Entangled with the Hot Stranger

The invitation arrived in a gold embossed envelope at exactly 2:13 PM, right when I was painting over Derek's face for the third time. The canvas stared back at me—or rather, what used to be Derek's smirk. I'd been trying to paint him out of my system for the past three weeks, but so far, it’s not been working. “Fressia.” My hand froze mid-stroke. Jordan never used my full name unless something was wrong. "What?" I called out, turning around. The rain had started again, drumming against the gallery's floor to ceiling windows. He walked closer to me, an envelope in hand. “This came for you. Certified mail." I wiped my paint-stained fingers on my overalls and took it. It was a wedding invitation. Carved inside it in elegant cursive loops were the names: Mr. Derek Whitmore & Miss Nora Cavanaugh. My soul folded itself into a suitcase and left my body. "Nora?" I whispered, the word tumbling out of my throat in a scratchy tone. “My cousin Nora and… Derek?" Jordan’s lips parted slightly. “Wait. Do you mean like your cousin Nora and your idiotic ex Derek?” “No, it can’t be right. Maybe it’s another Nora,” I rambled, picking up my phone. “Let me call her.” Before I could even unlock my phone, a call came in— and it was Nora’s. "Hello, sweet cuz," she greeted in her usual cheerful manner. That relieved the ache in my chest a bit. "Hey, Nora. You can't believe what just happened.” She chuckled. "Let me guess. Derek is getting married next week and the bride's name is exactly mine." The ache came right back, this time hitting harder than before. "How did you–" "I know because I'm the one who sent the invite via his phone. He didn't want you to be there, but you're family, you just have to be there. You'd be in attendance right?" "But how?" I asked, clutching the portrait stand to aid my balance. She laughed. "We've always had a secret affair, right after we first met during Christmas, when he came to sleep over, remember? You were fast asleep while we were both awake and we hit it up from there. Suddenly, all those little memories I'd tried to suppress began flashing behind my eyes like a mocking movie reel. Nora wearing Derek's oversized grey hoodie, giggling, "I was just freezing, Fress, don't be weird about it." The sudden silence in the room whenever I walked in on them talking. The inside jokes they shared over dinner. The time Derek fiercely defended her when she "borrowed" my car and scraped the bumper, yelling at me for being too materialistic. The signs were always there. I was just too blindly in love to read them. Vivaldi played softly from the corner speakers, battling the drumming of the rain. Usually, it calmed me. Today, I wanted to set it on fire. "I know it hurts, but that's life. It's really not my fault that he liked me better," she continued, her voice dropping to a mockingly sweet tone. "Just pull yourself together, get a makeover and in the next three years you'll find yourself a new boyfriend." I took in a deep breath to keep myself calm, dropping the phone on the counter. My eyes slipped to the card, and remained fixed on it long enough for the words to blur. Four weeks ago, Derek told me he needed _space._ Three weeks ago, he packed his designer suits and left. Two weeks ago, I found out through i********: that my cousin had accidentally checked into the same hotel as him during a “work trip." Now this. “So…” Jordan pushed. “They're getting married next week," I said, my voice strangely calm. "At the vineyard. My favorite vineyard. The one I showed him." Jordan opened his mouth slowly, carefully deliberating his words. "There, there, darling. They're not worth the tears. Maybe you should just skip the wedding," he cautiously suggested. "Skip it? Absolutely not," I snapped, my jaw clenched and wiped the few traitorous tears that slid down my face. "Not only am I going, but I'm going to show him just how great I'm doing without him, and show her that I can find another man no problem. Next three years my mother f*****g foot." Even though I had no idea how to do that. I did know one thing though– I couldn't show up alone. That would scream pathetic. But finding a new boyfriend within a week? Practically impossible. Abruptly, the gallery door slammed into the wall hard, rattling the framed canvases hanging nearby. I jumped, dropping the palette knife as a man stepped inside. He immediately spun to look out through the glass into the stormy street, his chest heaving heavily underneath his soaked shirt. The stranger was tall, and broad-shouldered in a way that seemed to fill the entire doorway. Dark hair plastered to his forehead. But it wasn't his face I noticed first. It was the blood. A small, fresh cut near his brow. And on his cuff was a smear of red that definitely wasn't paint. He looked over his shoulder first, checked the street before turning to look at us. Jordan stepped forward. "Sir, this is a private gallery—" He ignored Jordan, his eyes slipping to me, and as soon as it met mine, my breath hitched in my throat. He was, without exaggeration, the most terrifyingly beautiful man I had ever seen in my entire twenty four eyes of existence. Sharp jawline, dark hair plastered to his forehead, and a presence that seemed to swallow the oxygen in the room. "Hide me," he said, his voice was a low, dark velvet rasp that sent an involuntary shiver straight down my spine. "Excuse me?" I gripped the counter. "I'm calling the police—" "No, you aren't." He stepped closer, probably too close. The sheer size of him blocked out the natural light from the window. “In about thirty seconds, three men are going to walk through that door. If they find me, they will kill me. And because you are a witness, they will kill you, too." “What?” Jordan spluttered from beside me. My heart hammered against my ribs begging to be free. Every survival instinct screamed at me to run, but my mind had another idea. Without thinking, I grabbed his forearm that felt like carved granite and pulled him behind the counter, dragging him toward the narrow supply closet in the back hallway. I shoved him inside and stepped in after him, pulling the door shut just as the chime of the front gallery door rang out.