by Elle Kennedy
Maybe it wasn’t him?
My brain makes a last-ditch effort to defuse this horrible bomb that will blow Marcy’s life to smithereens. Her comment about those Facebook invites suddenly comes to mind. Of course. I can easily verify who this guy is.
I hurry to the bedroom, grab my phone, and log on to Facebook. A billion notifications await me, but I ignore them all. I hardly ever go on this damn thing, mostly because it seems everyone uses it to whine about their problems or pick online fights.
When I go on Marcy’s page, I don’t need to look in a mirror to know that my face is green again. Yup, that’s Dirk. Right there in her profile pic. He and Marcy are smiling at the camera, and his perfect teeth taunt me. He looks more wholesome in this picture, his gray eyes missing the sensual gleam, but I guess he saves that for his anonymous hook-ups, when he’s cheating on my best friend.
I scroll through her feed. There aren’t as many pictures of the happy couple as I expect, but there is a status update that says she and Devon got engaged.
Fuck you, Dirk. I’m going to rip your fucking balls off.
I tamp down the bloodlust and close the app. I have no idea how I’m going to handle this awful situation. The rehearsal dinner is in a couple of hours. I need to shower and get my hair done, then pick up all the bridesmaid dresses for tomorrow from the dry cleaner downstairs. Deliver them to each room, make sure they fit.
Being a maid of honor is stressful, and that’s before you factor in the fact that I slept with the goddamn groom.
By the time I’m done zipping up the little black dress I brought for the rehearsal dinner, I’ve come up with a plan.
First, I’m going to confront Devon/Dirk. Alone, in order to give him a chance to offer his side of the story. Yes, the idea that he could have a “side” makes me want to laugh hysterically, because what alternative explanation could he possibly have? He cheated on the woman he’s going to marry. Not once, either. We fucked all night long. Oh, and then—and then! He tried to ask me on a date. He wanted to have dinner with me. He’s actually a monster.
Nevertheless, I’ll be the bigger person and give him the benefit of the doubt first.
Then, once he confirms that he is indeed a monster, I’ll take Marcy aside and tell her everything before the rehearsal dinner gets underway. There’s no way I’m letting everybody shower the happy couple with well-wishes and make speeches.
I slip into my stilettos. They’re bright red, matching my crimson lipstick. My reflection in the mirror looks a tad wild-eyed, probably because I’m about to blow my best friend’s life apart and I don’t want to do it.
As I leave the room and tuck the keycard in my clutch, I wonder, if the situations were reversed, whether I would want to know.
The answer to that is hell yes. I’d never want to marry someone who had sex with somebody else the night before. Marcy will be crushed, but I hope she’ll eventually come to thank me for this. At the end of the day, she’ll know I have her best interests at heart.
The dinner is taking place in the chalet’s restaurant, a grand room with crisscross wooden beams spanning a soaring ceiling. I hear silverware clinking and chatter as I approach the arched doorway. Catering staff waltzes by with trays of champagne flutes. Round tables fill the massive room, and then there’s a long rectangular one, the head table where the bridal party will sit.
Marcy’s already here, chatting with her dad, who looks well rested. I scan the room looking for Dirk—I mean, Devon. It isn’t until I hear a familiar voice behind me that I realize he found me instead.
“Emilia?” There’s a note of shock in his voice.
I whirl around, and sure enough, there he is, the lying, cheating snake. He looks amazing in a black suit that’s perfectly tailored to his broad body. His dark hair isn’t tousled like it was last night, but swept away from his forehead, and he’s clean-shaven now. The gray eyes are exactly the same, though. I remember them peering at me when he was moving inside me, and a wave of fury crashes over me.
“What you doing here?” He looks startled.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now? How could you do this?” I hiss.
His brow furrows. “Do what?”
“You slept with me last night,” I say accusingly.
The bastard has the gall to quirk up the corner of his mouth in a smug smile. “Yeah. I did.”
“Are you . . . is that pride . . . are you bragging about the conquest? Are you actually proud of yourself for what you’ve done? I’m the maid of honor,” I spit out, and it’s miraculous I don’t raise my voice.
“Really? I’m in the wedding, too.”
Incredulous laughter lodges in my throat. Oh, is that how he’s going to phrase it? “Yeah, I figured,” I snap, disgust dripping from my tone. “What the hell is wrong with you? How can you just stand there and—”
“Is everything okay?”
Marcy.
Oh my God. This isn’t going according to plan. I was supposed to get Dirk alone first. But now Marcy appears in front of us, looking so perfect in a short pink dress with a sweetheart neckline. She’s wearing white pumps and pearl earrings, and her strawberry-blonde hair is arranged in a fat braid hanging over one shoulder. She’s just the cutest, sweetest person in the whole world, and I—
“I slept with Devon,” I blurt out.
All the color drains from her face. “W-what?” Her bottom lip starts trembling, confusion clouding her expression as she stares at me.
Nearly choking on a lump of misery, I force myself to speak again. “I slept with your fiancé last night.”
6
Marcy’s always had the most expressive eyes. They make it impossible to hide what she’s thinking or feeling, and right now they’re pleading at me. They’re saying, please say you’re joking and take back this insanity because this is my wedding and you’re ruining my life.
But I can’t take it back. The truth is out.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I had no idea that he . . .” I trail off shamefully.
The man whose dick was in my pussy glowers at me. “You slept with Devon?” His lips set in a tight line. “Was this before or after you hooked up with me?”
I shoot him an irritated look. “What the hell are you babbling about? You know it happened last night.”
“You slept with my brother last night?”
“What?”
“What?”
“What?” Marcy says.
I have no idea what’s happening right now. The three of us are engaged in some weird three-way duel, except instead of guns it’s baffled stares.
I take a deep breath and focus only on my friend. “Last night I matched with someone named Dirk on a hook-up app. It was him.” I point at the man beside me like a witness accusing her attacker in open court.
“Evan,” Marcy says.
“Devon,” I confirm.
“No, that’s Evan.”
“What?”
“What?”
“What?” Dirk says.
Another eye-duel commences.
“Okay.” Dirk/Devon chuckles softly. “I think that, one, we really need to expand our vocabularies—maybe a book club? And two, I know exactly what’s going on here, and trust me when I say it’s a misunderstanding I can very easily clear up.”
“Oh, really?” I challenge.
“Then please clear it up before I have a panic attack,” Marcy orders.
He slings his hands in the pockets of his suit coat and grins at Marcy. “Dirk is my online alias.”
Her laughter comes out in a high-pitched squeak. “Are you serious, Evan? Dirk?”
“Hey, the ladies don’t seem to mind.” He winks at me.
“Don’t wink at me,” I order. “And I did mind. I slept with you in spite of your name, not because of it.”
Marcy breaks out in a huge grin, her now excited gaze moving from me to him. “You two slept together?”
“This is what I’ve been trying to tell you. I slept wit
h the groom.”
“He’s not the groom, Em. This is Devon’s twin. Evan.”
I shake my head a few times, because it feels like it’s filled with cotton balls. Thoughts are having a hard time penetrating. “You’re marrying Devon,” I say slowly.
“Yes,” she replies.
“And this is his brother. His twin brother. Evan.”
“Yes.”
“Devon and Evan.” I flick a brow at him. “Were your parents on drugs the day you were born?”
“They thought it was cute.” He smirks for a second, before a contrite look enters his eyes. “I’m sorry I lied about my name. It’s just that with my job, I don’t like putting my real information out there.”
“So you picked Dirk?” I growl.
“Again, it’s worked for me in the past.”
“I can’t believe you two hooked up.” Marcy looks like she’s fighting back laughter.
“It was a one-time thing,” I grumble.
“Well, not necessarily,” Evan hedges.
“Yes, necessarily. I don’t do encores.”
He winks again. “We’ll see about that. Anyway, now that we’ve cleared this up, I should probably go find the groom. The actual groom. He’s running a bit late.”
I unwittingly admire his perfect butt as he saunters off.
Okay. I need to digest this.
So I didn’t bang the groom. Thank God, because that means I’m not destroying Marcy’s life.
But I did bang the groom’s twin brother.
Whose name is Evan.
Which rhymes with Devon.
Because apparently their parents wanted to raise Dr. Seuss characters.
Beside me, Marcy is practically bouncing up and down on her white heels. “You and Evan?” she exclaims happily. “Oh my God, Emilia. I love this! Imagine if you two fall in love and get married? We’d be married to twins! And you could have your wedding on Valentine’s Day! I wanted a Valentine’s Day wedding, but the fourteenth is Dad’s birthday and I didn’t want my anniversary to be on the same—”
“Marcy,” I interrupt. “How about we rein in the crazy a bit? I’m not marrying the guy. And I’d never, ever do something as cheesy as a Valentine’s Day wedding.” I make a frustrated, grumbly noise. “It was just a stupid hook-up, and now it’s time to forget about it.”
“No way. This is the best thing ever. Like, ever!”
I scowl at her. “Agree to disagree.”
The rehearsal dinner goes smoothly, though I’m not sure why the word “rehearsal” is even in there, since there’s no actual rehearsing. The evening consists of a dozen heartfelt speeches, tears from the parents, and Marcy blushing every time someone forces her and Devon to kiss by tapping a utensil against a wineglass.
And talk about jarring—Devon and Evan are identical. Not fraternal twins, but completely indistinguishable from each other, features-wise. The only reason I can tell them apart is because Evan is wearing a black suit and Devon is in navy-blue. Oh, and also because every time Evan’s sultry gaze lands on me, I know without a doubt he’s imagining me naked.
The jerk is downright smoldering, the heat he’s generating actually causing beads of sweat to break out at the nape of my neck. By the time dessert is over, I’m eager to get out of there. But Marcy won’t let me leave. She wants me to get to know the other two bridesmaids, whom I’ve never met. Natalie and Robin seem nice enough, but it’s hard to concentrate on getting to know them when Evan is getting to know me with his eyes.
“Excuse me,” I blurt out when Robin pauses to take a breath. She’d just spent the past ten minutes describing her work at NASA to me. Yup, another fucking astronaut, but she works at a facility in Florida, not Washington.
“The best man is waving me over,” I say, injecting an apologetic note into my tone. “Hopefully it’s not some last-minute hiccup about tomorrow.”
“Oh, go ahead,” she says instantly, shooing me away. “We don’t want a single hiccup to ruin Marcy’s big day.”
“I agree.”
Without delay, I march toward Evan, who’s leaning against one of the huge exposed beams in the restaurant. Several of the tables in the center of the room have been cleared away to create a dance floor, and he’s watching the band set up. But his gaze immediately shifts to me as I approach.
I cross my arms. “Can you please stop?” I order through gritted teeth.
He smiles innocently. “Stop what?”
“Looking at me.”
“Oh, now I’m not allowed to look at you?”
“No, you’re not. It’s making me uncomfortable.”
He narrows his eyes “Really.”
“Really. I told you, last night was a one-time thing. I don’t need to be constantly reminded of it with you looking at me like a horny hyena.”
“Encountered many horny hyenas in your day, have you?”
“Shut up. You know what I mean.”
“Fine. I’ll stop looking at you. That is, if you agree to go to dinner with me.”
“We just had dinner,” I mutter. “And tomorrow’s the wedding, where we’ll eat another dinner, and then the day after that I’m going home.”
“I know. I want you to have dinner with me when we get back. We both live in D.C., remember?”
“Pass.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re honestly going to stand there and tell me that you didn't have the best sex of your life with me last night?”
“I’m not saying the sex wasn’t good. I’m saying I don’t want to go out with you. There’s a difference.” I arch a brow. “Now, if you were asking me to fuck again, that’s a whole other story.”
“Yeah?” He gives a husky laugh. “So if I asked you to fuck, you would say yes?”
“Nah, I’d still say no. You seem high maintenance, to be honest.”
“Uh-huh. I’m high-maintenance.” That sexy dimple appears as he grins broadly at me. Then he takes my hand, and a bolt of heat shoots from his fingers to the tips of my breasts. His touch is just . . . ugh. It brings back the memory of everything we did last night, and I try hard not to shiver.
He doesn’t miss the response. “C’mere.” He tugs me toward him, close enough so that our bodies collide. “Feel that?” he rasps.
Oh, I feel it. There’s absolutely no mistaking the erection pressed up against me.
“I woke up with that this morning. And it was more than just morning wood. It was Emilia wood.”
I snort. “Lame, Dirk.” I say it mockingly now that I know it’s not his actual name.
“It’s the truth. Every time I’ve thought about you and your sassy mouth today, I’ve gotten rock-hard.” He brings his lips close to my ear. “I want to fuck you again. Hell, I’d fuck you right now if you said yes. In front of everyone, I don’t care.”
Holy hell, I’m temped. To just wrap my legs around him, push my panties to the side and let him do me right here in the middle of the restaurant. That’s how badly I want this guy again. But tonight isn’t about me. This weekend isn’t about me. The whole point of last night’s hook-up was to get my jollies out of the way so that I could then focus on dedicating all my time to Marcy.
Reluctantly, I step away from the heat of his body. “Look, I’m not saying I’m not tempted, but I’m here for Marcy, not the best man. I can’t sleep with you again.”
“Fine, then at least dance with me. The band’s about to start.”
As if on cue, the lanky lead singer of the flannel-wearing foursome addresses the crowd gathering near the stage. “Evening, everyone. We’re The Whiskey Wagon Band, and we’re gonna start you folks off with a slow one, at the request of the bride.”
I glower when the familiar opening notes of a very familiar song fill the room.
“Always On My Mind.”
Fuckin’ Marcy. Sometimes it really sucks having friends who know everything about you.
I twist around and glare at the head table where Marcy is seated. She’s watching me and Evan with unmistak
able delight. When our eyes lock, she gives me an enthusiastic wave.
I hate her.
“Normally I’d say yes to a dance,” I tell Evan in a sweet voice, “but I actually really hate this song. Sorry about that. Good night, Dirk.”
It’s hard to walk away gracefully when my panties are soaked, but somehow I manage.
7
As someone who’s been to many a wedding (six alone were courtesy of my father), I can honestly say that Marcy and Devon put on a beautiful one. Her dress is miles and miles of white lace and tulle, and everyone gasps when she appears at the end of the long, flower-petal-strewn aisle. She looks like a princess. When Devon lifts the veil and sees her face, tears actually fill his eyes. Now that’s a man in love.
His twin brother? Well, that’s a man in lust.
During the entire ceremony, I feel Evan’s hot gaze on me. But I refuse to meet his eyes because I’m wearing a formfitting dress and no underwear, which means I can’t afford any wet spots. It pisses me off, how much he turns me on.
After the “I Do’s” and the minister’s triumphant, “You may kiss the bride,” Marcy and Devon practically float down the aisle. Then it’s my turn to walk with Evan. As he takes my arm, he looks at the newlyweds and murmurs, “Look how happy they are. Isn’t it nice to see?”
“I guess,” I say grudgingly.
“What? You have something against romance?”
“Not at all.”
“Marriage, then?”
“I’m not saying that, either.”
We reach the lobby of the chalet. The newlyweds duck through a pair of French doors that lead into the ballroom, where the wedding photos are being taken. For the moment, only the bride and groom are needed, so Evan and I linger near the entryway.
“But . . . if I’m being honest, it doesn’t seem like marriage is what it used to be,” I tell him. “Like those couples that used to be married for twenty, thirty, forty years? You don’t see that anymore.”
“No,” he agrees. “A lot of marriages these days seem short-lived. People don’t want to work on the relationship. They’d rather throw in the towel because it’s easier.”