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No shit.
CHAPTERFOUR
CREW
The cardboard boxes that have lined the front hallway for the last week are piled directly in front of the elevator when the doors to my penthouse open.
What the hell?
I push two stacks aside, wondering if the movers messed up the dates. The building staff would have notified me if they showed up early. The only way up here is through the front desk or with the code only a few people have.
The mystery is solved when Asher appears, wearing basketball shorts and a ball cap readingBest Man.
“What are you doing here?” I grumble, dropping my briefcase atop a box and pulling off my jacket. “And what the fuck are you wearing?”
He grins. “I told you I was throwing you a last hurrah! Farewell to bachelorhood and all that jazz.”
“And I toldyouthat we’ll keep getting drunk and picking up womenafterI’m married, so there’s really no point in doing anything.”
“Well, I didn’t listen. Pizza will be here soon. So will Oliver and Jeremy.”
I can feel a headache forming as I walk into the kitchen. “You invitedOliver?”
“Yep.”
“And he said yes?” I open the fridge, debating what to eat. While I deliberate, I grab a beer.
“I wouldn’t drink that,” Asher tells me.
I pause. “Why?”
“Because I’ve been reliably informed it’s a bad idea to do the activity we’ll be partaking in tonight, drunk.”
“What the hell kind of bachelor party is spent sober?”
“We go out and get drunk all the time, like you said. I got creative.”
With a sigh, I stick the beer back in the fridge. “I’m going to change. Don’t move any more boxes around.”
“Put on something you’d exercise in!” Asher calls after me.
I grumble a response as I walk down the hallway toward my bedroom. Boxes litter this room too. I’ve lived here for less than a year, since I graduated business school at Yale and moved back to the city for good. It’s strange to see it so empty. Most of my belongings are being shipped to Scarlett’s, since she insisted on remaining in her place after our wedding. I was informed—via her attorney telling mine, our main mode of communication—that I was welcome to stay in my own penthouse following our marriage. I have no burning desire to cohabitate with a woman. The only urge outweighing it is the fact I don’t share Scarlett’s apparent willingness to leave our lives completely unchanged once we share the same last name.
There was a time my younger self dreaded marriage as a prospect involving a clingy wife and no freedom. Fucking laughable, in hindsight. Scarlett seems loathe to so much as to talk with me.
I change out of the suit I’ve been wearing all day, into a cotton t-shirt and a pair of joggers. New York has been unseasonably cool for June. Candace even called me on Monday to ask if Scarlett was reconsidering her strapless dress. I let a long silence answer for me.
In the short time I’ve known my father’s second wife, I’ve come to the conclusion she lives in a fantasy world. One where my father views her as a comfort, not a convenience. One where Oliver and I look at her with lust. One where I give any thought to what dress Scarlett might wear on our wedding day and how warm or cold she’ll be.
That last one isn’t much of a stretch, though.
I went so far as to search photos ofstrapless wedding dresses, just to know what to expect. I’ve never seen Scarlett look anything short of devastating. I have a whole lot of apprehension about seeing her on our wedding day that I’m certain most grooms don’t grapple with.
Lines between us have blurred. Boundaries have sharpened. I can barely think straight when I’m around her. I’m hoping that’s a problem that will magically disappear soon.
When I reenter the kitchen, Jeremy and Oliver have arrived. Jeremy Brennan has known me almost as long as Asher has. He’s not a native New Yorker; his family is from Boston. We went to the same boarding school in New Hampshire, then both ended up at Harvard. He remained in Boston after Asher and I left for Yale, graduating from law school there a couple of weeks ago.
Jeremy grins as soon as he sees me. “Here’s the groom!”
