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“I’m not even sure if you could be funny . . .” I falter, but we both know I’m committed to this horrific rim shot: “. . . on the cuff.”
A dark eyebrow twitches. He has successfully baited me.
“Okay,” I growl, “just make sure your toast doesn’t suck.” I glance down the hall, and then remember the other bit of business I had with him. “And I assume you checked with the kitchen to make sure you don’t have to eat the buffet for dinner? Otherwise I can do it when I’m down there.”
He drops the sarcastic grin and replaces it with something resembling surprise. “That’s pretty considerate. No, I hadn’t asked for an alternative.”
“It was Ami’s idea, not mine,” I clarify. “She’s the one who cares about your aversion to sharing food.”
“I don’t have a problem sharing food,” he explains, “it’s that buffets are literal cesspools of bacteria.”
“I really hope you bring that level of poetry and insight to your speech.”
He steps back, reaching for the door. “Tell Ami my toast is hilarious, and not at all dickish.”
I want to say something sassy, but the only coherent thought that comes to mind is how insulting it is that eyelashes like his were wasted on Satan’s Errand Boy, so I just give a perfunctory nod and turn down the hall.
It’s all I can do to not adjust the skirt while I walk. I could be paranoid, but I think I feel his critical eyes on the tight sheen of my dress the entire way to the elevators.
• • •
THE HOTEL STAFF HAVE REALLY taken Ami’s Christmas-in-January theme and run with it. Thankfully, instead of red velvet Santas and stuffed reindeer, the center aisle is lined with fake snow. Even though it’s easily seventy-five degrees in here, the reminder of the wet, slushy snow outside makes the entire room feel cold and drafty. The altar is decorated with white flowers and holly berries, miniature pine wreaths are hung from the back of each chair, and tiny white lights twinkle from inside the branches. In truth, it’s all very lovely, but even from the back where we’ve lined up, I can see the little placards attached to each chair encouraging guests to Trust Finley Bridal for your special day.
The wedding party is restless. Diego is peeking into the banquet hall and reporting back the location of hot male guests. Jules is valiantly trying to get the phone number of one of the groomsmen, and Mom is busy telling Cami to tell Dad to make sure his zipper isn’t down. We are all waiting for the coordinator to give the signal and send the flower girls down the aisle.
My dress seems to be growing tighter with each passing second.
Finally Ethan takes his spot next to me, and when he holds a breath and then releases it in a slow, controlled stream, it sounds like a resigned sigh. Without looking at me, he offers his arm.
Although I’m tempted to pretend I don’t notice, I take it, ignoring the sensation of his curved bicep passing under my hand, ignoring the way he flexes just a bit, gripping my arm to his side.
“Still selling drugs?”
I clench my teeth. Ethan knows damn well I worked for a pharmaceutical company. “You know that’s not what I do.”
He glances behind us and then turns back around, and I hear him take a breath to speak, but then he holds it, wordless.
It can’t be about the size, volume, or general insanity of our family—they broke him in long ago—but I know something is bugging him. I glance up at him, waiting. “Whatever it is, just say it.”
I swear I am not a violent woman, but at the sight of his wicked smile aimed down at me, the urge to dig my pointy heel into the toe of his polished shoe is nearly irresistible.
“It’s something about the line of Skittle bridesmaids, isn’t it?” I ask. Even Ethan has to acknowledge that there are some pretty amazing bodies in the bridesmaid lineup, but still, none of us can really pull off spearmint-gree
n satin.
“Mind-reading Olive Torres.”
My sarcastic smile matches his. “Mark the moment, people. Ethan Thomas remembered my name three years after we first met.”
He turns his face back to the front, smoothing his features. It’s always hard to reconcile the restrained, biting Ethan I get with the charming one I’ve watched make his way through a room, and even the wild one I’ve heard Ami complain about for years. Independent of how he seems determined to never remember a thing I tell him—like my job, or my name—I hate knowing that Ethan is a terrible influence on Dane, pulling him away for everything from wild weekends in California to adrenaline-soaked adventures on the other side of the world. Of course, these trips conveniently coincide with events deeply cherished by contest-hunters such as my sister, his fiancée: birthdays, anniversaries, Valentine’s Day. Just last February, for example, when Ethan had whisked Dane off to Vegas for a guys’ weekend, Ami ended up taking me to a romantic (and free) couple’s dinner at the St. Paul Grill.
I’ve always thought the basis for Ethan’s coldness toward me was just that I’m curvy and physically repulsive and he’s a bigoted, garbage human—but it occurs to me, standing here, holding on to his bicep, that maybe that’s why he’s such an ass: Ethan resents that Ami has taken such a big part of his brother’s life, but can’t show that to her face without alienating Dane. So he takes it out on me instead.
The epiphany washes cool clarity through me.
“She’s really good for him,” I say now, hearing the protective strength to my voice.
I feel him turn to look down at me. “What?”
