Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Like I’m not at all terrified her shotgun marriage will go belly up, beached-whale style, just like mine did.
And like I'm not attracted to the wingman who irritates the hell out of me, the guy I also maybe, kinda, sorta would like to see naked.
Nope.
That shit will stay locked up tight. Where it belongs.
I straighten up, open the door, and walk inside.
“May I help you?” the hostess asks with a gracious smile.
It’s tempting to ask her to put me out of my misery. But I give Flip’s name instead. Well, his real name.
“I’m here for the Phillipe Dubois party,” I say.
“Fantastic. They just arrived,” she says. “You’re all so punctual.”
Great. I’m always on the dot, and this time they beat me to it by showing up earlier. Could this night suck more?
I follow her to the back of the restaurant where the superhot wingman is hosting a small but chic engagement dinner. He’ll have invited all their old prep school friends, with their boat shoes and suntans, and names like Carlisle Bancroft.
And, yup, the first guy I spot inside the room has whales on his tie. Called it.
The second guy is Flip. The welcoming smile slides right off his face when he sees me. My gaze swings from him to Hannah, who’s standing arm in arm with her groom-to-be. My sister’s expression doesn’t chill, though. If anything, she’s eyeing me with concern.
And then there’s Asher St. James. He’s leaning casually against a chair, his hair flopping theatrically across his forehead, a cocktail glass in his hand.
For a quick second, I wonder if it’s possible that he didn’t even see the texts. The thread was full of engagement party planning stuff. He’s probably too busy chatting up famous athletes and models to bother with my drunken rants.
A man can hope.
But the exact moment he registers my arrival, that hope dies. Asher doesn’t frown at me, though. It’s worse than that. So much worse.
A corner of his handsome mouth tilts up. And he smirks.
That’s when a chill enters my body. Because it’s go-time. No more rehearsals, just three awkward apologies.
Slowly, I cross the room toward Hannah, Flip, and Asher. One of them is frowning. One looks worried. One looks smug.
The answer is, yes, this night can suck more.
2
THE SLIDING SCALE OF HOTNESS
ASHER
And here I thought engagement parties were dull.
This one might have been, in spite of the fact that I’m throwing it. My opinion of marriage rituals is ambivalent at best. But here comes the bride’s brother slinking through the door, looking like a kid who’s just been caught putting a snake in the teacher’s desk. A venomous one.
So this party just got a whole lot more interesting.
Ever since meeting Mark several months ago, I haven’t known what to think about the buttoned-up banker with the midnight blue eyes. He’s always struck me as mild-mannered and carefully inoffensive. Like a striped tie, or a white dress shirt. I’m sure he owns both. In multiples. If he has a car, I bet it’s silver.
He works at a Wall Street bank, for fuck’s sake, doing something with math or spreadsheets. “He’s in derivatives,” Flip once said, and I’d shuddered because the word made me think of failing out of calculus class in college.
Sometimes, though, if you get a few drinks in a guy, the truth comes out. That’s what happened last night, I suspect. A little after midnight, when Flip and I were out on the balcony of his apartment, smoking a couple of Cubans I scored off a client, both our phones started pinging with drunk texts from the mild-mannered banker.
I should probably feel guilty for reading them. It was immediately obvious to both of us that Mark had only meant to text his sister. The four-way group text had begun only yesterday, as a quick way for me to plan this spontaneous engagement party, and Hannah was the last one to weigh in with an exclamation-laden (I can't wait for the party!!!) reply.
But did Flip and I stop reading? Not on your life. That text thread was a box of delights.
In the first place, I was fascinated to learn that Mark opposes his sister’s wedding. Most men would be over the moon to welcome Phillipe “Flip” Dubois III to the family. My friend is both loaded and head-over-heels for Hannah. He’s a good man, and she’ll never want for anything.
He owns a full-floor condo on Park Avenue, a Mercedes E-Class, and has a membership at Maidstone. Material wealth aside, I’m here to tell anyone who asks that he cried actual tears of joy when she told him she was pregnant.
But all that’s not good enough for our boy Mark, I guess. He wrote—in shouty caps, no less—that the marriage was DOOMED LIKE THE TITANIC. I’M AFRAID FOR YOU ON THAT FLOATING DOOR.
Now that’s just dark. Besides, it’s not even a good metaphor. Everyone knows there was plenty of room for Leo on that thing. The MythBusters even proved it.