Songbird (2 page)

When I pinky swore all those years ago, I’m pretty sure I imagined myself as the maid of honor in a much smaller affair. Maybe in a small country church. Or, better yet, in someone’s backyard. Had I known my best friend would someday plan such a huge ceremony—with a guest list of more than two hundred—I might have kept my pinky to myself.

But tomorrow is not about me.

When I reach the piano bar, I’m not surprised to find the lights low and the place nearly empty. Sadly, the pianist has called it a night. I choose a stool and order a drink while gazing wistfully at the grand piano in the corner.

The bartender brings me my drink. “You play?”

I shrug. “A little.”

The guy looks exhausted. Despite that, he still manages to flirt with me. I flirt back, but only because I want to play the piano. It takes two cocktails and giving him a fake phone number, but he finally gives me permission to play a few songs.

Playing piano never fails to relax me. Performing live isn’t my favorite thing to do, but the bar is practically empty, and my anxiety, my exhaustion, and the alcohol make me brave.

Sitting down on the bench, I let my fingers drift aimlessly along the keys. I switch on the microphone and start to play the opening bars of my favorite Fleetwood Mac song.

Closing my eyes, I play and sing, allowing the music to soothe my troubled mind. I’m at the final chorus when I feel someone’s eyes on me. It’s the most incredible sensation—instinct alerting me to the penetrating stare of some stranger in the dimly lit bar.

I slowly open my eyes, and my fingers slip off the keys when I see him.

He’s seated at a table just a few feet away. His tie is undone, as are the first couple buttons of his shirt. He gazes at me, and I watch as his finger lazily trails along the rim of his glass while I struggle to remember the words to a song I’ve loved all my life.

The man rises from the seat, his eyes never leaving mine as he picks up his glass and walks over to the piano. I break the spell, forcing myself to look down and focus on the keys. Without asking permission, he sits down on the bench next to me. I take a deep breath and pray for instinct to take over as I finish the song.

After I play the last note, silence hangs in the air between us until he lifts his hand and brushes my hair away from my shoulders.

“Play something else,” he says, his voice deep and smooth against my ear.

So I sing, paying no real attention to the words as we stare at each other throughout the song. I have no idea how long we sit there, but it’s apparently too long for the bartender because he announces last call.

The handsome stranger stands up and reaches for me.

“Come with me, Songbird.”

The look in his eye is unmistakable, filling me with a sense of longing and excitement that I haven’t felt in so very long. I know I’m too tired, too lonely, and probably a little too tipsy to accept this man’s outstretched hand.

I do it anyway.

The alarm clock blares in my ear, and I slap blindly at the offensive clock. With a groan, I stretch my arms above my head and immediately regret it. My entire body aches.

What did I do?

My eyes flash open as images from the previous night flood my mind.

The piano bar.

Three cocktails.

Deep brown eyes.

Oh no.

I slowly turn my head, expecting to see him staring back at me. Or at least snoring next to me.

He’s gone.

Of course he is.

With a disgusted sigh, I climb out of bed and head to the shower. I don’t have time to feel ashamed. I’m already late for breakfast with the wedding party, and the last thing I need is a pissed off bride to go along with my throbbing headache.

Stepping inside the shower, I pray the sting of the water washes away my humiliation.

I don’t do one-night stands.

Ever.

As the scalding water flows down my skin, my guilt deepens as I recall little details about last night. Our desperate kisses in the elevator. Me pulling him by his tie and leading him to my room. The name he called me as we . . .

Name. I don’t even know his name. Or if we used protection.

My shame now at a fever pitch, I climb out of the shower and quickly get dressed. Thankfully, breakfast is casual, so there’s no need for me to try to make myself look presentable. After glancing at my cell to confirm that I am indeed late, I grab my room key and head out the door. It’s when I’m in the elevator that my shame turns to rage.

He just left in the middle of the night? What kind of cold, heartless jerk does something like that?

I’m still wallowing in my stupidity as I make my way down the hallway and toward the bridal suite.

Megan and Simon have ignored all traditional beliefs, opting to spend the night together and treat everyone to something called a Bridal Breakfast. It’s sort of like the rehearsal dinner, except this party is at the break of dawn and includes scrambled eggs and bacon.

My stomach twists at the thought of food.

Get it together, Callie. Today is Megan’s day, and you are the maid of honor. You can wallow later. You can vomit later. For now, you have to put on a brave face and concentrate on helping your best friend through the most important day of her life.

It’s not much of a pep talk, but it’s the best I can do. Taking a deep breath, I plaster a smile on my face and knock on the door. It swings open, and I’m greeted by the absolutely glowing bride.

“Happy wedding day!”

Megan immediately tilts her head and purses her lips. “What’s wrong?”

Crap.

“What makes you think something’s wrong?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” she says, waving me inside. “You’re late, which never happens. And you look like you pulled an all-nighter.”

“I just need coffee. Very strong coffee.”

Megan narrows her eyes. This is what happens when you’re best friends with someone for twenty years. Keeping a secret is impossible. Thankfully, she lets me off the hook.

“You’ll tell me eventually. In the meantime, coffee’s on the terrace.”

I follow her through the French doors and out into the way-too-bright Nashville morning. The sunshine makes my head throb even more. The groom leaps to his feet as soon as he sees me.

“You look like you could use this,” Simon says, handing me a steaming cup.

“Bless you.”

He kisses my cheek and offers me the first empty chair, which is unfortunately right next to his best man.

“How’s it going?” Owen asks with a wide grin.

His plate is overflowing with eggs, bacon, and gravy . . . and it’s all mixed with some kind of disgusting jelly that makes me want to barf. Desperate to calm my queasy stomach, I reach for a piece of toast and take a small bite.

“You have a rough night, too?” Owen asks.

Too?

I don’t ask him to elaborate. I just nod.

Owen’s laughter booms, causing my head to pulsate. I’ve met him on more than one occasion, and normally, he’s a lot of fun to be around. This morning, however, I might just kill him.

I pick up the butter knife and eye it longingly before using it for its intended purpose. I take a bite, and the buttered toast settles my stomach immediately.

Megan, clearly not amused, stabs at a piece of fruit and glares in my direction.

“I can’t believe my maid of honor thought it was okay to get completely smashed the night before my wedding. I expect that kind of crap from Simon’s cousin who can’t manage to get to a rehearsal dinner—not to mention this breakfast—on time, but my best friend should know better.”

With the patience of a saint, Simon reaches for her fork and gently pries it out of her hand. He then spears a slice of melon and lifts it to her lips. Megan takes a bite, and the two of them whisper to each other in between kisses.

Simon really is The Bride Whisperer.

“In my defense, I didn’t get completely smashed,” I mumble in between bites of toast. “I remember most of it. Almost all of it.”

Owen laughs and pours himself another glass of juice. “What is it about this hotel? My brother, Devin—that’s the groomsman you’ve yet to meet—found himself in a similar predicament last night.”

“And where is the rogue groomsman this morning?”

“Apparently he’s having trouble recovering from his
epic
hookup
. His words, not mine.”

“According to Devin, his hookups are always epic,” Megan mutters before turning toward me, suddenly all smiles. “But I don’t want to talk about Devin McAllister. I want to talk about you.”

“What about me?”

“I have a small favor.”

My radar instantly registers the soft and coaxing tone of her voice. She uses it whenever she wants me to do something that I probably won’t want to do.

“Would you try on your dress . . . just one more time?”

Owen chuckles. I shoot a glare in his direction.

“Megan, today is your wedding day. If the dress doesn’t fit by now, it’s not going to. Besides, I tried it on yesterday, and it was fine. You said so yourself.”

“But I didn’t see it with the shoes.”

I cannot wait until this wedding is over.

I throw my napkin onto the table. “Fine. Where is it? And where is Lorie?”

Megan rises from her chair and takes me by the arm. “Lorie’s dealing with the wedding planner. Apparently, there’s some problem with the band.”

“And Lorie offered to go kick someone’s ass so Megan didn’t have to,” Owen says with a wide grin. “Hey, is Lorie single?”

I roll my eyes as Megan leads me toward a bedroom in her suite. The place looks like a wedding superstore, filled with dresses and tuxedos and shoes.

“There’s your dress,” Megan says, pointing to one of the dresses hanging on the rack. “And here are the shoes. Just come out when you’re ready!”

She flashes me a pearly-white grin before closing the door behind her.

I reach for the peach halter dress. This will be the tenth time I’ve tried it on.

At least it’s pretty.

The heels, however, are not.

I strap on the stilettos and pray I don’t fall.

As I look in the mirror, I pull my hair into a twist, just to get an idea of how I’ll actually look once we’re walking down the aisle. I tilt my head, and that’s when I see a small mark on the side of my neck.

What is that? Is that a
 . . .
hickey?

With a groan, I let my hair fall back down to my shoulders.

“Megan,” I yell as I walk out onto the terrace. “I’m going to need some concealer to hide this—”

The sound of a fork crashing against a plate makes me stop in my tracks. Every head in the room turns toward the noise, and I stop breathing when I find myself staring into the very familiar eyes of the rogue groomsman.