by Sarina Bowen
I wonder what that feels like. Loving another person so much that they become a part of you. I thought I’d been in love before, but sometimes, when I watch my brother and Wes together…I question everything I’ve ever felt in the past.
Sighing, I crawl under the covers and push aside my Deep Thoughts. I need to get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a busy, busy day.
The moment I close my eyes, a loud bang bursts through the apartment.
It takes a second to realize that someone is knocking on the door. I shoot up in bed and flick on the lamp on the end table. It’s almost one a.m. Who on earth would—
“J-Babe! Yo! Open up!”
Why the hell is Blake at my door?
I whip the covers off and hurry out to the front hall. I swear to God, if he’s here to tell me that Jamie and Wes are in jail because of something that happened at the bachelor party, I am going to murder him.
There’s another heavy thud on the door. “Come on, Jess! I’m tired. If I don’t get the exact right amount of beauty sleep, I’ll—”
He stops talking when I fling the door open. A happy grin stretches his mouth, but it turns into a smirk when he notices my pajamas. “Aw shit, that’s so fucking adorable. I love bananas—did I ever tell you they’re my favorite fruit? And apricots. I like apricots, too.”
I am literally seconds away from strangling him. Yes, my neon-pink pajama pants and matching tank are covered with yellow cartoon bananas. But it’s one in the morning, he’s clearly drunk judging by the bright shine to his green eyes, and he’s at my doorstep talking about fruit?
“What. Are. You. Doing. Here.” Each word is punctuated by the slap of my hand on the doorframe.
Blake steps closer, a black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Your mom didn’t tell you? I’m crashing here tonight.”
My jaw falls open. “Oh no you’re not.”
“Oh yes I am.” He drops the bag on the stoop with a loud thump. “My man Cindy said she ran it by you.”
“My mother is not a man,” I grind out.
He waves a big hand. “Figure of speech. My pal Cindy, how about that? She said she texted you.”
I hesitate. Okay, that’s actually possible. There were about two dozen texts on my phone after the rehearsal dinner, mostly from the caterer and some wedding guests asking me last-minute questions. I hadn’t finished going through them, so I suppose I could’ve missed a text from Mom.
But still.
“Wes said you were staying at the inn with your teammates,” I say suspiciously.
Blake rakes a hand through his scruffy, dark hair. “I was. But I had to give up my room.”
“To who?” I demand.
“I believe it’s to whom.”
Is he seriously correcting my grammar right now?
“And I gave the room to my date.”
I can’t explain why my chest tightens at that, but I know for a fact it’s not jealousy I’m feeling. I already knew Blake was bringing a date to the wedding. His invitation had a plus-one. Besides, I’m bringing a date, too. I specifically made sure of it because I didn’t want to deal with Blake’s annoying comments if I showed up solo.
“She won’t share a room with you? What, she’s waiting for marriage?” I don’t bother curbing the sarcasm.
Blake shrugs. “She’s already married.”
Excuse me?
I don’t know whether to be outraged or…well, outraged. He’s bringing a married woman to my little brother’s wedding?
“Are you out of your goddamned mind?”
He considers the question. “I’m kinda drunk, but nowhere near out of my goddamned mind. That would require more Scotch. Got any?”
“No!” I shriek, my blood pressure notching up into the red zone. It’s one in the morning, and I need to be asleep right now.
So I do what a girl with five siblings learns to do to keep the urge to commit murder at bay. I count quietly to myself until it passes. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…
After quite a few deep, cleansing breaths, I do what’s necessary. “Get in here already.” I step aside, and Blake gallops in the door. “You’re on the couch.”
“Does it fold out?”
“Negative. But you’ll survive.”
He looks dubious, but I don’t have time to care. I hustle to the cupboard that doubles as my linen closet and pull out a set of sheets. It’s summertime in California; he won’t need more than that.
I thrust the pile of linens into his hands. “Sleep well.”
He looks at the sheets in his hands and then back at me. “Don’t leave yet,” he says as I edge toward my bedroom door. “Aren’t you gonna tuck me in?”
“You’re a big boy.”
His grin turns wicked. “I sure am. You probably remember pretty well, because I’m unforgettable. But I could give you a refresher right now.” He drops the sheets onto the sofa and reaches for his fly.
And that’s my cue to get the hell out of there. I stomp into my bedroom and slam the door.
I have the odd, stress-filled dreams of a party planner. In one of them, the wedding cake doesn’t show up and my mother decides to bake one at the last minute. We get into an argument about whether seven-grain is the way to go on a wedding cake. (My mother is a famously healthy baker, with mixed results.) In another dream, it rains, and the tent we rented melts into white blobs, like sodden toilet paper.
Then things take a turn for the weird. I dream there’s a grizzly bear in my bed, and I’m okay with it. And then the dream gets sexy. The bear’s body is warm and hard, and his ambitious erection is poking me in the bum, and he fingers my nipples…
I wake up with a jolt, my eyes popping open. There is a grizzly bear in my bed. He’s pressed to my back, his thick, muscular arm around my waist, his hand cupping my right boob.
Holy Mother of God. Blake Riley is spooning me, uninvited.
And I think I like it.
No!
No, I don’t like it.
Right.
After letting out a perfectly silent sigh, I start to formulate a plan. He’s sleeping soundly, which helps. The snoring in my ear is a big clue. So I inch one toe toward the edge of the bed, then slide all at once out of his grasp in a maneuver that would make my yoga teacher proud. We’ll call it the Escapes-from-Grizzly pose.
When I land on my feet at the side of the bed, he’s still snoring soundly, his unfairly handsome face smoothed out by sleep, unruly brown hair sticking up against my pillow.
I tiptoe into my bathroom and close the door so carefully that there isn’t even a click. Then I just stand there for a second and try to gather my wits. Today is my brother’s wedding, which I planned from the invitations to the guest list to the cake to the coffee after dessert tonight. It must go off flawlessly. My family is just waiting for me to fail.
And I just had a quasi-bestiality dream about the ridiculously attractive man asleep in my bed.
A shower will help, right? I turn on the water, shed my banana PJs and hop in. I wash my hair and apply my best conditioner, because I don’t want to frizz out in the photos. (I’ve planned those, too.) I’m already feeling better when I shut off the water and wrap my towel around my naked body.
Taking care to be absolutely silent, I slowly open my bathroom door…
And then shriek when I find Blake Riley standing on the other side. Stark naked.
“Arrrh!” he says, clapping those big paws over his ears. “My head.”
I want to make a witty retort. Like maybe, My eyes! But it doesn’t work, because my tongue is suddenly three sizes too big as I stare at the glory of Blake Riley in the buff. His shoulders are like well-muscled mountains, his pecs like perfect, sculpted dunes. I want to explore them with my tongue.
Actually, I’m pretty sure I did once.
“Gotta use your bathroom, honey. Pick that tongue up off the floor and let me pass?”
This remark snaps me back to consciousness. “Did you ever hear
of clothes?”
“You’ve seen it all before.” He places a hand on my upper arm and nudges me aside. “Really, honey, I know you’re enjoying the view, but I’ve gotta make the bladder gladder.”
I’m no longer in control of my eyes, though, because they follow his hand down to where he wraps it around his giant…
Gah!
Scurrying into my bedroom, I yank my bathrobe off its hook and hastily tie it on. With a double knot. Just in case.
“Why were you in my bed?” I grumble at the bathroom door.
“Couch was too small,” he calls back.
“That doesn’t give you permission to jump into bed with me!”
“You said it was cool when I came in and asked to bunk with you,” he protests. “And you’re awful cuddly, J-Babe. Like sleeping with an octopus.”
Ugh. Betrayed by my subconscious.
Grabbing my brush, I begin raking my hair into shape. I have to dry it, style it, put on makeup, get dressed, meet the caterers, see to the cake. And a hundred other things.
I pick up the hairdryer just as a warm, solid body sidles up behind me. “You know,” a low voice drawls as a warm hand squeezes my shoulder. “There’s time to feed the kitty before we get dressed for the big day.”
He’s so near that parts of me tingle even in my outrage. “Blake,” I say, my voice almost a whisper.
“Yes,” he breathes beside my ear.
“I don’t have a cat.”
He lets out a sexy rumble, his thumb trailing down my arm. And it’s then that I realize feed the kitty means…
“We aren’t feeding the kitty or hiding the salami or anything else you can think of to call it. We’re just not. There will be no repeats this weekend.”
He reaches beneath my wet hair and cups the back of my head, his long fingers trailing across my skull. Goosebumps break out all over my body. “Never say never, J-Babe.”
It’s a good thing my back is to him, because I can’t control my shudder of longing as his fingers leave my skin. “Don’t you have to go meet your date?” I remind the both of us.
“I’ll get her right before the wedding. I thought I’d help you with errands first.”
“Seriously?” This gets my attention. I spin around because I have to know if he’s joking. I need all the help I can get.
“Sure. I have a rental car, and I’m no longer too drunk to drive it. We’ll have to swing by the bar where I left it last night. You probably have errands that need running last minute, right?”
Only a million. My brain goes racing down the list. “Balloons,” I say quickly. “I’ve ordered four dozen of them for eleven o’clock so that they’ll stay fully inflated all evening.” All Blake has to do is shove them in his car and drive away. He couldn’t ruin it if he tried. “And Grandma Canning needs a lift from the airport.”
His face splits into a grin. “See? You do need me to help you.”
“You’re right, I do.” It hurts me to admit this. But I really do. “But…you’re just going to leave your date to herself for several hours? Won’t she mind?”
“Not in the least,” he says grandly. “She might even be glad.”
I bite back the urge to make a pithy comment. “Why don’t you raid my fridge while I dry my hair, and then I’ll drive you to your car?”
“Now we’re talking!” He takes one huge stride toward my kitchen, and the muscles flex in his gorgeous…
“Blake?”
“J-Babe?”
“Put on some clothes.”
He sighs. “If you insist.”
3 Everything Looks Terrif
Jess
The ceremony and reception are being held on the gorgeous, sprawling grounds of the gorgeous, sprawling house that belongs to friends of my parents. Originally we were going to rent a banquet hall somewhere, but Mom was at lunch with the Todds a few months back and, when she mentioned that Jamie was getting married, the couple offered the use of their home.
And they refused to let us pay them. Apparently Mr. Todd is a hockey fanatic. He was actually trying to pay us for the privilege of hosting Ryan Wesley and more than half the Toronto roster.
The good thing about doing this at a private residence is that it makes it easier to fly under the radar. A public event would’ve no doubt found its way to the press, who’ve been hounding Wes and Jamie ever since their relationship became public. This way, the two of them can actually have some privacy while they declare their undying love for each other.
Me, I’ve pretty much been on the verge of a nervous breakdown all morning. I’d decided to become a party planner because I wanted to do something artistic. But it hasn’t worked out that way. If anything, I’m more like a drill sergeant. It’s not fun. It’s fucking exhausting.
I tell as much to Dyson as the two of us sit under the enormous tent set up on the Todd property. We’re folding ivory-colored napkins at one of the tables while various people shuffle in and out of the tent, hauling chairs and flowers and centerpieces.
“I don’t know,” he muses. “I’m having fun.”
“You’ve been here for an hour folding napkins into swans. I’ve been here since the crack of dawn, dealing with a million teeny details. Trust me, it’s not fun.”
Dyson shrugs. “Well, if it helps, you’ve done a fab job, baby-cakes. No joke.” He waves an arm around the interior of the tent. “Everything looks terrif.”
That does help. Relief flutters through me as I take in the scene. The centerpieces turned out really beautifully. So did the flower arrangements. I guess the thirty-two hours I spent consulting with the florist paid off.
“Thank you,” I say gratefully, reaching for another napkin. “And thanks again for coming early. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”
“No problemo.” My date grins. “Even though you only invited me to make someone jealous.”
My jaw drops. “I did not! I told you, I just need a buffer.”
“Buffer, jealousy provoker, same diff. Can’t wait to see who it is. Don’t tell me, okay? I want to guess.” He brushes some napkin lint off his tie. “Hey, what do you think of this color? It was between this and the salmon. Did I choose wisely?”
Dyson holds out the end of his purple-and-silver-striped tie, which perfectly matches the purple bellflower on his lapel. His suit is slate gray, which I was happy to see. I was genuinely worried he might show up in pastels or something.
“Definitely the wiser choice,” I assure him.
“I know, right? As much as I love the salmon, it would have clashed horribly with your dress.” He gestures to my mauve shift. Then he frowns. “But I still think we could’ve made a bigger splash if we color-coordinated so we both wore salmon.”
“Would you please just call it pink? It’s pink! And let’s get real here, Dyse—you look terrible in pink. It washes out your complexion.”
Before he can object, a frazzled voice calls out from the tent’s entrance. “Jess! Mom’s asking about Nana.” My sister Tammy hurries over to our table. “Who’s getting her from the airport?”
“The best man,” I answer. “He texted ten minutes ago to say that her flight was slightly delayed. She’ll be landing any minute, though.”
Tammy looks relieved. “Okay, good. Mom was getting worried. Hey, Dyson—when’d you get here?”
“A bit ago.” His tone is vague as he studies Tammy’s face. “You doing okay, sweetie? You look tired.”
“I had a baby fourteen weeks ago. Of course I’m tired.”
For some reason, that doesn’t appease Dyson. He sets down his napkin and hops to his feet. Tammy takes a wary step back.
“You’re pale.” He grasps both her hands in his without asking. “Hands are ice-cold. Nails a tad brittle. Baby, are you taking care of yourself? You might be a wee bit anemic. You getting enough iron in your diet?”
“What diet?” Tammy sighs. “With Ty just toddling everywhere, and Lilac shrieking like a banshee all night with colic, I barely have time to
breathe, let alone eat.”
I shoot to my feet, too. I knew that Tammy was exhausted, but my sister always plays it off like she’s a superhero. I’ve got it covered, she always tells us.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” I demand in concern. “You know we’d be at your place in a heartbeat to help you out.”
Tammy slowly removes her hands from Dyson’s grip. “It’s fine,” she insists. “I’m a mom of two—of course life is going to be exhausting.” She glances at Dyson. “But I’ll make a doctor’s appointment and get a blood test done, if that makes you feel better.”
He rolls his eyes, but his tone is gentle as he says, “It’s not about making me feel better, sweetie. It’s about making sure you’re strong and healthy for yourself and your children.”
“I’ll make the appointment,” she mumbles, and there’s a flicker of guilt in her eyes as she dashes off, the hemline of her pale yellow dress swirling around her knees.
“I can’t believe you just got her to agree to see a doctor.” I gape at Dyson. “Tammy never admits that anything is wrong.”
“I’m a nurse. That gives me magical powers.” Waggling his eyebrows, he flops back in his chair and goes back to swan construction.
I hesitate before sitting down again. I’ve been putting off this conversation for a while, but this feels like the ideal opening. It’s also one of the reasons I asked Dyson to attend the wedding with me, instead of asking one of my other male friends.
“I have a question,” I start slowly.
He laughs. “And I have answers. Lots of them. For example, the answer to the question ‘should we have worn salmon?’ is obviously ‘hell yes.’”
I force a smile. “A more important question,” I admit. “And you have to promise to be one hundred percent honest with me, okay?”
The humor in his eyes dissolves into sincerity. “All right. Hit me.”