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Chapter 1
Dean
“Knock,knock.”
All of a sudden, I’m jolted out of intense concentration. I was lost in the contents of a long document on one of the three computer screens in front of me. My friend, James, doesn’t wait for acknowledgement, as he strides into my office with a broad smile on his face and a spring in his step. He’s pretty much effervescent these days, and even though he doesn’t mean to rub his state of bliss in my face, some days I’d rather not grapple with it. All the grinning, the laughs—the happiness rolls off him in waves.
“You’re working too hard,” he says, sliding into one of the chairs opposite my long desk and running a hand through his dark hair. I regard him silently from where I’m seated. He appears relaxed and satisfied, and for him to look that way in the middle of the workweek means one thing.
He got laid at lunchtime.
Bastard.
There’s just a little too much pink in his cheeks for a man who’s worked in the office for most of the day. And I don’t say that in a creepy way—James and I have worked together for the better part of a decade. I can honestly say I’ve never partaken in any office shenanigans, and I wonder how you actually get away with a woman on her knees behind your desk, or even better, pounding into her from behind and using your tie to muffle her screams.
Or could I get more creative, spreading her cheeks apart and eating her out from behind while she’s on all fours, and I sit comfortably in my office chair. Maybe she could do some typing for me as I shoved my tongue into her, and I could spank her when she struggled to keep a fast enough pace. Or perhaps I could take off my tie and—wow I was really getting carried away with my non-existent lover.
God, I hope whatever took place didn’t happen in James’ glass walled office.
Currently, the two of us are on different floors in our law firm because our company is expanding at an astronomical rate. James and I specialize in transportation law—basically if it moves through water or across land, James is your man. My clients soar above in the sky for the most part. When things go wrong with an aircraft, and believe me, lots of things do, I’m the one they call. It’s endlessly fascinating work, never the same scenario twice, and for a legal nerd like me, there are all sorts of international conventions and obscure cases from all over the world that I get to delve into every day.
It’s also lucrative, as the board likes to hear every quarter, but I can’t charge clients if I’m not actually working.
“Well, that makes one of us,” I say to my friend, rubbing my eyes. He might have a point. I’m not sure I’ve actually moved in the last two hours.
His smile is splitting his face in half. “Too busy to work. The wedding is in two weeks, and I can’t wait.” This isn’t news to me. The bachelor party was last weekend, and he spent most of the time talking about his fiancée, Cleo, and how excited he is to get married. He’s also quite particular about how he wants things to go. I barely recognize this side of him. Although, he’s always been excellent with fine detail.
“So, any update on your plus-one?”
Jesus, here we go. Groomzilla is about to rear his ugly head. “No, not yet.”
“Well, when can we expect to have a name?”
Fuck, he’s nosy. “Why do you care so much, James? You have a wedding planner, and I know this because you spent thirty minutes on the phone with her at your bachelor party discussing napkins. What difference does it make to you who I bring?” I throw up my hands, I’m kind of over this whole thing. I have no idea who I’m bringing. I haven’t been on a date in, well, ages.
“We need to know for the seating chart. But please, someone who isn’t just a date for the night. I don’t want to have to ask who the hell people are in my wedding photos a year from now,” he explains this very slowly and patiently, as though I’m a five-year-old. See—groomzilla. I roll my eyes at that and hold my silence. James knows how little I date, and while I’m not his best man, I’m definitely one of his closest friends, and he really wants everyone to be coupled up.
“Do you want me to ask Cleo if she has a single friend?”Oh, yes, please, a pity date.
“No,” I grumble, not quite willing—yet—to subject myself to that particular form of humiliation. Because not only will I have to endure it on the wedding day, I’ll also have the distinctjoyof my friend talking to me about said date all the way up to the wedding and probably after it, as well. Ugh. “I’ll get back to you.”
My hope is that I can put him off until right before the wedding and then either find a date or turn up stag. Hopefully, I don’t blow the whole seating chart up and create a massive headache for my dear friend, the blushing
groom-to-be here.
I can’t get over how much he’s changed over the last year or so. The James I used to know was laser-focused on work and a bit of a serial dater, always seeming to have women around him but never the same one. Now he’s using his free time to ask his married friends questions likehow long should he and Cleo wait before starting a family? It’s almost impossible to imagine myself in his shoes. Smitten to the point of discussing wedding décor in the best steak restaurant in town. I left a lunch last week when the discussion turned to fertility challenges over forty.
Didn’t sit too well with my twenty-five-year-old whiskey or my thirty-five-year-old self.
James stands, probably sensing he’s not going to get much more out of me. “You keep me posted on that date situation. And for God’s sake, get back to work. Someone needs to bring in the money to pay for his wedding.” He laughs as he ambles out.
I chuckle at his retreating back. But it’s a hollow sound.
All the wedding talk and my deliriously happy friend brings attention to my own relationship situation—precisely the lack of one, and I’m left with a nagging sense that I’m missing out. Am I missing out? Is that what I want?
Questions that have been growing have plagued me in recent weeks. If only this wasn’t in my face all the time, and my friend didn’t drop in for a chat, freshly fucked.
Why couldn’t they just elope?
