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“I see you’ve taken the Black-TieOptionalinstructions to heart.” I turn at the sound of the familiar condescending drawl to find Devon giving my jeans and t-shirt ensemble a disapproving once-over.
Jesus, who is this guy—the clothing police? What is his obsession with constantly critiquing my choice of outfit? And what is he even doing here—he’s my sister’sexnow. He shouldn’t be turning up everywhere I look.
I square my shoulders, cocking an eyebrow at him. “I see you’ve taken advantage of the obligatory pity invite. Enjoying the open bar?”
His jaw ticks briefly, but then his expression smooths into one of practiced politeness. “Emma asked me to come so I’m here. Besides, after all the hours I spent sampling the menu, selecting the wine list, and sorting the music I couldn’t just let everyone else enjoy the party without me.”
“Youwere in charge of the music?” I ask in horror. “Well, I guess that explains this disaster.” The song has just switched from Wham’s “I’m Your Man” to something that sounds suspiciously like Justin Bieber.
Devon just rolls his eyes. “Well, I would have filled the playlist with a bunch of punk songs, but I wasn’t sure if making all the guests’ ears bleed would leave the best impression.
Then he grabs his drinks from the bar and stalks away before I can correct his assumption about punk being my go-to choice of music.
