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Sloane Pearce, aka a woman with just a couple secrets who’s mistaken if she thinks glitter is her biggest worry today

If you’d told me when I was thirteen years old that I’d have one of the most important jobs at the wedding of the century, I would’ve told you good girls don’t go in places where jobs like this are required.

I like being thirty-five so much more than I liked being thirteen.

It’s way more fun.

“Hand over the glitter bombs, gentlemen, and do not make me get specific about what constitutes a glitter bomb,” I say to the twin behemoths that I’ve just cornered near the makeshift stage in the Shipwreck, Virginia town square where Cooper Rock, local hero—don’t tell him I called him that—has just exchanged wedding vows with pop princess Waverly Sweet.

The two men I’m talking to played professional hockey a few years ago down the road in Copper Valley, and if anyone’s going to defy Shipwreck’s glitter ban, it’s them.

Or any one of Cooper’s baseball-playing teammates.

Actually, possibly Waverly. There was an unholy amount of glitter involved in the proposal that led to this wedding, and for once, that glitter wasn’t Cooper’s fault. Directly, anyway.

A few of the locals too. They’re sneaky enough to sprinkle glitter and successfully blame it on someone else.

The twins share a look.

“We don’t have glitter bombs, do we?” one says.

The other grunts an agreement.

I have to suck in a smile. They’re so bad at lying, it’s hilarious. “Look, I love a good glitter bomb as much as the next person, but you can’t launch them with this much security in town today.” On top of half of the professional baseball players in the country and a solid number of professional athletes from other sports being here, there are also a ton of music industry people that I can’t name and a not-insignificant portion of Hollywood that I do recognize and can name. There are enough important people that the town’s been closed since last night. Nobody in, nobody out, without passing a thorough ID check at the roadblocks on either end of town. Wedding guests only.

I try to look sternly at the twins, which is hella difficult. “Imagine you launched a glitter bomb and a piece of glitter got caught in Liv Daniels’s eye and she had to back out of her next movie because she was recovering from surgery to try to save it.”

The slightly larger twin lights up. “Would she have to wear a pirate eye patch in the movie? That would be cool.”

The other twin grunts again, I assume in agreement.

So I resort to desperate measures. “I have both of your wives’ numbers in my phone.”

They share a look, and I’m soon holding an armful of homemade glitter bombs.

Like, a full freaking armful.

I don’t know how they were hiding these in their suit pockets. There have to be almost a dozen of these things, all the paper towel tube variety.

I should’ve picked a dress with pockets.

That would’ve been more helpful for my job today. Or a large purse. I don’t even have room for a phone, much less this many glitter bombs.

“Are you so for real right now?” Tillie Jean Cole, sister of the groom and new mayor of Shipwreck—and also the person who put the glitter bomb ban into effect, which, yes, is Cooper’s fault—stops beside us and watches as the quieter of the two twins reaches into his pants and pulls out one more glitter bomb to add to the pile.

I don’t want to know what that glitter bomb was touching.

I truly don’t.

“They are definitely so for real right now,” I tell my friend. “How are you surprised by this?”

She’s clearly suppressing a smile too. “You guys. You know how to break into Cooper’s house, and you brought glitter bombs to the wedding instead?”

Once again, the twins share a look.

This one suggests there are, in fact, already other glitter bombs hidden at Cooper’s house.

The slightly larger twin clears his throat. “I need to go help my lady with the kids.”

The other nods. “Yep.”

They turn and disappear into the crowd, which is freaking impressive considering their size.

Tillie Jean grins at me. “Did you count how many there are?”

“You may not have any of these for private use.” Oh yes, I know exactly where her mind is going. Will Sloane notice if one disappears?

Tillie Jean has been one of my best friends since I moved here about six years ago after another wedding that was epic in its own way, even if the memory of why I was here for that one always makes me feel a little awkward. “You already tell people you had to explain to your obstetrician why your daughter was born glittered. I’m not enabling you to break your own ban.”

Her blue eyes twinkle in the dwindling sunlight. “You’re remarkably not fun today.”

“You can think I’m not fun all you want, but I’m having the time of my life. Do you know how many famous people I’ve gotten to shake down? I will never— ever —have this opportunity again in my entire life. I’m living up being the glitter po-po today.”

“Are you asking for their autographs while you do it?”

“I would be if this dress had pockets.” I pat my hips where pockets belong. “Why does my dress not have pockets?”

“Waverly’s dress has pockets.”

“I know. I’m jealous.”

“Honestly? Me too. I forgot pockets too . You’d think being a mom would’ve made me insist on pockets for this thing, but nope.” She fluffs her green bridesmaid dress and grins at me. “Would’ve been good for food too. Keep up the good work, and make sure you eat, okay?”

“On it all.”

She slips away, headed toward a group of Cooper’s teammates and their significant others, whom I’ve already shaken down for glitter bombs, and I get back to having fun.

The well-dressed wedding guests make their way to the dozen or so food tents set up along Blackbeard Avenue. I weave among them, keeping an eagle eye out for anyone who might be planning to interrupt the festivities with glitter bombs, occasionally pausing to breathe in the mingled scents of everything from fried chicken to gyros to butter chicken, all provided by local restaurants with extra help brought in by Cooper and Waverly so the normal restaurant staff can enjoy the wedding too.

It’s been an unseasonably warm day, and the mountains beyond Shipwreck are showing off as the sun sets behind them.

It’s like the world itself approves of this wedding.

I pass Tillie Jean’s husband, Max, who was a joint recipient of the glitter bomb that changed Shipwreck a couple years ago, and he gives me a fist bump. “Good work.”

“Tillie Jean shouldn’t give me too many more authoritarian jobs. This could go to my head.”

“Worse things have happened here.” He smiles, and their toddler daughter grins at me from his arms too, then dives in for a hug.

I catch her and squeeze her little body. “And you’re going to grow up with so much mischief that your Uncle Cooper won’t dare try to glitter bomb you, aren’t you?”

“Dada, ogurt,” she replies, reaching for Max, who pulls a yogurt tube out of the diaper bag hung on his shoulder.

I kiss the little squirt on the forehead, pass her back, and continue on my way, because I don’t like how some of Cooper’s other retired teammates are huddling together near the Scuttle Putt miniature golf entrance.

And I silently high five myself when I successfully collect a half dozen more glitter bombs that I deposit into a repurposed mail collection box.

Waverly’s team bought a dozen to put around Shipwreck since they’re one way in, no way out without the keys. Though, of course, they were coated with pink sparkle paint first.

As I’m continuing on my rounds, chatting with friends and contemplating a dinner break, I bump into the bride and groom and hug both of them.

“Your dress is gorgeous,” I tell Waverly.

“Almost as pretty as she is,” Cooper agrees.

And Waverly Sweet, one of the most famous musicians in the world, blushes at the compliments.

“Have your security teams do a thorough sweep of your house before you get too comfortable,” I murmur to them. “I’ve heard rumors.”

Cooper’s eyes light up. “Really?”

“It’s you. Half the people here want to prank you, and all of them want to do it with glitter or things that make noise.”

“Fantastic.”

He’s smiling so big that it’s impossible to believe he’s faking it. Tillie Jean told me once that game loves game, and Cooper loves being pranked as much as he loves giving prank.

I lift a brow at Waverly. “You knew what you were getting into…”

“I did, and I do,” she agrees. “And you know what? Life’s much more fun the Cooper way.”

Someone calls Waverly’s name, and the happy couple links hands, thanks me again for being on glitter bomb patrol, and heads toward the dance floor that Waverly’s crew installed in the town square. During the Pirate Festival every summer, we bury fake treasure and let the festival-goers dig for pirate loot in the town square.

I love my adopted hometown.

Supposedly Cooper and Tillie Jean’s great-great-something-grandfather was a pirate named Thorny Rock who gave up life on the high seas as the authorities were closing in. He docked in Norfolk, loaded his treasure up on a covered wagon, and drove inland until he found a great place to bury his loot here in the Blue Ridge Mountains. He founded Shipwreck to be near his treasure, and now I live in a place where it’s all pirate, all year round.

There’s an added bonus that Cooper’s spent his entire baseball career talking up Shipwreck, so celebrities are here on a regular enough basis that the number of famous and important people in town today almost feels normal.

It’s fun.

One of my neighbors waves at me as colored spotlights flicker on over the town square. “What’s your glitter count?” he asks.

“Twenty-two, but fourteen of those came from the Berger twins.”

“I got three more off them myself. And I took three from Libby Rock. Libby . Can you believe that?”

Believe that Cooper’s mother would launch a glitter bomb at the last of her three kids’ weddings, against Cooper?

I giggle. “Yep.”

He giggles back. “She’s hashtag goals.”

“Nobody says hashtag anymore, Grandpa,” a teenager mutters as she passes by.

“They do when they don’t want to rot their brains.”

The teenager gives him a look. “It’s called brain rot . Not rot your brain .”

He smiles broadly back. “Wait until you’re my age. The kids’ll be talking a lot worse than you do. You’ll probably call it diarrhea mouth.”

Like I said.

I freaking love this town.

I high five my neighbor, and we both go back to sniffing out glitter bombs.

And that’s when everything goes to hell.

Well, not everything .

Just my day.

Possibly my life.

It takes the form of a six-foot-four, raven-haired, blue-eyed, dimple-chinned, broad-shouldered former high school quarterback who should absolutely not be here.

Not anywhere close to here, in fact.

But here he is. Stepping into my path right at the edge of the square.

“ Nigel ?”

The nightmare from my childhood holds out his arms as if to say who else would I be, you moron?

You know those times when your body alternates flashing hot and cold so fast that you’re not sure if you have a fever or if perimenopause has arrived in blazing-ice glory?

That’s me right now.

Nigel Hipplewait should not be here.

He’s supposed to be running his grandpa’s old church back in Two Twigs, Iowa.

My hometown. The one that I never talk about, and the one that believes gossip, riches, and any music other than gospel music is a straight path to eternal damnation. The one that taught me that no matter what I do, it will never be enough.

That I will never be enough.

There’s zero chance he knows Cooper or Waverly.

There’s zero reason he should be here.

We’ve had town meetings here in Shipwreck about what to do if an unauthorized person sneaks into the wedding. We’re to alert the nearest security person and have the trespasser escorted away for questioning and removal from town.

But what are you supposed to do when the trespasser is someone you’ve known your entire life, and who your grandma mentioned had just taken over for his grandfather as the town’s pastor?

“You can’t be here,” I whisper.

He does that slow blink like he’s irritated, then makes an equally slow show of looking all around the town. “Free country.”

“Town’s closed for a wedding.”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you invited? Do you have an invitation? If security asks for your invitation and you don’t have it, they’re going to kick you out.”

Wait.

That wouldn’t be a bad thing, would it?

Guilt rears its ugly head at the thought, closely followed by shame galloping in on a dusty old horse that I haven’t let out of the barn I thought I’d finally trapped it in not long after I dumped my last boyfriend.

Nigel tosses his hair. It’s short, and he still tosses it. “No one’s going to question my presence.” He peers down his nose at me. “Not like I’m going to question why I haven’t seen you with Steve all day.”

Oooooh, fuuuuuuuuuuccccckkkk.

“ Rawk! Steve’s a dick! Rawk! ” Long Beak Silver, the Rock family patriarch’s pet parrot, screeches from the back of a folding chair at the edge of the dance floor.

“Why are you cussing again?” I ask the bird. “Max taught you to say nice things.”

“ Rawk! Fuck off! Rawk! ”

I glare at the bird, who’s causing enough of a commotion that people are starting to look our way.

People who might realize Nigel’s not supposed to be here.

They won’t realize that, Sloane. They cannot possibly realize that .

Except a rule is being broken by a person who spent a lot of my childhood telling me to follow the rules, and I’m sweating and I’m cold and I haven’t had enough alcohol to deal with this, except you don’t drink alcohol if you’re from Two Twigs, because that, too, is a sure path to eternal damnation.

Which isn’t a problem when I’m not in Two Twigs.

But having someone from my past breathing down on me is making it a problem now.

Nigel angles closer, making me want to jump out of my skin. He smells like sweat—the bad kind—and medieval torture devices. “I know the truth about Steve .”

“My b-boyfriend?” Dammit, don’t stutter . The new and improved Sloane Pearce doesn’t stutter.

Even when being confronted about the fact that I’ve spent the past year sending doctored photos back home to my grandmother to make her believe I have a boyfriend so that she won’t worry that I’ll die alone and childless.

And so that she won’t do something extreme.

Like send Nigel to check on me.

“You told your grandma he proposed.”

They’ve talked. Of course they have, but I only told my grandmother that last night.

Shi—shoot—no, shit , dammit. This is worthy of cussing, and it’s only in my head.

So why is Nigel frowning even heavier at me like he knows I’m cussing in my head?

Screw—fuck this. I lift my head and stare directly at Nigel. “He did.”

“And he’s not here.”

There was a fifty-fifty chance that the man whose picture I’ve been sending to my grandmother would’ve been here today. He comes through town regularly, and I know he was on the guest list.

He, however, has no idea that he’s my pretend boyfriend.

Fiancé.

Love of my life.

Whatever.

So it’s a massive relief that I haven’t seen him at all today. “He hates crowds.”

It’s also a massive relief that I’m nearly certain that statement is true. Thank you for not being here today, fake Steve .

“You told your grandma he’d be here with you today.”

“He changed his mind last-minute.”

“His name isn’t Steve, and there’s a snowflake’s chance in hell that a man like him would date a woman like you. Does he even know the lies you’ve been telling about him? Actually, does he even know you exist? Give it up, Sloane. It’s time to come home and quit behaving like this.”

I’m thirty-five years old.

Thirty-five.

And a boy from my childhood is making me feel like that confused, guilty, shame-filled thirteen-year-old who would’ve been appalled at the existence of glitter bombs all over again. I can’t stop the adrenaline rush warring with the emotions that I thought I’d finally mastered.

I pull myself straight, look Nigel in the eye, and say the meanest thing I can force myself to say at this moment. “That’s rude.”

“ Rawk! Kick him in the nads! Rawk! ”

I’d love to, Long Beak Silver.

Nigel shifts a look at the bird. “You need scripture.”

“ Rawk! You need glitter! Rawk! ”

More people turn and stare.

And as I’m glancing around, realizing just how much of an audience we’re gathering thanks to the bird, I see something else.

Steve .

My pretend boyfriend. Fiancé.

The man I’ve been telling my grandmother is the love of my life.

Steve is lingering near the Thorny Rock Historical Museum, which has been a passion project of mine since I decided two years ago that I’m never getting married.

Nigel’s half right, half wrong.

Steve is not actually named Steve. He got that part right. But Steve does, in fact, know I exist. Barely, but he does.

What Steve doesn’t know is the part where I told my grandmother that we’re engaged.

And getting married in a week because we just can’t wait to start our lives together.

I give it a fifty-fifty shot that if I can manage to explain it to him, he’d go along with the ruse.

Actually, I give it a ten percent shot he’d agree and a ninety percent chance that he’ll suggest security escort me out of the wedding.

Because apparently, picking the most reclusive member of a former boy band to be your fake boyfriend means the people you’re lying to can still figure out who he really is.

And not telling said reclusive former boy band member that he’s your pretend boyfriend—yep.

That’s about to bite me in the ass too.

Because Nigel is a freaking hound dog.

He has his teeth in me, and he won’t let go until he gets what he wants.

Unless—

“ Rawk! Girl fight! Rawk! ”

I look at Nigel, who’s more or less sneering at me with all of his pompous holier-than-thou pomposity.

Then at the bird.

And then at the glitter bomb in my hand.

I need to talk to Steve .

Alone.

And Steve is now slipping into my museum with a code for the front door that he shouldn’t have.

I’d have to investigate that even if Steve wasn’t my pretend fiancé.

Also, the freaking audacity .

What does Steve think he’s doing, using the front door to break into my museum? Who gave him the code?

Not that I think he’d trash it, but that’s bold.

And weird.

And making the hairs on my arms stand on end.

Nigel grabs me by the elbow. “We’re leaving. You need to find your moral compass again.”

I wrench myself free from his grip without a second thought.

What I do after that—well, I’m going to call it divine intervention that it works.

I shove a loaded glitter bomb at Nigel. “Hold this.”

He takes it, probably on instinct.

So I pull the little string that pops it. Directly into his suit.

“ Rawk! Contraband glitter! Rawk! Glitter bomb! Rawk! ”

Nigel gasps and stares at me.

And then—well, then the twins happen.

“ Glitter bombs away! ” the more vocal one crows.

I duck.

I dive.

I run.

And as glitter bomb after glitter bomb explodes behind me, I make a dash to the museum.

Nigel can’t get in there.

And there’s a certain acquaintance of mine in there that I need to see so that I can ask him a very large favor. Probably. After I find out what in the actual hell he’s doing in my museum.