by Sosie Frost
Because I wasn’t insane, I crossed off the line encouraging me to impersonate the county health department and scare away the couple with concerns of a norovirus outbreak.
Only Lindsey would compromise the Geneva Convention to plan her wedding.
I scribbled on my list.
Venue Change
Invitations
Seating Chart
Doctor?
Cake Tasting
Hide the baby
Musicians
Talk to Nate?
Don’t talk to Nate.
Bridesmaid Dress Colors
At least they were all doable, or would be, if Lindsey was in an accommodating mood. Otherwise it was time to prepare for war.
I drove to Mom’s house. Lindsey chose our childhood home as the battleground for all things wedding, and Mom supplied the ammunition. I didn’t know what I worried about more—the pregnancy or the grief I’d get for ruining Lindsey’s special day. This would be worse than the nosebleed I got at Lindsey’s sweet sixteenth—when the family was told I hemorrhaged for attention.
It’d be different if I had more money. A better job than just working for Dad at the advertising agency.
If I were actually dating Nate.
He might have been my first one-night stand…but I wasn’t his. I knew exactly the type of man I’d invited into my bed too. I had wanted something quick, easy, fun. No strings attached.
Nate was good for that. He had been string-less since he was a teenager—the original wooden boy, except this Pinocchio did lie, and it wasn’t Nate’s nose that grew. That part stayed nice and woody.
Impressive. Memorable.
Gorgeous, like the rest of him.
Fertile too, apparently. What I wouldn’t have given for termites that night.
Worst of all? Nate wasn’t the type to hang around once he got what he was after. Usually. He’d chased me for years, high-school into college, and while that sort of dedication earned an amazing night where the earth moved, the skies opened, and angels sang, I had hoped it’d last only one night. I guessed the consequences lasted longer…more like nine months.
I’d have to tell him. My stomach turned. That wasn’t going to be an easy conversation, but it was early in the pregnancy now anyway. The last thing I wanted was to tell him and then have something…happen.
I teared up again.
The little guy was still so new to me, but it was good to see the momma bear instincts kicking in.
I shouldered my bags and grabbed as much paperwork as I could carry within the binders of wedding plans and bridal magazines. Lindsey’s obsession with Pinterest was only the beginning, and organization became a full-time job.
The door opened before I made it into the house. I thought it’d be my sister.
I was wrong.
Nate’s green eyes crackled with an electric amusement that teased as much as it shocked. His gaze wrapped around me like a pair of wandering hands, tickling everything he’d already touched, tasted, and catalogued for his own wedding memories.
Oh, this was bad. What was he doing at my house?
I nearly dropped the binder and ran.
Nate Kensington was pure sex—a man made of muscle and wicked ambition wrapped in a depraved, sensual fantasy. He was the best and worse idea a woman could have, and such thoughts belonged only in the darkest bedrooms, imagined under silken sheets.
That’s why I’d propositioned him. Nate embraced trouble as easily as he captured women in his charm. He didn’t even need a net. He wielded a glance that’d unhook a bra strap through the strength of his willpower, and it wasn’t a talent that should have belonged to a man more confident in a pair of beat-up jeans and boots than a wedding tux.
The blonde scruff on his hard jaw was as intimidating as his smirk, like a wolf licking his chops and preparing for the next course.
Which, of course, was me.
It had always been me.
Nate spent a majority of our time together eating me up, and it was pure bliss to be absolutely devoured by this man. I wished he took his taste and moved on, but Nate hadn’t let me escape from our one night unscathed.
He chased. I ran.
And it became a wild game that I’d never win.
Nate leaned against the doorway, watching me struggle against my own arousal, irritation, and cowardice—which I easily faked as juggling the wedding materials. He didn’t offer to help. He just watched me.
Amused.
Entertained.
Hungry.
His voice teased with a playful edge, one side a feather, the other as dangerous as a leather flogger. He took the wedding binder from my arms and arched an eyebrow.
“When we have our wedding…?” His grin paralyzed me halfway between indignation and foolish hope. “Promise me we’ll just elope.”
Chapter Two – Nate
Goddamn. Mandy was cute when she got flustered.
She was also beautiful when she was excited. And angry. And irritated. And overwhelmed.
Which was now.
“Our wedding?”
She squeaked over the word. Teasing her was too easy, but I loved hearing that squeal any way I could get it. Whether she stomped her feet and got pissy or whimpered it with her heels over her head, her cry rang like music to my ears.
She huffed like she could read my thoughts, but I never hid what I wanted from Mandy. My desires were as honest as she could imagine.
I thumbed through the wedding binder, but Mandy wrenched it from my hands, nearly slicing my finger on the cheap plastic cover.
“We are not getting married,” she said.
I grinned. “Not with that attitude we aren’t.”
She stormed into her own house, which was as amusing as her ordering me out of it. I ignored her, following her into the kitchen as those plump hips swayed a sultry beat. She meant to stomp. Instead she shimmied, slipped, and then slid across the linoleum in pink socks.
Socks I distinctly remembered.
Socks I told her to keep on while I fucked the blessed hell out of her that night.
I always considered myself a stockings man—thigh high with no mystery. Instead, I chased a girl in pink, polka-dot socks.
But Christ, she was gorgeous, even while she glared at me. If only she realized I could see her perky little nipples pressing against her shirt. Never got a better greeting from her before. I might have complimented her, but sure as sin she’d hide those pebbles from me, and I’d be jerking from memory all over again.
“Don’t make me get on one knee.” I loved to watch her squirm. She did her best to avoid my gaze. “You. Me. A quick getaway to someplace fun. Atlantic City. Vegas. Key West? What do you say?”
Mandy nibbled on her bottom lip, full and plump. She didn’t realize she was the perfect little tease, luring me into a chase.
“Like you’d ever settle down,” she said.
“And if it meant a chance to go down again?”
“Oh, that’s a wonderful reason to get married.”
“Come on. You’re not naive. You know why people really get married.”
“Love? Commitment?”
Maybe she was that naive.
Mandy set her binder on the counter, laying out all the plans for Lindsey’s freak-show of a wedding. I saw a couple trendy ideas that were more expensive than practical, but apparently that’s what people liked to waste time on now.
She arched an eyebrow. “Maybe they get married because they want to start a family?”
I shook my head. “Nope. It’s all about the wedding night, baby.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“So were you.”
I took one step too close. Mandy pushed a finger into my chest, and I grinned as I retreated.
She was a gorgeous little thing—like a wisp of a fairy, dark-skinned and gentle with almond eyes and a skin-tone to match. She was beautiful enough for me to wish I hadn’t already fucked her, if only for a chance to seduce that per
fection again.
Almost.
But nothing could make me regret that night.
“Can’t we just be…normal around each other?” she asked.
“I’ve always hit on you, baby. Am I really acting any differently now?”
“Yeah, you’re worse.”
“Only because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
She glanced over my shoulder, probably worried someone heard me declare my nefarious intentions. Lindsey pitched a tantrum upstairs. I figured we had another five minutes before the wedding was called off and she’d swear to donate her wedding dress to blind nuns again.
Mandy crossed her arms. “What are you even doing here?”
“I came to ask you to marry me.”
“Be serious.”
Serious was no fun. “I wanted to see you.”
“Nate—”
“Are you really going to deny me a second chance to fuck you?”
Mandy snorted. “Watch me, Romeo.”
Good thing I’d loved the chase so much the first time. Now that I knew what I was hunting, I had all the motivation I needed to catch her again.
“You know we were great together,” I said.
“Oh yeah.” Mandy pulled a ginger ale from the fridge. “We fit together a little too well.”
She poured her drink and licked a bead of soda from the edge of the glass. I couldn’t breathe, and my zipper nearly castrated me.
Was it possible to envy a cup?
This fucking woman had no idea what she did to me.
I grinned. “I know I can be intimidating—”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re a little full of yourself.”
“You liked being full of me.”
“For the love of—”
“Five times…if I remember. You loved it five times.”
“Six.” She took no joy in correcting me, probably because she knew it’d become another record for me to break. “You know…there’s more important things in this world than sex?”
“Nothing’s more important than sex.”
“There’s weddings. And family. And responsibilities.”
I shrugged. “I manage my own business.”
“You brew beer.”
She meant it as an insult. At least I was used to that sort of judgment. A few years ago, that regrettable life decision finally made me enough money to justify not going to college or following in Pastor Kensington’s footsteps, no matter what my father wished for me.
“It’s a microbrewery and bar. And it’s a successful one. What’s more fun than that?”
“Exactly. Life is all fun and games to you. You don’t take anything seriously.”
“You don’t begrudge a chef making a sandwich when he’s on the clock.” I held my arms out. “I’m a master craftsman, baby.”
“Is that what they’re calling you these days?” She teased me with the word. “A craftsman?”
Yeah, said the magazine article and two blogger interviews I did for my pub, Arrogance.
I shrugged. “I think it sounds more impressive than entrepreneur.”
“Last I heard, you were known as the man who never calls or that asshole with the big…” She glanced at the bulge in my pants. “Ego.”
“You can say it.” I grinned as she ignored me. “Cock.”
“I wasn’t going to give you the pleasure.”
“You have no idea how much pleasure you gave me.” I lowered my voice. “Still think about it?”
“No.”
“I still think about you.”
“Stop.”
She acted like it was just another pick-up line. If only she knew I was being honest. It’d shock her as much as it surprised me.
I went to sleep dreaming of her—how her gorgeous, honey-colored eyes had stared at me, half-lidded and begging for more. Her full and fuckable lips had parted, and her hips arched for me to take her harder, deeper.
I never treated Mandy like another score. I’d chased her a bit in high-school and when she went to college because it was fun to watch her stammer and squirm. I never expected I’d actually seduce her, and I fully anticipated the mistake we’d made.
But the only thing that changed was me.
Mandy hadn’t approached me again, and I was the one drooling like an idiot over her memory. I never went back for seconds with a girl. Ever. I took a vow to myself. No sense getting greedy when it would threaten me with dates, long-term commitments, and finding those damn hair scrunchies on my bathroom counter.
But for a second night with Mandy? I’d risk falling asleep beside her just to wake up and share a breakfast and sunrise.
I’d never let myself get that close to another woman…so why could I imagine it so clearly with her?
I probably needed a good fuck. Something to take my mind off this unbelievably gorgeous woman who acted like our night together hadn’t completely changed her life.
Mandy’s glass thudded on the table. She leaned over the counter. I felt bad for her. The wedding planning must have exhausted her. No wonder she was cranky, but I couldn’t figure out why she tensed, ready to bolt from the room. I wasn’t that bad of company, and every girl liked to be teased.
Her scowl wasn’t the reaction I wanted. I preferred her gasping in a toe-clenching, spine-shattering orgasm, but at least she was talking to me today.
“Why are you really here?” she asked.
“Trying on the tux,” I said.
“Oh.”
“Wanna watch?”
“Think I’ll pass.”
I winked. “You can help me take it off.”
Pretty sure she’d rip off my pants to twist them in a knot around my neck, but her touch was worth possible asphyxiation.
“Mandy!” Lindsey bellowed from upstairs. Knowing Lindsey, her shoes were probably crafted from some sort of endangered reptile, but they still galloped like hooves down the stairs. “What’s taking so long? We’re on a schedule!”
Mandy guzzled her ginger ale. She deserved something harder. For all her hard work so far, the woman earned an ounce of whiskey before this execution. She faced the full insanity of the wedding party with a bravery that deserved a blindfold and cigarette.
My best friend and groom-to-be emerged from the hall, looking like he already suffered the hangover of the reception without getting laid on the wedding night. He slouched in a kitchen chair and shrunk away from Lindsey and his future mother-in-law.
Damn. Bryce used to play linebacker in college. He once bragged he was a monster rippling with 100% Grade-A Dark Meat. It wasn’t good that all two hundred and seventy pounds of him scared people into crossing to the other side of the street when he passed—in fact, we blamed the deplorable state of race relations in our town. But Bryce was big and proud. I was lucky if I had enough beer in my brewery to get him tipsy.
Now he held Lindsey’s purse because the bride-to-be couldn’t risk breaking a nail, not when she…and all ten nails…were made up for pictures.
Whatever little cherry tree rose bush queen of diamonds she painted on her hands wasn’t sexy. Fingernails weren’t supposed to be centerpieces, they were meant to scratch a man’s back while he fucked the hell out of his woman. Not to Lindsey. If the wedding didn’t rival the narrative she painted onto her nails, the next forty years of Bryce’s life would be a living nightmare.
Lindsey was nothing like her younger sister, but the good Lord didn’t make too many Mandys.
Thankfully, he only made one Lindsey.
The bride possessed the spirit of either a diva or a demon, but Bryce said once she got a cock in her mouth she was tolerable. I’m sure he said other nice things about his fiancée, but I didn’t see her picking out his underwear and structuring his meal plans as relationship perks.
“Let me see the invitations.” Lindsey took a deep breath. “I can handle it.”
Sandra, her mother, hid her face like Mandy opened the results of a hospital test or revealed who was sent home on the Bach
elor. She had squeezed into a shirt way too tight for a woman of her…magnitude, but apparently she wanted the world to know she was the Mama Of The Bride so much she had it screen printed across her chest.
“Open them, Mandy,” she ordered.
“Yeah…” Mandy cleared her throat. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Don’t worry about the invitations. You focus on your dress. I can fix this.”
“For goodness sake.” Sandra stole the box. “Let’s see how bad these really are. Lord have mercy, you’d think we’ve never had any wedding mistakes before—”
Lindsey shrieked. Sandra collapsed into a chair, prayed to Jesus, and pitched the freakishly violet invitations away like they were addressed to the devil.
Bryce checked his phone and shrugged. He was a good man who learned when to stay quiet.
“How could you let this happen?” Sandra covered her eyes. Her nails were painted too, red polka dots to match Lindsey’s. “Mandy, you had one job! We asked you to do one simple little thing.”
Mandy forced a smile. “Yeah…they’re indigo. But I can fix them.”
“I wanted ivory!” Lindsey punctuated her pout with a stomp. “You knew I wanted ivory!”
“So did the designer. I made sure to tell them your colors when I sent the mock-up. This is just a mistake.”
“We only have eight weeks until the wedding! We don’t have time for mistakes. Those should have already gone out!” Lindsey collapsed onto a chair, a rush of tears spilling over her cheeks. “This is a disaster! We can’t have indigo invitations!”
Bryce glanced up from his phone. He frowned, sifting through Lindsey’s purse for the packet of tissues that came standard as part of their wedding planning.
Two types of men existed in the world.
Some thought marriage was a pixy-stick dreamland of endless love-making, searching for homes, and sharing life’s adventures together.
The rest of us? We had our fun, fucked our way through a relationship, and then cut when the girl left her toothbrush overnight.
Smart men listened to their dicks. Sure, we fucked the wrong girls, but at least we didn’t settle down and fuck ourselves. The world was harsh, and survival of the fittest in the dating world meant staying independent, unbeaten, and ready and willing for the next mistake with full lips and an ass made for spanking.