We authors are always up to shenanigans, and that’s definitely true of my friend Maria Luis and me. She used my town of Zachsville and Honey in her book Body Check. Here’s a sneak peek of Body Check. If you like smokin’ hot hockey players, sassy heroines, and steamy scenes that make you want to slap your mama, then you’ll love Maria’s books.
Chapter One
Holly
The groom is sporting hard wood.
And I’m not referring to the hockey stick he wields around TD Garden for the Boston Blades. No, I’m talking about the metaphorical type of wood—the one that sprang to life in his black tuxedo pants the minute his bride, Zoe, began the walk of all walks down the center aisle of Boston’s historical Trinity Church.
My knees burn against the scratchy red rug as I angle my camera to snap a photo of the groom’s awestruck expression. While Andre Beaumont—King Sin Bin to hockey fans across the country—may have hired me as his wedding photographer, I’m pretty sure he’s not interested in having his erection memorialized in between pictures of Zoe’s gorgeous, ivory lace gown and the flower girl prancing down the aisle like a cotton ball made of tulle.
Then again, it’s the ball-busting kind of photo that his teammates and brothers-in-hockey-gear would kill to get their hands on, and Andre should have known better than to rope me into this gig.
Swallowing an ill-timed laugh, my fingers slide over the camera’s familiar black, plastic frame.
Click.
One inappropriate photo down. Only one hundred-plus elegant ones to go.
Wedding photography isn’t my thing. And, sure, maybe it’s because I lived the Happily Ever After fairytale and came out on the other side with my gold band tucked away in my dresser and my newly signed divorce papers doused in wine, sweet-and-sour sauce, and dried tears.
It was a rough night.
Scratch that—it’s been a rough three years.
Like a moth to a flame, I lower the camera and slide my gaze to the second groomsman standing to the right of Andre. My grandmother once called him “strapping.” Accurate, I’ll admit, albeit begrudgingly. He’s built like a linebacker: tall and broad with muscular thighs that strain the fabric of his tuxedo pants. Dark brown hair that’s casually tousled in the same style he’s worn for years now. Even when he graced the glossy front page of Sports Illustrated last February, he looked exactly the same.
Some things change . . . he hasn’t.
Hard, square jaw. Formidable body. Shrewd brown eyes that I imagine terrify his opponents on the ice when he comes barreling toward them.
Jackson Carter.
Captain of the Boston Blades.
Otherwise known as my ex-husband.
Those astute dark eyes meet mine now, and I wait for the rush of familiar emotions to hit me like a freight train. Only, before I have the chance to do my usual shushing of my heart, Jackson’s full lips part and he mouths something that looks suspiciously like, “Did you just take a picture of his dick?”
And that right there, that’s the reason why I’ve felt so lost for the last three years.
Our marriage didn’t crumble because one of us cheated. Jackson isn’t that sort of guy, and I’ve always been a one-man kind of woman.
It didn’t combust in a ball of fiery flames because we fought like we were prepping our audition tapes for that trashy reality TV show Marriage Boot Camp.
No, we simply . . . grew apart.
He passed out on the couch.
I slept in the bed.
He ate meals with his teammates.
I chowed down on mine alone at my desk, late into the evening hours after my employees had already gone home to their families.
He reached out to Andre or the Blades goalie, Duke Harrison, when he needed to talk.
I acted like smothering my emotions was as easy as breathing.
Eleven years ago, I married the man who swept me off my feet during my first semester at Cornell University.
A year ago, we sat opposite each other at a wooden table, our feet locked on our respective sides instead of tangling together the way we’d always done, nothing but our signatures standing in the way of a divorce.
The cry fest with the Chinese food and wine came later that night. No matter how alone I’d felt prior to finalizing our divorce, spending that first night in our house—empty but for the select furniture I’d kept—had been a hard pill to swallow. Accepting the fact that we’d failed at the till death do us part of our vows was even more difficult.
Camera feeling heavy in my hands, I lift my gaze from Jackson’s mouth and return silently: “Blackmail.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners, and my pathetic heart dives into an incessant thud-thud-thud that could rival the quick-paced tempo of an EDM song. Dammit. Those creasing laugh lines are more attractive than they have any right to be. Hell, the fact that I still find Jackson attractive at all feels like unjust punishment, doled out for some unknown bad misdeed I’ve committed in life. Considering my worst transgression of late is accidentally tossing half a burger into a recycling bin, the unyielding attraction seems a bit unfair.
He drags his thumb across his bottom lip, in that revealing way of his that tells me he’s trying to wrestle back a grin, and I nearly hurl my camera at his head in retribution.
I can just imagine the newspaper headlines now: Ex-wife of Famous NHL Player Interrupts Wedding of the Season by Flying Camera—Updates to Follow.
Once upon a time, I’d made it my mission to make Jackson’s infamous steel resolve disintegrate in inappropriate places. He always got me back—generally in bed with me fisting the sheets and his tight body powering into mine.
Now, I swallow hard at the memories and divert my attention to the bride.
Zoe radiates warmth and happiness. When her lips turn up behind the gossamer fabric of her veil, I readjust my grip on the camera and rise to my haunches. Knees cracking, I scoot back to avoid blocking someone’s view. The five bridesmaids to my left all smile, as if on cue, and I catch a shot of them, too.
The light streaming in through the stained-glass windows paints them in a mural of jeweled tones, and I know—even if I make my living taking photos of professional athletes—that the picture will be one that’s kept on their walls for years to come.
I get Zoe next, just as she steps up to meet Andre and her father gives her away.
Whether or not Andre is still sporting wood, I’ve got no idea. I keep my gaze above the belt, so to speak, as I step into the dance that’s become as familiar to me as breathing over the last number of years: finding the best angles for the best photos.
Beaumont looks down at his bride like she’s his greatest gift, and then he throws tradition out the window by lifting the veil and smoothing it back over her head with a mammoth-sized hand.
The Blades’ toughest son of a bitch grins, looks at the priest, and announces, “Sorry, Father, I’ll always be the worst kind of sinner.”
“Andre—” Zoe’s hands flutter upward.
He promptly cradles her face with one hand, binds an arm around her back, and, without giving anyone the chance to object, drops a heady kiss onto her mouth.
“Hell fucking yeah!” shouts one of the guys from the groom’s side. “Get it, man. Get. It!”
Someone in the pews follows up with an equally boisterous, “Don’t get her pregnant in the church, dude!”
The guests roar with laughter, palms kissing with thunderous applause.
I capture it all on camera:
Zoe’s wide gaze as her fiancé steals a kiss before the ceremony officially begins.
The top of Andre’s dark head as he glides his mouth over his bride’s, his hand flexing at the small of her back, as though he’s desperate to strip her out of the gown and touch her bare skin.
The bridesmaids whistling.
Father Christopher’s red face and twitching lips.
My lens finds Jackson.
Click.
His hands dive into the pockets
of his well-tailored pants.
Click.
He grazes his teeth over his lower lip.
Click.
Familiar brown eyes land on my face, startling in their intensity.
Click.
Long ago, he’d look at me just like he is now and whisper in that rough, endearing Texas drawl of his, “Always you.”
The sentiment used to send my heart soaring.
Now he only averts his gaze, stubbled cheeks hollowing with a heavy breath, and turns back to the bride and groom.
Click.
The final shutter of the camera mimics the steady rhythm of my heart.
One inappropriate photo down.
Five too many pictures of my ex-husband already catalogued.
Father Christopher clears his throat. “Perhaps we can hold off on the impregnating until after we exchange vows?”
I snort.
And then the four-year-old ring bearer seals Andre Beaumont’s sinner status for good. Thrusting one little arm up in the air as Andre releases Zoe and steps back, the kid shouts, “Mommy! Mommy, Mr. Beaumont has a sword in his pants! I want one that big!”
I find Andre’s shocked expression with my lens.
Click.
I may not have the husband or the white picket fence or the two-point-five kids, but goddamn it, I love my job.
Some days, it feels like enough.
Continue reading Body Check
About the Author
Jami Albright is a born and raised Texas girl and is the multiple award-winning author of The Brides on the Run series--a fun, sexy, snarky, laugh-out-loud good time. If you don’t snort with laughter, then she hasn’t done her job.
She is also a wife, mother, and an actress/comedian. She used to think she could sing until someone paid her to stop. She took their money and kept on singing.
Jami loves her family, all things Outlander, and puppies make her stupid happy. She can be found on Sundays during football season watching her beloved Houston Texans and trying not to let them break her heart.
Jami loves to hear from readers. You can reach her at
www.jamialbright.com
Running From the Law Page 33