Page 2 of Cocky Brutal Sinner

But every family has rules, even this one.

Don’t be an asshole for no reason.

Don’t blow off poker night.

Don’t fuck your best friend’s little sister.

They’re unspoken rules, but they’re real. It should be easy to follow them, and most of them, I do. And the one I don’t? Let’s just say I’ve gotten very, very good at not getting caught.

Tonight, though, I’m struggling to fight the urge to look over at the bridesmaids.

Correction: I can’t stop staring at one bridesmaid in particular. The one whose long brown hair hangs in loose waves down past her shoulders, instead of in her usual messy bun stuck through with chopsticks or pens. The one who looks just as devastating with her black-rimmed glasses on as she does now with contacts. She never wears heels, and tonight is only a slight exception to her rule.

While the other women have stilettos and high platform chunky things, her heels are only a couple of inches high, but they make her legs look like they go on forever in that fucking dress.

I lick my lips, appreciating the way the pretty fabric hugs her waist and pushes her tits up. How her eyes light up when she smiles and laughs at something Pippa says, and brushes a loose strand of hair from her cheek.

Stop it, I mentally chastise myself, dragging my attention from her and covertly checking to make sure no one noticed I was staring. Luke wandered away to practice his speech some more so I’m safe as far as he’s concerned, at least.

A server emerges with a tray of scallops, and Ryan pounces, sweeping five of them onto his hors d’oeuvres plate. I give the server an apologetic smile before snatching my own bite. It’s sweet and salty, and I have to admit it’s delicious, even if it’s basic as hell.

“Oh thank god, food,” Cat says, dragging Nate over to the tray. She pops a scallop in her mouth and groans. “I haven’t eaten since they put on my make-up for photos six hours ago. I’m starved.”

The champagne glass in her hand is empty, I notice. The server assigned to her must be falling behind. I snatch a glass from a passing tray and hand it to her. “Here. Can’t have the bride going thirsty.”

“Thanks,” she says warmly as she takes the glass, but she doesn’t take a sip. “Is Luke still freaking out about his speech?”

“If by ‘freaking out’ you mean ‘obsessively muttering in the corner,’ then yeah, he’s freaking out,” Ryan says, and Cat sighs.

“We should probably go tell him it’s going to be fine.” She sets the champagne down on a side table and takes Nate’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

I shake my head as Cat stalks across the room toward the best man. It’s typical her. Even on her wedding day, she’s thinking about how to make other people happy.

Once James has procured Saltines for Maura and Ryan has downed a few dozen scallops, we all move to the front table for dinner and speeches. Thanks to god and seating charts, I find myself next to the one person I never get to sit by, and I know it’s going to be so damn hard to play it cool.

“Hi,” Brinley says as she slides into the chair next to me. She immediately turns away to chat with Pippa, but I don’t care. Not when her knee brushes against mine under the table. Not when she’s so close I can see the freckles across her nose under her makeup. As the summer goes on, those freckles will multiply and spread across her cheekbones.

I spend most of the dinner discussing interior design with Maura, who’s sitting on my other side. I’ve been thinking about doing a refresh on the Terrace interior, and as an artist, Maura has plenty of ideas.

There’s no rule about talking to Brinley, of course. It’s just too risky. Too revealing. The bridal table is right at the front of the room, and there are too many eyes.

She reaches for her water glass, and the backs of her fingers sweep against my hand.

She should be more careful—she knows better.

Luke’s speech is a distraction because it’s fucking terrible. His delivery isn’t the problem—he’s as smooth and charming as ever. It’s the writing, which hits every cliché in the book. Webster’s Dictionary defines love as affection and tenderness felt by lovers…

Brinley groans when he starts reading an honest-to-god poem that somehow manages to rhyme wedding with bobsledding.

“What was he thinking with this poem?” she mutters under her breath.

I lean over and murmur, “I think he was hoping this would be his big William Shakespeare moment.”

Brinley’s hands fly to her mouth as she tries to hold back her snorting laughter. That shouldn’t be sexy, but with her, somehow it is. Warmth radiates from her skin, her bare arm and shoulder just inches from mine.

I can’t help it. I’m just too fucking aware of her. I lean an inch closer, letting my breath fan over her ear. A shiver runs through her and her shoulders stiffen.

“Not here,” she whispers. Then she turns fully away from me to whisper to Pippa. She’s right. Fuck, get it together, Bishop.