I Pucking Love You

by Pippa Grant

  The weather’s warm, my nieces and nephews are running around the pool beside the gazebo I reserved, and most of my best friends on my team are here.

  So are most of Muffy’s clients.

  So we’re not exactly doing this eloping thing very well, but if I’m going to fuck something up, I’m happy to fuck it up so that our friends and family can be here with us.

  “You ready for this?” West asks me.

  He’s my best man, and Connor, Duncan, Nick, and Rooster are standing in as my groomsmen. I would’ve asked Ares, but he’s occupied with all-star weekend stuff.

  Freaking overachiever.

  Still, it’s pretty cool that the all-star stuff is here in Vegas, so he’ll be around for the after-party.

  “I was born into a family that made me ready for this,” I reply.

  He snorts in amusement. “Finally figured out what our sisters were training you for all those years?”

  “Don’t tell them, okay? Don’t tell Muffy either. I keep letting her think she’s training me herself.”

  He snorts again. “No, you don’t.”

  “Okay, I don’t. But she still appreciates that I don’t mind buying tampons.”

  “Happiness looks good on you.”

  Feels good too.

  Would I rather be out having one-night stands with puck bunnies and college chicks?

  Nope.

  I’d rather spend my days making Muffy feel like the queen of the fucking universe.

  Seeing her happy is worth more than any desire to be by myself.

  And seeing her succeeding in helping make other women happy is the icing on the cake.

  Her adapted business plan?

  Let’s just say that even if Muffy’s student loans hadn’t been mysteriously paid off through a random act of kindness on the same day as her bridal shower, pre-empting my own plans to take care of them, she wouldn’t be having any trouble making the payments now.

  The band strikes up the music, and my sisters and Kami and Veda all troop down the aisle.

  We really are doing this eloping thing wrong.

  Plus, there are uneven numbers of bridesmaids and groomsmen.

  Hilda’s already sobbing in the front row. She’s gotten better about complimenting Muffy and not making such a big deal out of size, but she’s still outspoken and needed two warnings to quit making eyeballs at my brother.

  Daisy’s personal bodyguard is standing next to my future mother-in-law, though, and growls every time she glances West’s way.

  It’s his wedding day gift to me to watch her jump.

  Even Hilda knows better than to try to seduce Alessandro.

  And Daisy herself is dolled up with pink hair and a silver sparkle jumpsuit today, standing in as our justice of the peace to perform the ceremony.

  The band switches songs, and a woman steps to the back of the aisle, dressed in a short white dress, with jet black hair, and I choke on air.

  “That’s not Muffy,” West mutters.

  She steps hesitantly halfway down the aisle, then her gaze lands on me, and fuck me, if I have to go find my bride—

  “Oh, fuck,” Connor whispers.

  “Um, hi,” Amelia Cranford says.

  Everyone’s turning to stare at my ex-girlfriend.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Connor can’t seem to stop saying the word.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Lavoie mutters back to him.

  Amelia looks past me, pulling the same move Muffy did the day I told her I’d be her date to Veda’s dad’s funeral. “Sorry to interrupt. I just need a word with my…um, my husband.”

  West jerks a look at me.

  I look past him to Klein going the color of death.

  And yeah, I kinda know the color of death.

  Nick and Duncan are gaping. Rooster’s cackling.

  “Jaeggy, you mind if I…” Connor trails off, jerking his head toward Amelia, who’s playing with her hands halfway down the aisle.

  “Klein, what did you do last night?” Lavoie asks.

  “I thought it was a dream.” He shakes his head. “I thought it was a dream.”

  “Dude,” Nick mutters.

  And then I spot her.

  Muffy.

  My Muffy.

  She’s stepping to the back of the aisle in a white tank top, a pink veil, and cut-off shorts, a bouquet of pink, yellow, and purple flowers in her hand, cocking her head at my ex-girlfriend, who shouldn’t be here, and who apparently married my teammate sometime since we got here.

  Fuck, she’s pretty.

  Muffy, I mean.

  Amelia looks back at her.

  Muffy cocks her head and wrinkles her nose.

  “Right. Sorry. I…I can wait,” Amelia says.

  Connor looks at me.

  “By all means, go talk to your bride,” I tell him.

  He visibly gulps.

  And Daisy gives him a reprieve. “Sit on down, sweetie,” she calls. “We’ve got a wedding to do.”

  “Is that Amelia Cranford?” Allie hisses from the other side of the gazebo. “Tyler! Is that the same Amelia Cranford you fell in love with for forty-eight hours in college?”

  Muffy freezes, because the band isn’t playing anymore, and she could hear every last word.

  Jesus.

  “Oh, fuck me sideways with a hockey stick,” Klein mutters. “Jaeggy. She’s your ex-girlfriend?”

  I ignore him.

  My past doesn’t matter.

  Connor’s future doesn’t matter.

  Okay, it does, but not at this exact moment.

  At this exact moment, all that matters is Muffy. So, I stroll down the aisle, grab her by the cheeks and kiss her so soundly she’s panting by the time I’m done, toss her over my shoulder, and march us both back to the gazebo. “Daisy. Marry us now. Please.”

  “Why’s your ex-girlfriend here?” Muffy whispers as I set her down.

  “I don’t really know,” I whisper back. “And I don’t care. Do you?”

  “No. I mean, yes. But no. But yes. Is she single? Does she need a man?”

  West chokes on a laugh. “You might be twenty-four hours too late, Muffy. Daisy, let’s get these two love-birds married.”

  She flashes him a brilliant smile. “Dearly beloved, we’re here today to get my favorite engaged couple all hitched up, and then we’re having a party.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Keely asks.

  “Shut up,” Brit hisses. “Tyler’s not leaving Muffy for his ex-girlfriend. Didn’t you hear? She’s married. To his teammate. Which isn’t awkward at all, right?”

  “She meant the part about Daisy partying,” Staci mutters.

  “Oh my god, is Daisy pregnant?” Allie shrieks.

  “Not yet, but I have hope,” Daisy replies.

  I sigh.

  West sighs.

  My mom lets out a whoop of joy.

  And Muffy starts laughing. “Oh my god, I love your family,” she says to me.

  “Good. You can love them for both of us.”

  “Seriously, Jaeger, I didn’t know she was your ex-girlfriend, and I didn’t know I married her,” Connor mutters.

  Muffy snorts with more laughter.

  “Can you please get to the I do part?” I ask Daisy.

  “Sheesh, Ty. You act like you’ve been waiting forever to get married,” Brit says.

  “Tyler?”

  I look down at my smiling bride. “Yes, my beautiful angel who would never interrupt someone else’s wedding?”

  “I love you more than I love your family.”

  And that’s all I need.

  I’m suddenly a massive ball of smiling, dopey, heart-in-my-eyes love, completely crazy for this fascinating, surprising, hilariously awesome woman.

  “Okay, Ty, do you take Muffy to be your wife?” Daisy asks.

  “I do. Forever and ever. I’m only doing this once. And only for one woman. Ever.”

  Muffy grins, but she also wipes a little tear at
the corner of her eye.

  “Muffy, do you take this lughead to be your one true penis for the rest of all time?” Daisy asks.

  “My one and only, I do,” Muffy replies.

  Fuck.

  Now I’m getting a little hot in the eyes. I am her only. And I won’t forget that either.

  “Then by the power vested in me by the same internet service that vested my friend Zeus Berger with the power to hitch people here in Vegas, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss—”

  We don’t wait for permission to get to the kissing.

  Which might be the story of the rest of our lives.

  At least, that’s my plan.

  Hello, you perfect reader person you. Tyler Jaeger here to thank you for reading my story, even though I really didn't want Pippa to do this to me. I'm glad she did though—my life is better with Muffy than it was before. Stay tuned to the Pippaverse - I have a feeling my buddy Connor Klein is in for the ride of his life soon. But in the meantime, have you read Pippa's Girl Band series? If not, you should. Start with Mister McHottie. It's the first time the Berger twins ever appeared, and dude... you don't want to miss that! Grab it on Amazon HERE.

  Also, if you like little snippets from our post-happily-ever-after, Pippa decided she wasn't quite done torturing me, and she wrote a bonus scene from way far in the future. You can snag it HERE, and also get the chance to sign up for Pippa's newsletter, The Pipster Report, where I suspect Muffy and I will hang out from time to time in the future too. Thanks for reading!

  P.P.S. If you’re the awesome type of person who likes to leave reviews, here is the quick link for you to Goodreads. Amazon and Bookbub to come!

  P.P.P.S. You might remember that Team Pippa left a spelling error in The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob on purpose, just for a spot of fun. They’ve decided to carry on that tradition with this book so if you spotted the spelling error, send us an email at youfoundit@pippagrant.com for a special reward!

  Sneak Peek of Mister McHottie

  If you love hot billionaire bosses, jilted heroines out for revenge, and horrifically mortifying situations, read on for an excerpt of Mister McHottie…

  Chapter One

  Ambrosia May Berger (Bro for short, but only to her enemies)

  It’s 3 AM and they’re at it again. I grab my broom and bang on the ceiling. “Some of us have to work in a few hours, you jackrabbits!”

  The squeaky-squeaky-squeaky-squeeeeeeak of the bedsprings is followed by a long moan and a high-pitched, come-to-Jesus pig squeal.

  Finally.

  If I ever meet my upstairs neighbor, I will not be able to look her in the snout.

  Eye. I mean eye.

  I might offer her some lube though.

  For the squeaky bedsprings. Cross my heart.

  I roll over in the relative quiet—the city is never fully quiet, which is one of the things I love about it—but I can’t get back to sleep, because I said work, and now my mind is spinning. I’m a social media manager for Crunchy, the second-biggest organic grocery store in New York.

  At least, I was yesterday. Tomorrow remains to be seen. Crunchy was just bought out by a soulless dickstool who hides baby powder in unsuspecting women’s hairdryers and who hums the first few bars of “It’s a Small World” to get it stuck in your ear for days and who makes innocent girls take the fall for—ahem.

  Hold on. My official Crunchy social media manager hat is here somewhere… Ah, yes. There it is.

  Right.

  Crunchy has been acquired by an environmentally-conscious, self-made billionaire philanthropist who gives lollipops, puppies, and rainbows to orphans when he’s not personally digging recyclables out of landfills.

  It’s not the official party line, but it’s close. I toss to my other side, because I’m gagging now.

  I’ve loved working at Crunchy since I landed in New York six years ago, but it’s job hunting time. There are lots of companies in the city not owned by Chase Jett—or anyone else who knew me ten years ago—who would love to hire an experienced social media manager.

  And one or two of them might not run a background check, so I might even stand a chance of getting through the hiring process.

  Squeaky-squeaky-squeaky-squeeeeeeeeak…

  I shove my head under the pillow, close my eyes, and start counting free-range sheep.

  By 10 AM, I’m jacked up on four cups of organic, fair trade iced coffee—Crunchy brand, of course—and I still have nothing on Parker’s emotional jitters.

  My work bff is balancing on a yoga ball across the room in our open office at headquarters in Midtown, fingers clicking over her laptop as she texts me on our corporate internal messaging system. She’s afraid she’ll be on the chopping block when the inevitable company reorganization happens.

  I snort softly to myself. More likely she’ll get my job, probably by the end of today.

  Parker’s message pops up with a goth emoji as her profile picture, even though she’s a freckled brunette with virgin hair that has never been touched by dyes or colors, chemical, organic, or any other way. She calls it being ironic. I call her adorable.

  “I can’t lose my job, Sia,” the goth emoji Parker says. “I’m half a paycheck away from moving back in with my parents.”

  She’s not the only one who’s strapped for cash. At least three of my four employees are also living on a shoestring budget, including April, resident photographer in the marketing department who’s currently arranging bok choy in a sustainable bamboo bowl for an upcoming feature about the leafy greens we grow in-house.

  Seriously. We grow vegetables in our building. It’s high-tech and super cool and I’m so pissed I could spit that it belongs to the Dick now.

  “You’ll be fine,” I type back to Parker on my company-issued tablet. “We kick ass. Crunchy needs us.”

  Completely true. Also true? The Crunchy marketing department is a great place to work. Our office is open and airy, with couches and beanbag chairs and yoga balls instead of cubes. Modular desks line the walls for people who dig the traditional set-up, and we have a stock of every type of phone, tablet, and computer known to man accessible to us in the media room. Necessity when you’re in modern marketing.

  It’s weird, but it works for us. And it works because we’re a Crunchy family.

  A family I need to leave soon.

  Thanks, dickhead.

  In the light of the day—and with the aid of the coffee—I’ve comforted myself with the probability that billionaire organic grocery store taker-over-ers don’t make the rounds to meet all the employees. Or even a fraction of them. Which means I can wait a few days to hear back on a select few feelers I put out this morning before I resort to blindly sending resumes.

  “I heard he’s stopping by today,” April says.

  I fumble and almost drop the tablet I’m using to check customer comments on our Facebook page.

  She shoots me a knowing grin, then tilts a light on the bok choy and looks at it through her Nikon again. “I also heard he can bench a Volkswagen. I’d shoot that.”

  I’d shoot him too, but not with a camera. “Better for our image if he benched a Tesla.”

  My sarcasm is lost on her. “That’s brilliant. I’m putting it in the suggestion box.”

  “We can make life-size cardboard cut-outs for all our stores,” chimes in Madison. She writes the copy for our posts and single-handedly tripled sales of chickpeas with her Funnust Hummust series last year. I’d forgive her for the idea of wasting good cardboard if she were putting anyone but the Dick on it. “Fueled by Crunchy. New slogan. I call dibs on putting it in the box.” A rare frown draws her dark brows together. “He won’t change the employee suggestion box, will he? I like the suggestion box.”

  Wouldn’t be the worst he’s ever done.

  Four sets of eyeballs swivel my way, and I realize I just said that out loud. “Didn’t his date wear fur to some charity auction last year?” I say quickly.

  I have no idea. For the
last decade, he hasn’t existed to me. I don’t think about him, my family doesn’t talk about him, and none of my friends know I know him. But my offhand suggestion sends half the social media department scurrying to Google, which gives me a minute to breathe and re-focus.

  Think of kittens. And cupcakes. And kittens in party hats made from recycled cardboard posing with cupcakes.

  Cake doesn’t have to be made from organic flour, natural food dyes, fair trade cocoa, and free-range eggs.

  Cake is cake is cake.

  I’m deciding to have a slice of cake for lunch—chocolate, of course, from this oh my god amazing not at all organic bakery two blocks away because today’s a triple fudge frosting kind of day, plus if I bought a slice of cake at the snack bar here, some of my money would go directly into the Dick’s pockets—when the oak door squeaks open.

  A moment of deathly silence is shattered by a flurry of squeals that would give my neighbor’s bedsprings stiff competition. Stiff, heh, look at that, I can still make a bad joke today.

  Every single member of the social media department lunges for something. April turns her camera to the door and goes paparazzi. Madison tries to hide behind an Apple Watch before she bends her head so her short dark hair covers her face. Parker’s fingers go so fast over her keyboard there’s smoke, and the ding of her message on my tablet rings over every other sound in the room.

  Six feet of pure sin stands wide-legged in the doorway. His smile is a lie, his smoky blue eyes a portal to self-destruction, the dimple in his chin twice the size needed to store what’s left of his conscience.

  My eyes betray me and drift to his corded arms—I’m a sucker for a guy in gray suit pants with the sleeves of his white button-down shirt rolled up his forearms—and I can see Madison’s right.

  He probably could bench a Volkswagen.

  Damn him.

  There’s a wave of palpable energy when he strolls in flanked by Rod Xavier, VP of Marketing, and a host of other suits who are either lackeys or wannabes.

  I turn my back, bury myself in a beanbag chair, and slip on my headphones. Social media waits for no billionaire, and we have bok choy to sell.