Two Wedding Crashers

by Meghan Quinn

  “Yeah, I am.” I take a sip of my drink. “But it’s not something that’s necessary to talk about now, same as the way you’ve been hiding something from me.”

  I’m not stupid. I can read people really well, and there is a reason Rylee isn’t fully enjoying her time in Key West. She’s holding back. I see part of Rylee living life freely, but there are other times where I see her put restrictions on her fun, on letting loose, and I can’t quite put my finger on it, why she’s being so reserved. But I know it’s important. To her.

  “I’m not—”

  “No lying, Rylee. You don’t have to tell me what it is. I’m not here to quiz you about something you don’t want to talk about. I’m telling you I know there is something important in your life you’re not telling me, and that’s okay. This is supposed to be fun, right?”

  She bites her bottom lip and nods. “Yes, fun.”

  “Good, then let’s have fun. First things first, we need to find a server who’s passing around those beef tenderloin things, because hell, do they smell good.”

  “I want a coconut shrimp. I could smell them during the ceremony.”

  And just like that, we’re back to normal again.

  “So that was your stomach making all those noises?”

  “Guilty.” She tips her drink in my direction and takes a sip, looking around the place.

  The house is beautiful. Small, but gorgeous, with its wrought iron details, and a definite coastal feel with its bright yellow paint and shutters. Before we were seated for the ceremony, we took a quick look around the house. Victoria and Rylee were both overwhelmed with excitement, and I became caught up in their joy.

  “Look at this place. It must have cost so much back then.”

  Not only did he have a beautiful house and grounds, but Hemingway saved six-toed cats and had built a rather impressive pool that, according to the fact plaque, was a bitch to build. “They had to break through coral to build this thing, and before Key West had fresh water piped in, they had to drain the pool then pump salt water in every three days.”

  “Seriously?” Rylee asks, leaning over to check out the plaque. I take that moment to place my hand on her lower back and pull her in a little closer.

  Just in time too, because an older couple steps next to us, a chatty disposition written all over their gleeful faces.

  “That beef tenderloin is to die for, have you tried any?” the man asks me.

  “Not yet, I’m hoping to flag down a server soon.”

  “You won’t be sorry.” He holds his hand out. “I’m Gregory, and this is my wife, Tess.”

  I grip the man’s beefy hand and give it a firm shake only to return it to Rylee’s back. “Gregory, nice to meet you. I’m Beck and this is my wife, Rylee. We’re newlyweds.”

  “Oh congratulations. How wonderful. Were Tiffany and Del at your wedding?”

  I give him a sorrowful look. “I wish. We had a tiny ceremony out on the rocky cliffs of Maine’s harbor. It was quaint and perfect for us. We celebrated with a lobster cake.”

  “Lobster cake?” Tess looks between us. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a lobster cake before, did it taste good?”

  “Did it have chunks of lobster in it?” Gregory asks, joining in with his wife.

  Well, aren’t they cutely obtuse?

  I hold back the bold laugh desperate to escape. “Ah no. I guess I was a little deceiving there. I meant the cake was in the shape of a lobster. The flavor was strawberry with fudge, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

  “Oh yeah,” Rylee finally chimes in. “This guy wanted lemon, but I held strong with my choice of strawberry, and thank God I did, because everyone raved about it.”

  “And yet they would have raved about the lemon and you didn’t give them a chance.”

  “No one raves about lemon,” she deadpans.

  “That’s not true, I was raving lemon up a storm the other day. Lemon is where it’s at, am I right, Gregory?” I give the man a little nudge with my elbow, but he shakes his head.

  “I have to disagree with you there. Lemon is not my favorite.”

  You and me both. In reality, I would easily pass on lemon and dive right into strawberry with fudge. Hell, I hope Tiffany and Del have strawberry with fudge cake.

  Tess takes a sip of her drink and asks, “So how do you two know the bride and groom?”

  Ehh. With panic in our eyes, Rylee and I glance at each other. It was a topic we never discussed before we came. Rookie mistake.

  “Badminton,” Rylee blurts out, swallowing hard after, as if she couldn’t believe she said that.

  “Badminton?” Tess asks as her eyebrows crease together.

  Rylee nods, panic still in her eyes. And instead of being the gallant gentleman that’s wooed this woman since we met, I leave the explaining to Rylee because frankly, I want to hear all about this. Plus, it’s fun to watch Rylee create. Almost beautiful. Right then and there, you can see her mind spinning with all the possibilities of interesting badminton stories.

  “Yes, badminton.” She laughs, as if she’s about to tell the funniest story ever so I gear up, sip my water, and wait for the show. Ever the storyteller. “Oh it was so silly. You see, I’m a huge fanatic about badminton. Grew up playing my entire life, almost went to the Olympics for it.” Oh Christ, she’s really going for it.

  “Really?” Gregory asks. “Wow, you must be really good.” Oh, this guy is not a smart man.

  Pretending to do a few swats with her imaginary racket, Rylee says, “See that? Called that the Ry-whack. They still teach it in my hometown. It’s a stroke named after me, nothing too special, but when you’re least expecting it, boy, can I hammer that cock.”

  Involuntarily I snort, causing water to shoot up the back of my throat and out my nose. I cover my face as I cough and try to catch my breath. Rylee pats me on the back, a giant smile on her face as she says, “You okay there, big man?” She turns to Gregory and Tess. “This guy, weirdest thing, he has a hard time swallowing without snorting it back up his throat and through his nose. We’ve been to the doctor a few times. He’s going to a specialist when we get back.” She pats me some more. “Don’t worry, honey, we’ll be sure to figure out your snorting water problem. It won’t be like this forever.”

  “Oh, that’s sweet.” Tess clasps her hands together and stares at us as I wipe my nose.

  Gregory continues the story. “So you met while playing badminton?”

  “Yes.” Rylee perks up again. “It was a wet day, and as you can tell, water doesn’t mix well here with Beck. It’s like if it rains, he starts to melt, can’t handle it. But he was putting on a good show for me, making an absolute fool of himself trying to hit the shuttlecock with the Ry-whack, but talk about uncoordinated. He’s better suited sorting and wrapping pennies. It’s his hobby actually. Loves packaging pennies.”

  “What a lovely pastime.” Tess smiles at me.

  Oh hell.

  Packaging pennies? Where is she getting this stuff? And I might not fawn and drool over sports like other men I know, but I sure as hell know how to play them. This girl is getting herself into some major trouble with her storytelling. Just wait until it’s my turn.

  “Yes, he has a collection of packaged pennies, at least five thousand dollars of pennies stuffed in the garage. I’m like, turn those pennies in, honey, and let’s get a freaking jet ski.” Rylee lifts her hand for a high five, which Gregory cautiously delivers. Rylee shakes her hand and then makes a fake gun motion at him with a wink. “Nice snap there, Gregory. Impressive.”

  “Uh, thank you.”

  “Gregory, Tess, how are you?” A woman wearing a leopard-print dress, bright red lipstick, and her hair up in a cocoon of curls coos from the side, pulling Gregory and Tess’s attention away from us. Thank God.

  We wave and slowly back away, my grip tight on Rylee’s upper arm. When out of earshot, I lean down and whisper in her ear. “What the hell was that?”

  She pokes my stomach. “
Having a little fun. What, you don’t wrap pennies for jollies?”

  “More like silver dollars.” I bite down on her ear, causing her to gasp, the sound so sweet.

  “Oh, I see what you did there, made a reference about your penis.”

  Halting in my pursuit, I pull away and she gives me a smarmy smile that says, “Game on.”

  “Is this really happening? Are we really going to spend the night telling lies to these innocent wedding attendees to out-best each other?”

  “If you don’t think you can handle it—”

  “Oh, Saucy, I might not lie, but I have no problem in playing along with your storytelling. I might not be an author, but I can tell a good fucking story.”

  She eyes me over her cup. “Then game on, Wilder.”

  Judy and Dwayne, nice to meet you.” I shake the hands of two strangers, putting on a show.

  “Nice to meet you too. How do you know the bride and groom?”

  “A nursery.” I say, taking a sip of my water.

  “A nursery? That seems like an odd place to meet since Tiffany and Del don’t have kids.”

  “Ohhh, sorry about that, Dwayne.” I pat the old guy on the back. “I meant a plant nursery. We were shopping for a tree to put in our front yard. Such a hard decision, you know. Should we go with the classic maple, or do we want to bring a Colorado feel to our front yard and plant an aspen? Or what about the cherry blossom?”

  “Or evergreen,” Judy points out.

  “Exactly, Judy, exactly. God, what a decision. We spent hours in that nursery, fighting over what tree would look best. Rylee over here, she thought why not plant our fake Christmas tree in the front and call it a day.”

  “Oh that’s a horrid idea,” Judy says with disgust. “Why would you ever think that?”

  “She’s partial to plastic,” I say, and then point to her breasts, which garners a giant whack to my stomach.

  Yeah, Everest, crazy, right? What a trip that was, huh, honey? Oh.” Rylee cringes and covers her mouth. “Sorry, sore subject for this guy. He had such a bad case of altitude sickness after the first thousand feet he had to be airlifted off the mountain by helicopter. They wrapped him up in space blankets like a little sushi roll and took him to the nearest hospital where the nurses had to revert back to bottle-feeding him for a few days. He was delirious. Can’t blame him.”

  “Bottle-feed? Why didn’t they use an IV?” Kerry asks, in awe of Rylee’s story.

  “Oh they did, but he also needed something in his stomach and refused to eat. He truly thought for a couple of days he was a baby.” Speaking from behind her hand, she shout whispers, “They had to put him in a grown-man’s diaper to keep everything . . . contained.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Quite a mess. Thankfully I was scaling the side of Everest and didn’t have to watch my husband lift his butt to have his diaper changed. I think that would have put a dent in our sexual relationship, you know?”

  “Oh yes, I don’t think I could get that image out of my head,” Kerry answers, giving me a once-over.

  I grind my teeth together, putting on a good smile as Kerry, in her purple crushed-velvet ensemble, casts judgment.

  “Had a hard time sucking from the nipple of the bottle.” I decide to join in on the conversation. “They had to bring in the elephant-sized bottles for me.”

  “What? Why?” Kerry’s hand is to her chest.

  I thumb toward Rylee. “Was so used to sucking on her thumb-sized nips, I couldn’t get used to small ones.”

  “Oh dear.” Kerry stares directly at Rylee’s chest, as I happily sip away at my water and pop another beef tenderloin into my mouth while Rylee shoots daggers in my direction.

  What the hell are you two doing?” Zoey asks, murder in her eyes.

  Rylee flinches from the tone of Zoey’s voice. It’s venomous, like she’s about to strike any second. “Whatever do you mean?” The innocence is completely transparent. No one believes us at this point. Not that I blame them with the amount of lies we’ve told in the last hour. How we have so many different stories to tell strangers is frankly impressive. I think we should get an award.

  Leaning in close, her left eye twitching, she says, “I just finished talking to my aunt who told me about this couple who sucks on elephant nipples while hiking Everest with their plastic boobs. When I asked my aunt who they were talking about, she pointed to you two.”

  I can’t help it. I fucking laugh and hard, as does Rylee.

  “Stop it, this isn’t funny. Someone truly believes you two met Tiffany and Del at a swingers club that you bought outright with a bunch of wrapped-up pennies. What the hell?”

  I’m crying.

  I’m crying, laughing so damn hard. Legit tears are forming in my eyes as my stomach cramps.

  “Dude, when were you airlifted off fucking Everest?” Chris asks, coming up from behind me.

  Justine steps up next to him. “And when in the hell did you find the time to build a one-hundred-acre chicken sanctuary?”

  Oh, I forgot about the chicken sanctuary.

  Rylee and I hold on to each other, laughing the entire time as our friends surround us, clearly not happy with our shenanigans.

  The music fades and the DJ steps up to the microphone. “If the guests could please take their seats, we’re are going to welcome the wedding party.”

  “This isn’t over.” Zoey points at both of us.

  “I want to know more about the chicken sanctuary. Should I invest, man?” Justine is pushing him toward his seat as Chris motions with his fingers to text him.

  I wipe under my eyes and glance at Rylee, who’s laughing as well. When our eyes meet, we pause for a second and then start laughing all over. That was the most fun I’ve ever had at a wedding.

  Chapter Thirteen

  RYLEE

  Okay, I don’t think I can eat another bite.” I push my plate away and take a deep breath, grateful my dress is flowy since I’m currently sporting a food baby. “I’m completely stuffed.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say completely stuffed.” Beck wiggles his eyebrows at me as he wipes his face with a napkin.

  This man.

  Our plan for seating was simple. We were going to check out the seating chart and scan the tables to see if any guests didn’t show up, but unfortunately for us, everyone came, most likely because Del and Tiffany are the cutest couple ever.

  So when we couldn’t find any seating, Beck decided on the next best thing: bar-height tables on the porch of the famous house. This is going to sound super corny, and I know some may roll their eyes at me, but to be standing here, under the stars, in a romantic setting, on the same rock Hemingway once stood on, feels magical, like all the words are floating around me, ready to be grabbed and put on paper.

  I’m inspired.

  I’m enamored.

  I’m spending my last night in Key West throwing caution to the wind and soaking every last moment up.

  “How good are you at dancing?” Beck asks as the DJ starts playing a Bruno Mars song.

  “Depends. How good are you at dancing?” I eye him up and down. His chest peeks through the undone buttons of his shirt. His pants are tight enough for me to see every deliciously defined part of his lower half. There is no hiding his robust form. When I opened my hotel door to him earlier, I kept trying to pinch myself to see if this was all a dream, but when I didn’t wake up, I knew this was reality, a strange yet exciting reality.

  Tossing his napkin on his plate, he says, “Back in Malibu, I like to go to an underground salsa club a few times a month.” Color me surprised at this little revelation.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious. I’ve got moves, Saucy. The question is, do you?”

  Of course he’s a good dancer. Why wouldn’t he be? He seems to be good at everything he does, even storytelling. “Let me guess, you sing like Harry Styles, cook like Emeril Lagasse, and model professionally on the side like David Beckham as well.”

&
nbsp; He takes my hand in his and brings me closer to him. “I don’t know about the modeling thing, but I’m a damn good cook when I want to be, and if you put me in front of a microphone I’ll sing you one hell of a song.”

  “Figures.”

  He chuckles and drags me to the dance floor just in time for the start of Shout. Classic wedding song, and even though it’s overplayed most of the time, I still have no problem dancing to it, or singing for that matter. Beck takes no time in moving around me, using me as his own dancing prop, spinning me around, twirling me into his body and then out. When the music picks up, so does his dancing, as well as mine as I try to keep up with him.

  Jumping up and down, arms in the air, he’s yelling “shout” along with everyone else, and it’s as if everything around me slows down and my entire focus is on Beck as he brings the crowd to the dance floor, singing his heart out and directing the wedding party to get low to the ground. Oh hell. He’s too much. Too adorable. Too sexy. Too . . . everything.

  I was right. He’s going to be a difficult one to forget.

  “A little bit louder now, a little bit louder now.” Beck is waving his arms now. “Hey-aye-aye-aye.” Mid jump, his eyes connect with mine. His eyes are bright with mischief. His grin widens, his small dimples peek out just for me. His gaze stays on mine, amidst the jumping and the singing, and he holds me captive. Hell if my heart doesn’t flip right then and there.

  I’m in trouble.

  Ten songs later, Beck has yet to leave the dance floor, and has now become the life of the party. There have been at least three dance circles I’ve participated in and held my own with Beck, who has been eye-fucking me ever since I started to really lay the moves on him. The sexual tension between us, the small touches, the heavy breathing is suffocating the dance floor. The way his eyes blaze when he catches a glimpse of the lace panties I have under my dress, or when his eyes focus on the low-cut V of my dress; there is a fire roaring between us ready to explode.

  “This is for all my sexy singles and couples out there. Let me see your moves,” the DJ says in a low, Barry White voice. The beginning of Havana by Camila Cabello starts to play and Beck immediately turns toward me. He’s a few feet away, so when we make eye contact, he motions with his finger to come closer, the motion like a tractor beam pulling me in. It’s sexy, slow, and seductive, just the song to skyrocket my libido into overdrive. Beck is moving toward me, focused on getting me into his arms.