by Cat Carmine
“Okay, okay,” Luke chuckles, putting his hands up in surrender. “I admit, I’m single. Did you hear that, Demitri?” He grins down at the tailor crouched at his feet. The man just shakes his head and sighs, though I see the ghost of a smile cross over his dour face.
“Okay, guys, let’s not sexually harass my tailor,” Trent chides. “This is the man who keeps me in suits all year. I don’t want to get on his bad side.”
“Demitri doesn’t have a bad side,” Luke says. “Right, Demitri?”
“Hmph.” The elderly man grunts, but this time a real smile passes his lips. “I’ll show you my bad side if you don’t stop moving. You like wedding short pants?”
“No, no short pants,” Luke says, pretending to be horrified. “Sorry, I promise to behave.”
The three of us are standing in the back room of Trent’s tailor, in a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop in downtown Chicago. The sign outside was so small and discreet I had almost missed it, but I guess when you’re the secret weapon of wealthy CEOs like Trent, you don’t need flashy advertising. We’ve got glasses of scotch and three men paying more attention to our inseams than seems appropriate.
The tuxedos Trent has picked out are a dark charcoal grey — not that different than the blazer and skirt Celia was wearing the first night I went home with her, I muse. The thought is enough to start a wave of blood to my cock and I force myself to think of baseball and porcupines and my Aunt Evangeline before Demitri’s assistant gets a handful more than he expected.
It’s hard though, to keep my mind from wandering back to Celia.
Sex with her had been so much more than I’d bargained for. I’m used to being with beautiful women but what I’m not used to is the way I feel so out of control with her. The way I feel like I can’t get enough of her.
At breakfast today, when she’d been talking about her fantasy of public sex, it had been all I could do not to throw her down on the table and take her right there, in front of that prissy old couple sitting next to us. I’m pretty sure that old fart would have enjoyed the show anyway.
The way her cheeks had gone so pink when she talked about it just made me even harder — I could just picture that flush spreading all the way down her neck, and across her tits. Her nipples would be hard. I bet her pussy was even wet.
Baseball. Porcupines. Cheek pinching from Aunt Evangeline.
“Keep still,” Demitri’s assistant hisses again.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
As if Luke can read my thoughts, he catches my eye in one of the floor length wood framed mirrors.
“Celia’s great, by the way,” he says.
“Yeah, she is, isn’t she?”
“Oh yeah,” Trent says. “You really snagged a winner there, buddy.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
“You know,” Luke says, a grin on his face. “She might actually be too good for you. Sure you’re not punching above your weight? Ivy league, lawyer — let me guess, she’s probably got some ritzy Upper West Side apartment?”
Luke’s ribbing sends a wave of discomfort through me.
“It’s not that ritzy,” I say defensively.
Trent laughs. “You going to quit working once you’re married? Be a kept man or what?”
“Har har,” I say. My hands are balling into tight fists at my sides. I know they’re just ribbing me — my family doesn’t actually discuss stuff that really bothers us, so if they’re actually teasing me about this stuff out loud, it’s because they don’t really believe it.
But it strikes a nerve. Celia is miles above me — beautiful, successful, perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Just one of those women that really has her shit together.
And who am I? The bartender. The guy who brought her drinks, poured her glasses of cab franc that cost more than my hourly wage.
I look in the mirror, at the suit I’m wearing. It looks good on me — even I have to admit that — but I feel like a fraud. I don’t do monkey suits. I’m strictly a jeans and t-shirt kind of guy.
When Demitri and the other two tailors are finally finished with us, they leave us alone in the back room while they go to find the ties and pocket squares Trent picked out. We sit down on the rich leather wingback chairs with our scotches.
Luke lifts his glass in a toast. “To the Whittaker brothers,” he says. “Finally being back together. An unstoppable force of wit, charm, brains, and devastating good looks.”
“I’ll toast to that,” Trent says, clinking his glass to Luke’s and looking expectantly at me.
“Me too.” I add my glass and knock it against each of theirs in turn. We each sip and the lingering tension I’ve been feeling actually starts to ebb further away.
These are my brothers. The people who’ve known me since birth, who taught me how to ride a bike and got me my first fake ID. The people who cared for Mom with me when Dad died, who drank beer with me in the basement rec room while we ate leftover funeral lasagna and watched old home movies.
The people who I let down, who had to fire me from the business they were working so hard to build.
I look back and forth between Trent and Luke. I don’t see a trace of the old anger there, the disappointment. They seem genuinely happy to have me back here with them.
Maybe this rift has been all in my head. Sure we had a falling out years ago, but maybe they’ve moved past it. Maybe I’m the only one who’s still clinging to the memory, to the old wounds. Maybe it’s time to move on.
Trent leans back against the cognac-colored leather and surveys the room.
“I can’t believe I’m getting married in two days,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Believe it,” Luke says cheerfully.
“Hey,” I say, taking a sip of my scotch and steeling myself. “Thanks for including me in all this. I know we haven’t kept in touch much, but it means a lot to me to be here with you guys.”
Trent smiles, but there’s something dark in his eyes. “You can thank Mom for that. She was the one who insisted I call you. To be honest, I was skeptical about involving you … but you know, meeting Celia and seeing how much you’ve grown up, now I’m glad I did. You’ve really surprised me, Jace.”
I swallow down another big mouthful of scotch, letting it hit the back of my throat and savoring the burn as it goes down.
So this was Mom’s idea. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised — she was the one always urging me to keep in better touch with Trent and Luke.
And Celia. Of course this came back to Celia. The kind of guy who could snag her as a fiancee — well, that guy had to have his shit together.
Luke is nodding in agreement with what Trent said. “Seriously, man. I really think we misjudged you. We just assumed you were fucking around in New York, but it turns out you’ve been building a real life there. Good for you. Like I said earlier, we absolutely love Celia.”
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing. “Right. Cheers to that.” I down the last of my scotch and am saved from saying anything further by Demitri and his associates coming back into the room with an armful of bright yellow ties and silk pocket squares.
But for the rest of the afternoon, I can’t shake the nagging sense that this isn’t going to end well.
I can only hope Celia is having a better time at her spa afternoon with the girls.
14
Celia
I push open the wide bamboo door and step into the back room of the spa, where the perky blonde at the reception desk told me I could find Hannah and her friends.
“Celia!” Hannah squeals when she sees me. She hops up off the tan leather lounger and runs over to give me a hug. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
She shoves a mimosa into my hand and leads me into the main part of the room, where I see two other girls holding the same drinks. All of them, including Hannah, are wearing fluffy white bathrobes and light pink flipflops.
“Guys, this is Celia. Trent’s brother’s fiancee. She’s a lawyer in
New York.”
“How fancy,” the blonde girl says, holding up her glass to me. She’s smiling though, and even though she’s got one of those striking faces and long blonde hair and a body that most women would kill for, there’s something about her playful expression and snarky tone that I like instantly. Maybe because she reminds me a bit of Rori. I feel a pang of longing and make a mental note to give Rori a call later — there’s nothing like a best friend to talk you down from a guy-related freakout.
“I’m Sloane,” she says, hoisting herself up out of her chair. “And I need another one of these.” She waggles the glass in the air and makes her way across the room to a white table neatly lined with champagne, orange juice, a variety of cut-up fruits, and a huge tray of cupcakes with blush pink icing.
“Sloane and I met at work,” Hannah explains. She turns to the other girl in the room, a pretty brunette in a wheelchair. “This is my sister, Ally.”
“Nice to meet you,” I shake her hand. “Must be a fun week for you — sister of the bride.”
Ally grins. “I don’t know — have you met Hannah yet? Total bridezilla.”
We all laugh because it’s apparent even to me, a virtual stranger, that Hannah is the complete opposite of a bridezilla.
I turn back to Hannah. “It’s so nice of you to include me today. I know we’ve only just met.”
Hannah waves her hand, dismissing my comment. “You’ll be family soon enough,” she says, and I feel a niggling wave of guilt. How would Hannah feel, including me in her wedding, if she knew the truth? That I was basically a stranger, even to Jace?
But she’s not going to find out the truth, I remind myself. Like Jace said, we’ll give it a month or so once we get back to New York, and then he’ll just tell everyone that we had an amicable break-up. No harm, no foul.
“Robes are over there,” Hannah says, pointing to a stack of neatly folded white terry cloth robes. “You can change over behind that curtain if you prefer. We’re getting massages in a half hour or so and then manicures and pedicures.”
“Sounds good.” I drop my purse and grab a robe to change into. Behind the curtain I also find a basket of pink flip flops, so I pull on a pair of those as well.
When I come out, Sloane is perusing the shelf of nail polish bottles as she sips her mimosa.
“Hey, Han, what do you think about this?” She holds up a fluorescent yellow polish, grinning. “It’ll match our dresses.”
Hannah grimaces. “Dear God, no. It reminds me of being in junior high and coloring my fingernails with a highlighter.”
“Ha, yeah, it does.” Sloane puts the bottle back on the shelf, then picks up a light pink almost the exact shade of the cupcake icing. She snorts when she looks at the label.
“This one’s called Mimosas For Mr. And Mrs. Seems appropriate.”
Hannah laughs. “I don’t think Trent has had a mimosa in his life. He’s more of a scotch kind of guy.”
Sloane snickers. “Well, you’ll just have to drink enough for the both of you.”
“Done.” Hannah downs her glass.
“What do you think the guys are doing now?” I ask, as I settle into one of the plush lounge chairs. The men had a tuxedo fitting scheduled, something I knew Jace had been dreading a bit.
“Hmm, if I know Trent, probably drinking scotch and getting into a long and involved conversation with his tailor about the relative merits of lambswool.”
I snort. I can just picture Jace trying to take part in that conversation. I can’t believe how different he is from his brothers. He’s alluded to some distance between them, and I wonder if that’s the cause of it, or if there’s more to it than that.
I also find myself wondering, not for the first time, why he would lie to his brothers about having a fiancee. Is he just trying to keep up with his brothers’ success? Or is there something else?
The four of us keep drinking mimosas and chatting about weddings, and eventually the attendants come to take us away for our massages, which are blissful and exactly what I need. Then it’s back to the room for more mimosas and pedicures.
By this time, I’ve had quite a few drinks, so when the conversation turns from weddings to proposals, I start nervously twisting my engagement ring.
Hannah notices and turns to me. “You know, I’ve never actually heard the story of how Jace proposed to you.”
“Oh,” I laugh nervously, taking a long gulp of my mimosa. I remember the story Jace and I had rehearsed, and I tell them that — Connecticut, the bonfire, the Steve Miller Band, the romantic night sky, Jace down on one knee in front of all of my friends.
They all swoon and I find myself getting a thrill out of telling it. I had always been a little embarrassed to tell people the story of how Martin and I got engaged.
When he’d proposed, he had done it at the office, right after coming back from lunch. I always guessed he’d picked up the ring while he was out, and I had tried to tell myself that he was too excited to wait for somewhere more romantic to pop the question. The sad truth, though, was that he hadn’t cared enough.
I bite my lip, twisting my ring. Maybe it’s the mimosas, or the fact that I’m with these girls who don’t really know me, but suddenly I want to tell them. Want to let myself laugh about it.
I take a long gulp of my mimosa and set the glass back down on the side table.
“It was nothing like the first time I got engaged,” I say, and I can feel the interest of all three of them pique.
“You were engaged before?” Hannah asks, sipping her cocktail.
I nod, and then launch into the whole story — being in my office working on a brief, Martin dropping the little black box on my desk like it was a contract he needed photocopied.
“Wow,” Sloane whistles. “That’s … special.”
I giggle, and it feels good to laugh about it. I haven’t really been able to do that before now.
“Why’d you break up?” Hannah asks, after we’ve all snickered about Martin’s lame proposal. “I mean, besides his complete lack of romance.”
I bite my lip. The only person who knows the whole story — other than me and Martin — is Rori, and that’s only because she has special best friend privileges. But the way the three girls are looking at me now, so warm and friendly and happy, makes me want to spill. If only so that we can laugh about it the same way we laughed about the proposal.
“I caught him in the copy room at work a couple months later,” I say, taking a sip of my mimosa. “Getting his dick sucked.”
“Noooo!” They all let out a simultaneous gasp so loud that I half think the spa attendants are going to come in to check on us. When the door stays closed, I take a deep breath.
“By a male associate.”
“Nooo!” The gasp is even louder this time. Sloane sets her glass down noisily on the side table and sits up.
“You mean he was gay?”
I shake my head. “Gay, or bi, I don’t know. I didn’t really stick around long enough to find out.”
Hannah is shaking her head incredulously. “God, Celia, that’s awful. And you had no idea?”
I shake my head, but then shrug. “I don’t know, I suppose there were a few signs along the way.” Like the way Martin made love like he was getting an enema, for instance.
“Well, I can see why you moved on to someone like Jace,” says Ally. “He’s like a testosterone slurpee.”
“Ally!” Hannah laughs, shocked.
Ally shrugs and grins. “What? He is.” She turns to me. “Sorry. Is that offensive?”
I laugh, enjoying the warm buzz of the alcohol and the girl talk. “No. He is a testosterone slurpee, actually.”
“Hey, Ally, I’ll switch with you if you want,” Sloane says. “You go down the aisle with Jace and I’ll go with Luke. Luke can rock me in his flannel shirts alllll night long.”
“No one is switching,” Hannah barks, but she’s laughing too. “And you will both behave yourselves.”
“Yes, mom
,” Ally says, pretending to pout.
I look at Sloane, and think about her walking down the aisle with Jace, and an acrid burn fills my chest. Sloane is drop-dead gorgeous and the thought of her on Jace’s arm makes my stomach churn. I know it’s just a formality, them walking down the aisle together, and I’m surprised to realize that what I’m feeling is … jealousy.
I push the thought away. Jace won’t do anything to jeopardize our cover while we’re at the wedding — and once we’re back in New York, well, then it’s back to our regular lives.
I don’t relish the thought of that either though. I take a small sip of my mimosa and sigh unhappily.
This is silly, I tell myself. I’m being silly.
“So,” Ally says, swirling her drink around in her glass. “You aren’t going to tell Jace that I called him a testosterone slurpee are you?”
I laugh. “No. What happens at mani pedi day stays at mani pedi day.”
Though I suddenly realize I am now going to have to tell him about Martin — the whole story this time. Now that Hannah knows, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before Trent knows, and I don’t want to risk him bringing it up to Jace and catching him by surprise.
I curse myself for ever opening up my big mouth. Stupid mimosas. Would Jace think differently of me once he knew the truth? The whole thing had made me feel so stupid — it was one thing to laugh about with some new girlfriends, but I didn’t want it to change the way he looked at me. He saw me as so capable and sexy — would he still feel that way once he knew I was dumb enough to get duped by someone like Martin?
Suddenly I was dreading going back to the hotel.
15
Celia
By the time I get back to our hotel room, Jace is already there. He’s lounging on the bed, clicking through channels on the television.
The sight of his body sprawled out on the bed is enough to send a shock of desire through me. He’s got one arm tucked behind his head, and the crook of his arm looks like the perfect place to crawl into, the perfect place to forget that Martin Covington ever existed.