The Wedding Hookup

POV: Magnolia

The luminescent lights were on full throttle and I stood—like a deer in headlights in the center of the stage, on full display.

The spotlight was blinding. My vision blurred, my heart rate accelerated, and I felt like I was ill prepared for a fifth grade talent show.

Fairy lights lined the property, the ocean lulled in the distance, and every single set of eyes was on me. Not at the beach beyond me. Not on the beautiful married couple. Not on the chocolate fountain dripping in the distance. Just me.

The microphone whined with a loud, deafening static sound as I actually manhandled it and almost dropped the crumpled piece of paper in my hand. That crumpled piece of paper happened to be my poorly written wedding speech, or what used to resemble one.

I could hear the crickets in the distance, egging me on. And they sounded more like insults than encouragement.

Get your shit together, Maggie. Right now everyone’s staring at you and watching you freeze while giving a speech, or attempting to give one, for your best friend’s wedding.

My face traveled over to the bride in question, Samantha, my best friend since I was 6 years old. She gave me thumbs up and her usual smile of encouragement.

But all I felt inside me was dread—-complete dread, the dread I used to get every year in speech class, even college level speech class. It’s a miracle I even skated through that class with a C.

And it was showing right now.

I heaved in a breath, steadying my gaze on the spotlight, which only blurred my vision more, and tried to read my messy handwriting on the crumpled paper in my shaky head.

God, why did I have to write in pink ink? What was I thinking?

And the longer I stared, the worse it got.

I swore I was beginning to hallucinate, because I began to hear footsteps on the stage.

But out of the blinding spotlight, a figure appeared. Like a guardian angel.

Who just happened to be the groom’s brother, Beau.

I stuttered, looking at him, confusion flooding my face, but his hand tightened around the microphone, as he held it up to both of our mouth levels.

“Well, thanks for stalling, Maggie,” he shot me a wink that said play along.

“Oh, no problem, Beau.”

“Maggie here wanted to make this speech really special for the beautiful married couple, and what better way to do it then give a best man-maid of honor speech together,” Beau went on.

His confidence unsettled me. Cocky. Confident. Calm, even tone.

It was so like him.

Because in the 24 hours I’ve known him, he reads like an open book.

Samantha warned me the moment I met him that he’s a player, used to getting what he wanted—when he wanted. Essentially, she told me to avoid him like the plague, so I did for the last 24 hours.

I shook his hand once, briefly introducing myself before purposefully sitting far away from him during the rehearsal dinner. We rehearsed walking down the aisle twice and I managaed to make zero eye contact with him.

And today, I maybe said two words to him, after we walked down the aisle, includign during our overly lame intro walk-in.

And now here he was, saving me—literally saving me from crashing and burning at my best friend’s wedding.

But his save gave me the confidence to actually read out my speech.

And before I knew it, I finished the speech, my heart hammering in my chest, as my gaze traveled back to Beau’s overly confident one, a glimmer of pride in his blue eyes as I handed him back the microphone.

Beau’s speech was much much better than mine. It was sentimental. It even made half of the wedding guests literally cry. Who knew he could actually be….sensitive and compassionate. I for sure didn’t.

And when he finished, the sound of applause was so loud it drowned out the sound of the waves.

I was still standing on the stage when Beau laid a hand on my waist side, gently guiding me back to my seat, even though I was still reeling from the entire experience.

“Breathe,” he whispered, when the bride and grooms dance began.

I turned towards him, still out of it. “I’m breathing just fine.”

He leaned back in his chair, a smirk filling his lips. “Uh-huh. You look like you’re about to turn purple.”

I scoffed, rolling my eyes and turning my attention back to the dance floor.

He leaned his forearms onto the table, his muscles straining in his blue tuxedo jacket. “Sure thing, sugar.”

I turned back towards him, daggers in my eyes. I hated when men used that sugar line. But being a woman from the south, you heard it all the time unfortunately. “Don’t call me that.”

He held his hands up in the air. “Ironically, the girl who can’t give a speech to save her life can speak fluent sass.”

“And who knew, the playboy brother was actually an asshole,” I countered.

That made his jaw tick.

“Got me there,” he winked.

I turned my attention away from him and back to the dance floor. But all I could think about is how the man I’d seen on the stage earlier, was the same man I was sitting across from now.

The man I’d seen on the stage was a knight in shining armor, compassionate, witty, even sentimental.

But the man I was sitting across from was someone I wanted to be seated far, far away from—a playboy, rude, and even borderline narcissist.

The contradiction was astonishing.

And the longer I looked at him I realized that his southern pretty boy looks were actually revolting, too.

I mean, who likes men with sharp jawlines? Pass.

And who likes a guy with a tapered suit that fits his muscles? Pass.

And who likes a guy with crystal blue eyes? Pass.

And a guy with perfect, pristine white teeth is so overrated.

And not to mention his height, 6’2 is so overrated, and so is his haircut… a low fade, perfectly slicked back, not a receding hairline in sight. You could find that on almost any man.

I told myself that everything about him was average—his looks, his personality, probably even his penis.

But the longer I looked at him, the more unconvinced I was.

I needed to stay away from him. I needed to hate him.

But as his gaze lingered back to mine, I knew I was in for a whirlwind of a night.