Play Date (Play Makers Book 3) Read Free Page A

Super Bowl, playing it in the background while she did her housework so she could catch the proposal. She had wished she could wrangle an invitation to the wedding, just so she could eyeball Johnny and his Erica.
    Now here she was.
    Unfortunately, as she stepped off the elevator, she sensed trouble in paradise. Unless ushers were forcing guests to line up outside the ballroom doors, it appeared the facility was already overflowing.
    What had Sean said? Two hundred guests, two hundred chairs?
    There were at least two hundred laughing, half-drunk football hunks in the hallway alone.
    These latecomers had no prayer of getting a seat. On the other hand, Rachel knew she could easily thread through this crowd, since she was kryptonite to strange men. Always had been, always would be. And while it usually bothered her, it came in handy at times like this.
    So she stepped to the edge of the crowd and murmured “Excuse me” into the ear of the best-looking guy.
    He turned to her, a grin on his face as though ready to say something rowdy. Then he flushed and stepped aside. “Sorry! Hey, guys, get out of the way.”
    A few of his friends gave him annoyed looks, then they too sobered quickly and made way for her. It was humiliating but convenient, so she thanked them and continued into the ballroom, where the true scope of the problem presented itself.
    There must have been four hundred people, most of them muscle-bound men, crammed into the space. Hotel staffers were hurriedly removing chairs to make standing room, and a skinny manager type was making pleading sounds into a microphone in front of a curtained dais, asking everyone to settle down.
    Rachel’s heart ached for Erica. Then she felt a glimmer of hope as Beth Spurling’s sexy husband Jason—a cornerback for the San Diego Chargers, and a major stud—took the mic away from the hotel guy and literally growled at the crowd.
    They settled down quickly, as though translating—and fearing—the guttural sound.
    Jason eyed them grimly. “The bride says you can stay, even though I want to throw you out on your effing asses. So listen up. If you didn’t receive an invitation printed on fancy paper, do not touch those party favor bags. And keep the noise down until I say otherwise. Then we’ll open the bar and you can party. But trust me, I’m ready to rumble. So just give me a reason.”
    He glanced offstage as though listening to further instructions. Then he muttered, “Oh, right. I’m supposed to thank you for coming. So thanks. And keep it down, will ya?”
    Rachel laughed proudly. What a hero. She had always liked Beth’s husband, and had imagined his brother—the groom—would look and sound like him. Not a bad package, all in all.
    Still, she regretted arriving so late. No goody bag for her, apparently. Not that she needed a bottle opener. And she could duplicate the rest of the items by buying an orange and replaying the Super Bowl on her DVR. Her biggest challenge at this point was finding a good vantage point for the ceremony.
    She could use her superpower to get closer to the front, but what would be the point? These football players were giants, so she’d need to sit in the first or second row and would end up with the bride and groom’s families and close friends, which wouldn’t feel right.
    Better to try for high ground, so she threaded her way to a low wall that separated the ballroom from a lush atrium, which had apparently also been reserved for the wedding, probably as a place of retreat, but was now functioning as spillover. If she took off her shoes and chose a spot in the shadows, she could climb onto the wall and watch. It wasn’t ideal, but why should it be? It wasn’t her wedding, was it? This was Erica McCall’s day, and as long as it went perfectly for her, and Rachel caught a decent glimpse of it, she’d be satisfied.
     
    • • •
     
    She had barely found the perfect vantage point when a small orchestra to the side of the dais began