbed an armful of dress, and sprinted toward them.
“Get in. We’re taking off.”
About Rachel Gibson
Rachel Gibson began her fiction career at age sixteen, when she ran her car into the side of a hill, retrieved the bumper, and drove to a parking lot, where she strategically scattered the car’s broken glass all about. She told her parents she’d been the victim of a hit-and-run and they believed her. She’s been making up stories ever since, although she gets paid better for them nowadays.
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