May the Best Man Win

by Mira Lyn Kelly

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  Copyright © 2016 by Mira Lyn Kelly

  Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover images: couple © Shirley Green, background © Pglam/Getty Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To my beautiful family. I love you!

  Chapter 1

  August

  On the upside, the prelude had already begun, and chances were good that Mozart’s Sonata in E-flat Major pumping through all those organ pipes would cover any sounds of distress emanating from St. A’s sacristy.

  Jase Foster crouched in front of Dean Skolnic, groom du jour, and cursed. This had to stop happening.

  “You think she’s gonna notice?” Dean asked, wincing as Jase pulled one strip of duct tape after another off the garbage bag of ice currently secured to Dean’s shoulder.

  “The arm?” Jase clarified, because while he wasn’t an every-Sunday kind of guy, they were in a church so he couldn’t flat-out lie. “No, man. I really don’t.”

  Lena would take one look at her husband-to-be’s swollen black eye, and she wouldn’t see anything else.

  Strike that.

  She might notice the greenish-gray pallor of Dean’s normally ruddy complexion, because coupled with the way he was gulping air like a goldfish, it didn’t bode well for his stomach or anyone within splatter distance.

  The door opened behind them, and Father John plowed in, five foot six inches of bristling irritation and grizzled holiness. Scowling at the scene in front of him, he snapped his fingers and pointed at the guilty-looking crew of lesser attendants—mostly Dean’s cousins who’d driven in that morning—plastered to the back wall. “Crack the fucking window.”

  Jase steeled himself against the laugh clawing to get free. Because, yeah, Father John had a mouth on him. Something Jase had discovered when he, Max, Brody, and Sean were muscling Dean out of the limo, barely clearing the door before the driver peeled off. The priest had stopped dead in the mostly empty back parking lot, taken one look at Dean, and let loose with enough four-letter words that even the guys—seasoned professionals in the expletive arena—had been coughing into their fists, studying the thick canopy of trees above and the new asphalt beneath their feet, basically looking anywhere but at the pint-size priest with a bear’s temper.

  “How we doing, Father?” Jase asked, pulling the bag of ice free and stepping out of blast radius. “Need any help?”

  More grumbling as the priest elbowed one of the groomsmen out of his way and opened the window himself. “Seems you’ve done enough already.”

  Probably. But Jase was chalking this morning up as a learning moment. No matter how bad the groom’s nerves, a quick game of hoops on the way to the church was not the answer, especially when evening out the teams required bringing the limo driver into the mix.

  Cutting a look over at Max, Jase pushed to his feet. “Let’s get his jacket on.”

  Max Brandt was working his cop stance with his legs apart, his arms crossed over his chest, and a don’t-fuck-with-me scowl firmly in place. He nodded down at Dean. “Get serious. He’s gonna blow. We don’t put it on him until he does.”

  Hell. Jase glanced around the tight confines of the sacristy to the cabinets stocked with candles, chalices, napkins, and the rest of the holy hardware, and he mentally amended Fuck with the requisite apologies applied.

  Jase wanted to think Dean could pull it together, but when it came to hurling, Max could call it from a hundred yards away. Even before the Chicago police force honed his powers of observation to a sharpened critical edge, the guy had had a hinky instinct about when to clear a path. That, and about women too. Both handy skill sets to have.

  Grabbing a plastic trash bin from next to the hanging rack of choir robes, Jase shoved it into Dean’s good arm.

  “You heard him, Dean. Make it happen, and we’ll get you out there.”

  That was a promise, because unless one of his grooms had a definitive change of heart about marrying the woman waiting down the aisle, no-shows didn’t happen on Jase’s watch.

  The door opened again, and Brody O’Donnel stepped inside. He wasn’t as tall as Jase or as menacing as Max, but the guy had presence. He was solidly built with a broad chest and a wild head of russet waves that fell well past his ears, which he’d only half bothered to tame for the morning’s nuptials.

  Whistling out a long breath, he eyeballed Dean, who was doing his best to manage the task assigned to him. Then nodding around the room, Brody grinned. “Father. Guys.”

  Father John looked up and broke into a beaming smile.

  “Brody,” he boomed like the guy was his prodigal son returned, even though the two had only met the night before. Then shaking his head with a warm laugh, he declined when Brody pulled a flask from the inner pocket of his single-button tux jacket and, shameless grin going straight up, held it out in offering.

  “Aw, come on, Father John. It’s the good stuff,” he ribbed before passing it to one of the braver cousins.

  Brody could always be counted on for two things: his uncanny ability to make friends with just about anyone and his propensity for always having a flask of “the good stuff” on hand for emergencies. Which made sense, considering he owned Belfast, one of Lakeview’
s most popular bars. Booze was, in fact, his thing.

  “Brod, so what’re we looking at?” Jase asked, knowing they had to be running out of time.

  “The girls are about ready to go. Sean’s smooth-talking the Skolnics, and I’ve got the safety pins, but…uh…”

  Jase knew that drawn-out qualifier. Whatever Brody had to say, Jase was sure he wasn’t going to like it. “What?”

  “Maid of honor had the pins and wouldn’t give ’em up if I didn’t tell her what was going on.”

  Emily Klein. Fucking fantastic. Because after managing to avoid her throughout the entire engagement, now, with everything else that morning, Jase was going to have to deal with her getting up in his grill?

  “She’s coming?”

  “Nah, I talked her down pretty good, so—”

  And that was as far as Brody got before the sacristy door swung open again and that old familiar tension knuckled down Jase’s spine. He took her in with one sweeping glance and then—just to piss her off—went back for a second, slower pass. She should have looked like Natasha Fatale from those old Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons. She had the height, all right, but instead of the severe black hair, wickedly arched brows, bombshell body, and calculating scowl, Emily was every kind of soft. Soft strawberry-blond hair spiraling in loose curls over her shoulders. Big, soft-brown eyes. And a soft, shy smile that hid her poison-dart tongue. Even her body, tall and athletically lean, had a softness to its modest curves—curves that had distracted the hell out of Jase in high school but that he’d become immune to in the passing years.

  Since he’d finally seen through her soft snow job to the cold, hard ice queen beneath.

  “Jackass,” she greeted, with a soft smile just for him.

  “Emily. What can I do for you?”

  “Brody mentioned Dean had—”

  Dean coughed into his trash can, and Emily’s superior scowl shifted to the man of the hour.

  She looked from Dean back to Jase, her mouth gaping open in soundless horror. “Is that dislocated?”

  The shoulder looked bad, Jase knew. And with anyone but Emily, he would have been all about the explanations, apologies, and assurances. Dean was going to be waiting at the end of that aisle, ready for Lena, even if Jase had to hold him up there himself. But since it was Emily… “No.”

  He waited.

  Emily’s toe started to tap, a nervous habit she’d had forever. One he took unhealthy pleasure in exploiting.

  But Brody, a perpetual fixer fortunate enough not to have any history with Femily Fatale, stepped in with a reassuring shrug and his signature lopsided smile. “A little roughed up is all. Don’t worry about a thing. He’s fine.”

  Which was when Dean retched up the contents of his stomach and a round of applause sounded from the attendants stationed around the room.

  Go time.

  “Nice job, man,” Jase offered, taking the trash-bag liner out of the bin and shoving it in Emily’s direction. To his utter delight, she was so startled that her hands came up before she’d had the chance to think. And then she was stuck quite literally holding the bag.

  Hauling Dean up by his good arm, Jase and Max worked the guy into the jacket and started pinning his sleeve to his coat. It wasn’t perfect, but if ever there was a pinch, this was it.

  “Oh… Oh no… Oh… What am I supposed to do with this?” Emily asked shakily behind him.

  Jase didn’t look back. “See if one of the groomsmen can help you with it.”

  He’d love to leave her hanging, but this was Dean’s wedding, and he wouldn’t be doing his friend any favors by screwing over his bride with a missing attendant. Even Emily.

  “Uh-uh, no way,” Brody said, laughing. “That has ‘best man’ written all over it. You know the drill, dude. With great power comes great responsibility, or some shit like that.”

  Not a chance. “Power to delegate responsibility. Hey, you with the braces, take this to the Dumpster out back and meet us up front.”

  The skinny kid let out a groan but hopped to, taking the trash bag from Emily and scurrying out the door just as Sean Wyse strode in. Smoothing back his immaculate hair, he flashed a picture-perfect smile at Emily. “Looking breathtaking today, but I think you’re mixing with the wrong crowd here. Can I walk you back to the girls?”

  Emily was chugging Sean’s BS like it was a Starbucks mocha latte, cocking her head appreciatively but declining all the same. Then she was out the door, and the too-small space around Jase opened up enough that he could breathe.

  About time.

  Sean reached into Brody’s pocket and helped himself to a swig of what was probably Jameson. “You ladies ready yet?”

  Brody started lining the guys up in order for their trip to the other end of the church, while Jase took care of the sweat beaded on Dean’s forehead with a handkerchief he knew better than to attend a wedding without. Then grabbing Dean by the side of his face, he looked him straight in the eyes.

  “You good, man?” he asked, hoping like hell Lena was in it for the duration. Dean was too good of a guy to get screwed over. “Ready to do this?”

  Dean swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

  The same thought that tore through Jase’s mind every time he got one of his grooms ready echoed then—the thought Emily Klein had played no small part in reinforcing:

  Better him than me.

  Jase smiled his most confidence-inspiring smile, the one that closed deals, and jutted his chin toward the door. “Then let’s get you married.”

  Chapter 2

  Sticking to the far side of the left aisle, a pinch of floor-length blush chiffon in hand and her smile straining at cheek-cramping proportions, Emily Klein skimmed past an usher seating the last of the late arrivals as she hustled toward the bridal room where Lena was waiting with the girls.

  Best man her butt.

  Seriously, how did Jase Foster keep getting this gig?

  Obviously, the guys loved him. Couldn’t get enough of the whole bromance business Jase had perfected back before it was even a thing. But the women? Come on, like they hadn’t heard about the time Jase got Neil Wallace to the altar a mere two hours late—because the boat they took out that morning on a whim ran out of gas. Or when Jim Huang wore an eye patch to the altar because of some “epic” game of finger football gone wrong. Or when Trey Wazowski needed to start a suspicious course of antibiotics before leaving for the honeymoon.

  Cripes, Emily had heard them all, and she hadn’t even been at those weddings.

  And now, because Lena had turned the same blind eye to Jase’s questionable record as all those other brides, here she was, saddled with the task of preparing her friend for the fact that her husband-to-be looked like he’d been jumped in a dark alley on the way to the church.

  Stopping in front of the paneled door not solid enough to muffle the twittering chatter within, Emily took a bracing breath.

  A chuckle sounded from a few paces away, and she turned to find Paul Gonzalez shaking his salt-and-pepper head at her. “I thought the bride was supposed to be the nervous one.”

  Emily gave Lena’s dad—who’d been her boss before his retirement—an affectionate smile. Like his daughter, the man was small in stature but big in heart, and Emily had always had a soft spot for him. “I don’t know, Paul. Seems like someone ought to have a case of the nerves, and Lena’s as cool as a cucumber.”

  Stepping over to her, Paul laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Relax, Emily. Everything is going to be fine. Even if nothing goes according to plan—though something tells me since you had a hand in all this, it will—the day will still be perfect. Lena’s marrying the man she loves. Nothing else matters.”

  He was such a sweet old guy. And so misguided.

  But that’s what she was for.

  “You’re right. Okay, I’ll relax.” And then flas
hing a wink as she slid into the bridal room, she quietly added, “Just as soon as the cake is cut and the bouquet is thrown.”

  “Yay! You’re back,” Lena sang out, delightedly rushing to Emily’s side.

  Dressed in formfitting raw silk with a mermaid flare that emphasized her curvy physique, the bride-to-be looked gorgeous, every lustrous mahogany coil pinned in place, her warm complexion flawless, lips glossed, and each lash curved in exacting detail.

  Lena was ready to go.

  “Is Dean nervous?” she asked in a hushed voice, leaning close like she was protecting the other bridesmaids from the truth. “Remember how he was before he got his car? With the pacing and all those lists—and that was just leasing a Bimmer. This is forever. He’s got to be nervous. He is, isn’t he?”

  Emily stared into her friend’s deep mocha eyes and shook her head. “Nervous? No way.” Not anymore, she didn’t think.

  Lena bounced in her beaded pumps. “So tell! Is he completely devastating in his tux?”

  Yes, completely. Only Lena probably wasn’t talking about Jase, so no need to clarify the whole ugly-on-the-inside business.

  And this was where it got dicey. Because while Emily knew Lena needed to be prepared for what Dean was going to look like—before she hiked up her skirt and started sprinting down the aisle barking out orders to call 911—she didn’t want her friend freaking out before she’d even set foot down the aisle. So time to employ some of those well-honed public relations skills and put a little spin on the situation.

  Emily took Lena’s hands and pulled her friend over to sit on the floral love seat beneath the window.

  “It’s a gorgeous tux, Lena. We totally nailed it with the cut. The guys are all ready to go. But just so you’re prepared, Dean took a little spill on the way to the church.” When the limo driver got overeager for a rebound, started throwing elbows, and knocked him down. Yeah, she’d caught up with Braces, and he was a talker. “He has a bit of a black eye”—a bit because it was really way more red and blue and disgustingly swollen than actually black so far—“but he can’t wait to marry you.”