by Julia Kent
He’s the biggest European football star to emerge since David Beckham, and a McCormick, to boot.
“That’s why I’m here, actually,” Hamish says, chugging a dark lager. “New product roll-out for a company based here in Boston, so I have meetings in the morning with my agent. Might be a seven-figure deal.”
“Pounds, or dollars?”
“Oh, dollars, aye? If it were pounds, I’d offer up my right stone.”
“Stone?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “You know. Balls.”
Ah. I get it. “Don’t give up the nuts too early in the process,” I say. “Hold out for eight figures.”
He grins, face splitting with a conspirator’s grin. His top teeth are impossibly straight and white, bottom teeth a bit crooked, his nose wandering off at an angle that says it’s been broken a few times. His hair is super short on the sides, a little longer on top, and he has the look of a freshly-manscaped guy unaccustomed to that kind of detailing.
“Nuts? Only Americans would pick such a wee thing to compare them to.” He laughs. “But I like your thinking. You’re a shark, aren’t ye, cousin? Maybe I should fire my manager and have you negotiate for me.”
“Not looking for a new job, Hamish.” Not to mention the pay cut would be enormous.
His laugh is bold and open, booming and unpretentious. “I’d imagine you have your hands full.” With that comment, he eyes Amanda. “Very nicely full.”
And he winks at me.
“Andrew!” Shannon says, coming in for a hug before I can decide how to answer Hamish. “How are you?” She smells exotic, a new perfume tickling my nose. Our embrace feels like hugging a sibling. None of the typical feelings stirred up when hugging a woman appear.
Good.
“I’m great. How was the honeymoon?”
Her face goes slack, just like Declan’s. “Fine.”
“Just fine? Shouldn’t a honeymoon be more than fine?” Hamish asserts with a leer.
“Would you like a rum-soaked truffle?” she asks, shoving a heavy silver tray right into Hamish’s navel, so hard he emits a grunt of surprise.
And then she walks away to chat with...my father?
What the hell happened on that honeymoon? Must be bad if Shannon’s avoiding the topic by choosing conversation with Dad.
“Was the sex that bad?” Hamish grumbles, looking at the tray of truffles that are now in disarray, perfect tops pointed down, scattered like drunken sorority pledges at an outdoor frat lawn party.
“Don’t say that anywhere near Declan if you like your teeth, Hamish.”
We share a grin and each try a truffle.
Rum. They’re rum truffles.
A hand strokes my ass, making me choke. Hamish’s hands are in view, so—
“Hey,” Amanda whispers in my ear. Her breath smells like cherry liqueur. “The candies are all filled with alcohol,” she says, blowing in my ear.
“You don’t say?” I snake my arm around her waist and start to think that maybe coming to this present-opening party wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
I’m glad I pushed her into coming.
“Is Gerald picking us up?” she asks.
“Of course. Why?”
“Then I don’t have to drive home? I can drink?” Her fingers roam a little more.
“You can do whatever you want, baby.”
She does a double take, dimples blooming on her cheeks like daffodils in late April. “You’ve never, ever called me baby before.”
“You’ve never, ever grabbed my ass in public before.”
“Last time we were here, it wasn’t exactly a pleasant situation between the two of us.”
“Tonight is definitely better,” I agree. Last time we were together here at Declan and Shannon’s place, it was the rehearsal dinner from hell. I was being stupid (I admit it), Dad had just been diagnosed with cancer, Amanda was being weird, and the night unraveled layer by layer, a train wreck no one could stop.
And, I’m reminded, we never did have sex in the walk-in closet where we fought and half made-up.
“Definitely,” she purrs, eating a decorated truffle from the plate Hamish has abandoned. He’s now chatting away with Shannon and Dad. I overhear words like Costa Rica and coffee exports and rainforests.
“You haven’t stabbed me in the neck with a fork even once tonight.”
“The night’s still young.”
“HAMISH!” Marie squeals, giving him a huge hug as she discovers him. “How was the photo shoot?”
He blinks hard, unsure what to do with a fifty-something yoga instructor hanging around his neck like a menopausal rosary. “Good,” he says, looking down at her.
“Naked, huh?” she chirps, peeling her hands off his neck. “I’ve seen that edition of Sports Illustrated before. Loved the guy on the Zamboni. What do they have you riding?”
Wink.
Before poor Hamish can continue breathing, Marie adds, “Can I get an autographed copy when they hit the newsstands?”
“Uh, sure,” he says, frowning.
“Just don’t sign on top of anything important!”
Hamish’s face turns to flames. He catches my eye.
Crazy, we mouth together.
“Shot?” I ask, pointing to the whisky.
“Hell, yes,” he mutters. “I’m supposed to send her a naked photo of myself, signed? Aren’t we basically related? She’s old enough to be me mam!”
“Welcome to America!” Amanda says.
“Welcome to Marie,” I add.
We all do shots and the whisky goes down smooth. I think about the walk-in closet in Dec’s bedroom. Wonder if Amanda will—
“How are the bee sessions going?” Hamish asks me.
Bee sessions. BEE SESSIONS?
He gives me a wicked grin. “Vince is my trainer, too, when I’m in Boston. Remember? He asked if the bee allergy runs in the family.”
Damn it. I would fire Vince in a heartbeat if he weren’t so good.
The whole room goes quiet. Even Dad stops talking to Pam and gives me an appraising look. Every single person in the room is staring at me, so I take the only reasonable action and pour three fingers of whisky, neat, and chug.
Then I pour again.
“Bee sessions?” Amanda asks quietly, as if I’m not under a microscope.
“Wasp,” I grunt under my breath. Not that the difference matters to any of them. Bees, wasps, whatever. They’re not allergic. Except for Shannon. The difference between a bee and a wasp sting only matters when you’re allergic. Oh, man, this whisky is good.
Too good. I must have another.
“Aye! Andrew’s going outside on a regular basis and getting used to being in the sun around the bees,” Hamish helpfully explains. “He’s working with a personal trainer to get used to it.”
“Wasp,” Amanda says, correcting him.
Dec and Terry have eyebrows buried in their hair.
Dad pulls away from Pam and turns his back to me, pouring another glass of wine for himself.
“That’s wonderful,” Marie says. “Overcoming your fear.”
“It’s not fear,” I scoff. “I’m working with allergists. Medical science is catching up to anaphylaxis. Being outdoors is part of a careful, medically-supervised plan to reduce risk.”
“You’re using a personal trainer known for tying shamanic crystals to his sac to gain strength for that?” Hamish asks, genuinely confused. “How is that medical?”
Anger rushes to the edge of my skin, digging its way through my pores. I have just enough alcohol in me to start saying words I’ll regret, but not enough to stop giving a shit.
I am firmly in the danger zone.
“Did you know that when a male bee mates, his penis explodes inside the queen bee and falls off? Gone forever!” Pam announces, raising her glass of wine as if in a toast.
A toast to male bee castration.
I’m not so sure she’s mother-in-law material, after all.
“Wasps
, Mom,” Amanda pipes up. “Andrew’s not allergic to bees.” Like that matters. The woman is talking about insect penises. I don’t think we need to split hairs.
Or, uh...penises.
“You always entertain me, Pam,” Dad says, raising his glass to her. “Any other strange male penis behaviors you know about?” Dad winks at her.
Pam takes him seriously, screwing up her face in concentration. “The male octopus has a detachable penis. When he wants to mate, he rips it off—”
Every guy in the room just tightened his core and bent in a little, as if we’re all Venus flytraps and Pam stuck her finger inside us.
“—and she has sex with the detached penis. He regrows a new one.”
“I had a girlfriend I wish I could have done that with,” Hamish announces. “Would have made life easier.”
Amy looks at him with disgust. “Don’t you strain under the weight of carrying that ego around?”
“What?” he says, one corner of his mouth curling up with mischief. “Imagine the convenience of a detachable penis. T’would make the morning so much easier.”
All the men in the room nod.
All the women frown in confusion.
“And if you want to talk about carrying heavy objects around, if I had a detachable penis, t’would—”
She shuts him up by walking away.
“At least the octopus can just regrow his penis. The male drone bee dies shortly after. Sexual suicide,” Pam muses. “I wonder if that behavior is found elsewhere in the animal world.”
All the men in the room flinch except for me.
“Want to give it a try?” I ask Amanda.
“Which one?” she asks in mock horror. “Detachable penis or exploding penis?”
This conversation is making me a little sick.
“Male drone bee.”
“You’re willing to have sex with me until it falls off?”
“For the sake of science.” I nuzzle her ear, a deep warmth filling me, pants getting tight, blood pumping hard.
“For the good of mankind,” she says, rubbing her ass slowly against me.
“Walk-in closet? One minute? I’ll go first, you come second.”
She tenses. “That’s not the order we usually go in.”
“I meant sneaking out of the room.”
“Oh.”
A diffuse feeling of love for every person in the room should consume me, given the amount of alcohol in my blood, but lust takes over, and thank God. Because that was close.
I grab Amanda just as Marie calls everyone to gather around. Shannon smiles at us.
“Don’t make eye contact. It just encourages them,” I tell Amanda. “We’re three seconds away from freedom.”
“Can’t wait to open your gift!” Shannon says to Amanda, reaching for her as I stare longingly at Dec’s bedroom door.
And we’re snagged.
Cockblocked by a wedding registry.
“What on earth are all these file boxes?” Marie asks my dad, who gives her a Who, me? look.
“How should I know?” Dad growls.
“Mom, those are all the cards we received. Anterdec staffers organized all the wedding gifts for us.” Shannon’s explanation doesn’t go over well with Marie.
“Staffers? What? Those are all cards? Oh, my goodness!” Marie starts rifling through a box and plucks out a fistful, looking alarmed. “But they’ve been opened already!” she wails.
Declan and Shannon share one of those looks. The kind people who have been together for a while share.
The I told you so look.
“I knew she’d complain—”
“I told you it wasn’t normal—”
“Who stole all the money?” Marie shouts, flipping through the file boxes, pulling out brightly colored cards with calligraphy on the front and opening them pell-mell.
“Stole?” Shannon asks, moving to Marie’s side.
“There’s no cash in any of these cards!”
Dec, Terry and I share uncomfortable looks. What is Marie talking about? Cash?
“Mom, the staffers at Anterdec opened everything. Any money in there was accounted for. But there wasn’t much.”
“Why would staffers open my daughter’s wedding gifts?” Marie huffs. “And what do you mean, not much? Look at all these cards! There must be hundreds of them!”
Carol slowly makes her way across the room, fresh glass of wine in hand, and gives it to Marie. She and Shannon share a look I know.
Dec and I have exchanged the Parental Management Glance. Generally in Anterdec board meetings and not at social gatherings, but...
“Mom,” Carol says gently. She looks like a younger version of Marie, but with a calmer face and a lower pitch of voice. None of Marie’s frantic energy inhabits her. “The way people like the McCormicks handle weddings is different than the way we do.”
“What does that mean?” Dad interjects, giving Carol a glare. “There’s nothing wrong with how the wedding was conducted.”
“Other than Declan and Shannon disappearing on a thousand guests and lying to me about the president!” Marie crows.
Every single person in the room rolls their eyes and drinks.
Including Jason.
“I never said wrong,” Carol protests. “But different, definitely.”
“It means,” Terry says, that damn voice making Spritzy bark. I can feel Terry in the soles of my feet. “Dad, it means you threw a high society wedding and never bothered to explain how it all operates.”
“Why is the burden on me? It should be on Declan,” Dad protests.
“Who has no idea what the hell you’re all talking about,” Declan says with an angry half-smirk. “A wedding is a wedding. You hire a planner, they handle the details, you have the gifts opened and your admin manages a thank-you note service, you return gifts you don’t need, and most of what you receive goes to charity.” He looks to me for backup.
“Right.”
Shannon, Carol, Marie, Amy, Jason, Amanda, Pam, and Hamish all look at me like I just started spontaneously speaking Navajo.
“That’s not how a wedding works!” Marie squeals. “That’s not how any of this works!”
“And a cat as a flower girl ‘works’?” Shannon says, turning to her, using Finger Quotes of Doom.
All hope of escaping this wedding gift party is dying as the fight unfolds.
A fight over what, exactly?
“You didn’t even have a dollar dance at your reception!” Marie cries out.
“I married a billionaire,” Shannon snaps back. “I don’t exactly need a dollar dance, Mom! And besides, you were the one who broke protocol and turned into a Momzilla!”
Amanda’s standing next to Shannon, offering moral support. I wonder if I can maneuver Amy into Amanda’s position and steal my girlfriend away for that closet sex we were talking about a minute ago. Shannon just needs a woman she’s close to for support, right? It doesn’t really matter which woman.
“What the hell is a dollar dance?” Dec asks.
Marie’s eyes light up.
We’re never getting out of here.
“First, you give the bride a special white silk purse,” she explains in a didactic tone that reminds me of the strange substitute teacher who filled in for health class one year at Milton Academy. She was later found to have hoarded more than sixty cats and was part of an underground child-bride ring for a cult.
I give Shannon, Amy, and Carol a second look. Jason as a cult leader? Nah. He strikes me as the guy who mixes the Kool-Aid, not the one who convinces everyone to drink it.
“And then, the men at the wedding approach the bride while she’s on the dance floor. They slip a dollar—or, at least, the generous ones put in a ten or twenty—for a dance with the bride.”
I start laughing. “Good one, Marie.”
“Good one, what?”
“Why would you tip a bride?” Declan asks.
“Like a stripper?” I add, laughing. What are they tal
king about? I’ve never seen a dance like this at any wedding I’ve attended.
Shannon blinks hard, looking at Declan with a slow evaluation. “It’s not a tip. It’s a fun ritual.”
“You’re lining up every man in the room to come with small bills and tip the bride to be able to hold her in your arms and press up against her, if I’m hearing this correctly,” Declan says, clearing his throat and looking around the room like we’re at a negotiation table for a buyout and he’s establishing dominance.
“You’re making it sound so lewd!” Marie exclaims.
“I’m making it lewd? You’re telling us the men pay for access to the bride’s body.”
Shannon’s face turns beet red. “That’s not what the dollar dance is!” she says hotly to Declan.
“Even the name—Dollar Dance—sounds like something you’d find in a topless bar on the Strip in Vegas,” I add, thoroughly amused by the topic.
Until I look at Amanda for reinforcement.
And find her glaring at me.
“What?” I throw my hands up. “Don’t you find this insane?”
“I find your reaction insane.”
Uh oh.
“Have you really never been to a wedding with a dollar dance?”
Dec and I shake our heads.
“Not since I was a kid,” Dad huffs.
“If you slip a hundred in that purse, will the bride give you a lap dance?” Hamish asks, clearly intrigued by this topic, leaning in as he pops back another shot, a hopeful grin on his face.
Amy smacks his shoulder. “You’re disgusting.”
“Oh, I’m disgusting? You’re the ones talking about hooring out the bride for a purse full of cash at her own wedding!”
“WHORING!” Amy shouts. “It’s not whoring! It’s a lovely ceremonial dance that’s part of any normal wedding reception.”
Declan bristles. “Normal?”
“As if you can talk,” Amy shoots back. “Your wedding was anything but.”
“How would you know? You didn’t even attend,” Declan says.