Free The Wedding Bet by Cupideros Page A

You’ve met Hector. You like him?” Olivia pushed me closer to Hector.
    I gasped taking in a deep whiff of his forest-scented cologne. “Oh! Hector. How can I take you from these two admiring ladies?”
    “Ladies?” Hector nodded to both Cynthia and Olivia, as he pulled me down the hallway back to the gymnasium floor of the Joinrite City Grantor’s Orator’s hall.
    PR Man showed me a brochure map of the Joinrite City Orator’s Hall the day before. Now being in the hall things came back to me visually. From my recollection, as Hector’s romantic smile shooed away one woman and then another, I remapped the Grantor’s Hall into safe zones like in high school or college girl should do any place. The dance floor was definitely the red zone. Yet I was headed right for it. The ladies bathroom was a green fully safe zone. The hallway was yellow. I realized by the drinks was a yellow zone. Talking to the matrons who put on the Lover’s Dance would be a green zone. The parking lot should be a green zone for leaving, but after my disastrous entrance, I remapped it a red zone. So as we entered the center of the dance floor, Hector pulled me gently to him. I realized staying single was going to get a lot harder.
    Hector refrained from pulling me too close. And I recoiled against any feelings of regret for not feeling sufficiently guilty about my own yearly non-wedding goal. This wasn’t the way things were suppose to go. And my fake broken arm only made all the other women dancing about me see our situation as more romantic.
    Before I went out like a whiny wimp, and fell into the marriage trough, I decided to wipe the glare and bitter-sweet taste of maleness from my eyes. “So how often do you go around in shining armor O man of steel chasing down damsels in distress?”
    Hector stopped slow dancing. But his smooth stop only stirred up more drama from the women watching our every move. His black curly hair and suave manner hid the surprise on his face. Yes, the surprise on his face never fully manifested. I wanted to stomp my feet and exclaim no fair! I gotcha!
    “How often? As often as you wear a fake broken cast on your healthy arm.” He raised his left eyebrow in that knowing way that male heroes in those romantic novels do.
    “I sprained my arm.” I said pushing back a little. His pleasant, intoxicating cologne soothed my nerves. “Whenever I get stressed out about dating my left arm goes on the blink.”
    “Must be so terribly, terribly hard, then, fair maiden to carry all those wedding cakes all over town.” He pulled me closer again.
    I whispered into his ear. “I didn’t think a sprained arm might stop you from wanting to get into my pants.”
    “You modern girls, Megan, don’t wear pants for aesthetic reasons.”
    “Under my dress, then. And I’d think as a famous plastic surgeon, Hector Contofalsky, you’ve seen enough female flesh to bore a thousand men.” He couldn’t possibly see that I wasn’t wearing any pants under my flowery dress. That’s why I wore it—as a form of sexual protection. He really tried hard to get on my radar by annoying me. This is how countless other failed marriages started. Not from some kindness or commonality, but by the pearl necklace of little irritations.
    “A thousand men could never find you boring, Megan Bedrosian. You’re smart. Run your own business. Fiercely independent. You’re every man’s fantasy. Tell me, before this song ends. How have you come to detest and avoid marriage?”
    Before I could answer another man’s voice and fingers tapped on Hector’s shoulders.
    “You!” Hector stepped aside, startled then smiled as if he expected the stranger’s arrival. “You nearly killed me out there jostling me on my steed.”
    “I teach riding classes at Vassel Riding Farms on Southbank, if you’re familiar with our city, Sir. Be a pleasure to give you equine pointers.” PR Man slid in front of me and he raised my right hand kissing it, gently.
    “I