With that bomb his sister dropped, a second wave hit like an aftershock.
Alexa. Married. At Hillcrest.
* * *
“Chance...are you sure you’re okay?”
He ran a hand down his face, several day’s growth of stubble scraping against his palm. “When?” he asked, his voice sounding just as rough.
“What?”
“When’s the wedding?”
“Oh... Well, they haven’t picked a date yet either. Why?”
“I was just wondering if I’d still be here when it happens.” Hell, he needed something to make him forget about the woman. Maybe seeing Alexa marry another man would do the trick. So far nothing else had worked.
“Don’t they make the cutest couple?” Rory sighed.
“Adorable.” And watching them exchange vows, promising to love each other until death did them part and sealing the words with a kiss... Chance’s jaw locked tight. He’d just as soon stick that hairpin into his eye.
“Seriously, Chance,” Evie interjected, tucking a strand of straight, chin-length hair behind one ear, “we both know I’m nowhere near as love-stupid as this one—”
“Hey!” Rory protested as their cousin waved a hand her way.
“—but if you’re going to photograph the weddings around here, you need to get on board with this whole happily-ever-after crap.”
“Oh, lovely,” his sister muttered. “We’ll be sure to put that in one of our brochures.”
“I’m on board, Evie.”
Her pointed gaze raked him from the tip of his too-long hair, to his faded to gray T-shirt, to his rumpled khakis. “Frightening the guests,” she repeated.
“I’ll get a haircut. And shave,” he added when her look didn’t change. He all but groaned, “And go shopping.”
“Before this weekend?” Rory asked, catching her lower lip between her teeth once more.
“This—” He choked back a curse. This weekend was his first official Hillcrest House event.
Chance McClaren—wedding photographer.
“All right. All right. Before this weekend. You know, the two of you really should be nicer to me,” he said without thinking. “After all, I almost—”
He cut himself off before he could finish the old joke, one going back to a serious injury when he was a kid. A skateboarding accident had left him in a coma followed by months of physical and occupational therapy.
Rehab had been hell, not so different from what faced him now, and he’d pushed himself as hard as he could, determined to get back to the reckless, daredevil kid he’d been before the accident. Not that he hadn’t pulled out the sympathy card every chance he got.
Work his tail off to get back on a skateboard? Sure thing.
Pick up his dirty socks? Come on! Didn’t everyone know he was, like, seriously injured?
But unlike in the past when Rory would meet his melodramatic statement with a give-me-a-break eye roll, this time her blue eyes filled with emotion as she said the word he hadn’t. “Died, Chance.” Her voice broke on his name. “You almost died.”
A wave of guilt crashed over him when he thought of what his sister, his parents, his family had been through. Not my fault, he reminded himself, but the words didn’t erase the lingering shadows from his sister’s eyes whenever she looked at him.
“I’m fine, Rory. I’ll be back to my old self in no time.”
Reaching out, his sister squeezed his arm and gave him a sad smile. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Rory...” His voice trailed off as she walked away, and Chance knew better than to go after her. She needed time by herself, and he wasn’t sure he could catch her if he tried.
“You really are a jerk sometimes.” Disdain, not sorrow, filled his cousin’s icy gaze, and it was almost a relief to have Evie glaring at him. Anger he could handle, and he wondered if she was, in her own prickly way, trying to make things easier on him.
“You do realize that I had no idea what some overeager journalist was reporting. I was stuck in the hospital—”
“You were unconscious in a makeshift first-aid station half a world away.”
And that is your fault, Chance. Evie didn’t say the words, but he read the accusation.
“It’s my job, Evie.” A job he loved despite the dangers.
“And you know your sister and your parents. As far as they are concerned, their job is to love you. You shouldn’t make it so hard.”
And then she, too, walked away, leaving him standing in the middle of the lobby with chatting guests and employees passing him on all sides. A harried businessman barked orders into his phone, jarring Chance’s leg with his briefcase as he hurried by. White-hot pain seared through him, and he clenched his jaw to keep from crying out. Sweat broke out on his upper lip, and he sucked in a deep breath.
Despite what his family thought, he was not typically foolish or reckless. His job required calculated risks, but he always weighed his options before making a decision—even if he had only a split second to do so.
The smart thing to do would be to walk away. There was no payoff to be had here. No final shot to wrap up the story. No reason to slowly, painfully make his way over to the reception desk—except for one foolish, reckless urge.
He wanted to remind Alexa Mayhew that they had, indeed, met before.
* * *
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
Griffin had asked the same question half a dozen times since they left—escaped—the lobby for their hotel suite. He’d led her through the tiny living area with its small shades-of-blue love seat and coffee table straight to the whitewashed dining room, where he fixed her a cup of herbal tea.
She hadn’t taken a sip until she was sure she could lift the mug without her hands shaking and then had to swallow a burst of hysterical laughter along with the brew. Chamomile. Did Griffin really think the soothing benefits would help in this situation?
Chance. Here. At Hillcrest.
The last fifteen minutes were such a blur, the moments so surreal, she could almost believe she’d had some kind of out-of-body experience. The second she saw him, her brain had shut down even as her limbs kept going, her mouth kept moving.
Nice to meet you?
What had she been thinking? She’d been stunned, yes, but to look him in the eye and pretend they’d never met? Alexa didn’t know Chance McClaren well—other
