Her Devil May Care

Hailey

Oh hell no.

I hear the first slicing sounds of an accordion, like polka dot nails on a chalkboard. The familiar grating up and down, see-sawing notes increase in pace and volume. I suck in my breath and close my eyes. No, no, no.

My mom suddenly grasps my arm, “Oh, the Chicken Dance! Fun! Come on, Hailey, let’s do it!”

Dancing in public, especially to this song, is practically a phobia of mine. I’d rather walk over Lego bricks on fire, thank you.

“Hard pass.”

“Really?” My mom’s sigh is practically baked into the word. “Are you just going to drink wine and hide behind this flower arrangement the entire reception?”

“Plants and flowers are my kind of people, Mom... so yes.”

She sighs again dramatically but releases my arm, already scanning the room for someone else to laugh with. “Suit yourself,” she says, then plasters on her signature pageant smile and jogs off to join the other dancers.

Classic. She never sticks by me. It’s all about being seen.

But apparently she’s not the only one gunning for the dance crown tonight...

Dude. Look at that guy.

Currently assaulting my eyes is one of the groomsmen who appears to be so personally invested in the dance that you’d think he’d been paid to be here as Mr. Chicken Dance himself, and watching him crouch and flap his wings in his penguin suit is nearly comical.

What a freakin’ weirdo. Then again, nearly every guy with a mustache is. It’s like a sign that says, ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks.’ Still... I feel personally embarrassed just watching him.

A few more guests run to join the spectacle, and the synchronized clapping begins its onslaught.

I’m out.

Where though?

Mingling with people I don’t know at events gives me pre-party panic days in advance. I forget everyone’s names as soon as they tell me, and enduring small talk is my version of hell on earth. So I bail in the opposite direction of the crowd and slip into the empty ladies’ room. The bathroom door closes behind me with a satisfying thud that muffles the music and finally gives my eardrums a break. Finally.

Downing the last of my red wine and setting the glass on the counter, I scrutinize myself in the mirror and straighten my off-the-shoulder black dress. I know. It’s a wedding. But I don’t do color. I check my teeth, fix my makeup, and brush away a few stray mascara flakes.

God, how much longer is this reception gonna last?

My cousin, the bride, Ren Baker, or Regali, I should say now, married her childhood sweetheart twelve years after they broke up in high school, and the whole story and wedding is just so... sickeningly sweet.

Something swirls in my stomach as I think about their teary vows and the way they grinned at each other during the first dance. I don’t like it. It’s like eating an entire bag of cotton candy by myself—fluffy and fun at first, then just nauseating. Weddings are supposed to make you feel hopeful about love. Personally, they just remind me I’m the one left empty-handed at the end of the night.

I mean, I’m happy for her. Really. I am. But the thing is, I don’t even know Ren that well. She’s six years older than me, my only cousin on my dad’s side, and with me in New York, her in California, and my family refusing to fly anywhere hasn’t exactly helped. Most of our family gatherings happen in Wisconsin instead, and even then, they always feel a little forced—hard to connect.

That’s more my problem than hers. I’m not very good at connecting with people in general. And tonight I think I’ve already reached the end of my minuscule social limit. I like to call it fun-sized, actually. Short and sweet. Typically, as soon as I arrive at an event, I’m already planning my escape back to my apartment, my cats, and Netflix.

And don’t get me started on dating. I don’t. At this point, it’s like I’m just waiting for Mr Right to accidentally fall into my life. Trouble is, the ones who do fall are usually the wrong ones.

Do I have trust issues? Maybe. But I prefer to think I have very good survival instincts. Most guys are experts at packaging themselves like perfect boyfriend material… until you unwrap them and realize it’s the same old junk inside.

Yeah, I fell for it too—once. Okay, maybe twice. But after that, I learned my lesson. Don’t let anyone matter too much. So for the last five years, I’ve kept it simple. No feelings, no attachments, no relationships. Just situationships. It’s uncomplicated. Predictable. Safe.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

But sometimes I have to admit there’s a part of me that wants more.

Not a boyfriend, exactly. Just… someone.

Someone who actually wants to spend time with me when sex isn’t involved. Someone who stays the night. Someone whose arms I can fall asleep in without feeling like I overstayed my welcome.

The words slip out before I can stop them, whispered only so my reflection can hear it: “Damn. I wish a sexy devil of a man would find me... but with a kind heart.”

“Not sure those exist,” I hear, along with a loud flush.

My eyes go wide. Oh god. Did I say that out loud?

I whirl around, heat rupturing along the nape of my neck, just as the stall door opens. Out steps a girl in a light green satin dress who looks more like she should have walked out of a cover of Vogue than a bathroom stall at a rural wedding venue. It’s one of Ren’s bridesmaids.

She glides over to the sink like this happens all the time—overhearing random confessions in bathrooms. My heart races, and I turn back around and stare down at my own sink like maybe it might do me a favor and swallow me whole.

A second flush sounds a moment later because, apparently, one witness to my public humiliation wasn’t enough.

Emerging from the other stall is a redhead in a matching green dress. “Careful what you wish for. Small-town weddings are the perfect place for wishes like that to come true.” She winks at me in the mirror, and my heart trips over itself.

Her brunette friend smooths her dress and gives me a sly smile. “That’s right, Hailey, weddings are crawling with single guys looking to settle down.”

Goddamnit, she remembered my name! I should know their names. Ren introduced me right after the wedding ceremony. Why is my brain like a sieve!

“I’m not looking for anything serious,” I mutter, blotting at my lipstick like I’m casual as all hell.

They exchange a look in the mirror—the kind of conspiratorial glance that makes me feel like I’ve suddenly found myself trapped in a rom-com.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Chiara?” The redhead grins like a mischievous sprite.

“I don’t know, Sydney, why don’t you just enlighten us?” Chiara replies coolly.

Sydney, Chiara! I remember now. Thank god! I’m saved.

“Want me to do a love spell for you?” Sydney asks, grasping my arm, practically bouncing on her toes. “I’m really good at it now.”

“You are?” I frown, carefully withdrawing my arm. “I think I’ll pass. Thanks, though.”

Yeah, because casually getting dragged into someone else’s mystical romantic scheming always ends well.

“But look at Ren and Gio!” Sydney says, gesturing wildly around the venue. “We’re literally at their wedding.”

“Pretty sure that wasn’t the spell,” Chiara says dryly, touching up her mascara.

I stare at both of them. “You did a love spell for Ren and Gio?”

“Behind their backs,” Sydney says proudly.

“Which is exactly as insane as it sounds,” Chiara adds.

“Okay,” I say slowly, backing towards the door. “Good talk.”

“Well, how about we just get straight to the point tonight? Gio has a good-looking single friend here tonight. Funny. Daring. Military. Naughty and nice.” Chiara arches an eyebrow. “That sounds like your type?”

“Uh, I... don’t know,” I stall, my stomach doing weird flips.

“Come on, don’t be chicken,” Sydney teases. “He’s perfect. Let us introduce you. It’ll be fun, I promise. We’ll go get a drink at the bar and find him. It’s either that or doing the Chicken Dance, right? I bet they’ll do the Macarena next.”

She’s not wrong.

I’m leaving for New York tomorrow.... hardly a recipe for a ‘life-changing romance.’

“Okay...” My mouth somehow delivers the words, even though every fiber in my body is screaming at me to retreat to my hiding place behind the plants.

She grabs my arm and tugs me toward the door. “Great! Come meet Charlie.”

Before I know it, I’m being dragged straight towards the unknown.

Okay, deep breath. We’ll grab a drink, they’ll introduce me, a little harmless flirting, and then it’ll be time to go.

Please, let him carry most of the conversation. Please, let him be witty, charming, and not boring.

I lean against the bar while Sydney waves three free drink tickets at the bartender and orders mojitos. As the bartender begins to shake our drinks, Chiara taps my shoulder.

“There he is, Hailey. Talking to your cousin.”

My stomach is mixing its own little cocktail of nerves and anticipation as I brace myself to see the man of my immediate fantasies. I follow her gaze to my cousin, and my eyes land on a pretty good-looking guy talking to Ren.

At least he looks cute from behind.

Well, more to the point, he’s got a pretty cute behind.

It might just be the three and a half drinks talking, but the whole package looks good from here. Damn. Broad shoulders, sandy brown hair, nice butt, chiseled jaw.

Yes, please.

Then he looks over his shoulder, scanning the crowd.

Oh no.

A slightly familiar tuxedoed man with a mustache meets my eyes, and his light up.

Good god. No. Please no. No, it can’t be...

Charlie is...Chicken Dance?

I know I asked for a devil, but if the Chicken Dance is my form of torture, then this dude might be worse than Satan himself.

Thanks so much for checking out Her Devil May Care!

The good news is that the entire book is already written, so there won’t be any long waits while I figure out what happens next. 😊 I’m currently posting chapters regularly while I edit. Charlie and Hailey’s story should be completely uploaded and marked finished within the next few weeks.

I hope you’ll stick around to see what happens next. ❤️