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Bennett Christensen appeared beside them and smiled. “Finnegan. It’s been too long, son.” He wrapped Finn in a hug with a stiff pat on the back. Only Brock’s father had ever called Finn son, as if him being so would have been a gift instead of a burden.
Mr. Christensen pulled back, holding Finn at arm’s length, his eyes narrowing as he studied him. “How have you been? You don’t come around enough anymore.”
Finn coughed to cover his sudden nerves. His unease wasn’t caused by the reminder that he’d avoided the Christensens, instead the image of Gretchen fleeing his motel room was suddenly a living, breathing thing between them. Avoiding the Christensens kept him from doing something stupid like apologizing and asking Gretchen to give him a chance. He should have turned Brock down when he asked him to be in this damn wedding.
“I’ve been good, Mr. Chris. Work keeps me busy.” Not exactly a lie.
“Work.” Mr. Christensen huffed. “You sound like someone else I don’t see enough of.”
Finn glanced at his friend. Brock had always taken life too seriously, never believing the mantra that all work and no play would make him dull.
“Gretchen still isn’t here?” Brock asked his father.
Finn’s stomach tightened at the mention of her.
Brock’s father shook his head. “And she’s not answering her cell.”
“She’s probably driving,” Brock offered. “There’s still fifteen minutes, she’ll be here.”
The older man nodded and ran a hand through his thinning hair.
Finn’s gaze again drifted to the now empty balcony. “Is she actuallyinthe wedding?” He knew the answer, otherwise he wouldn’t have agreed to be in it himself. The thought of walking down an aisle with Gretchen Christensen did funny things to his mind and libido.
Brock shook his head. “She and Maria don’t really know each other.”
“So, she just has to show up, cry at the wedding, then get drunk at the reception?”
Brock’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded.
Finn laughed and slapped his friend on the back. “She’s a Christensen, I think she can handle that without rehearsing.”
A small smile pulled at the corners of Brock’s mouth. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. She wouldn’t miss the wedding. That’s what’s important.”
The knot in Finn’s stomach loosened enough he no longer feared he’d be sick. If Gretchen missed Brock’s wedding to avoid him, he’d never forgive himself. He hadn’t seen her in ten years, surely she’d forgotten all about him by now.
Just like he’d forgotten her.
Yeah right.
~ ~ ~
Finn needed a drink, and he needed it now. He’d never in his life experienced anything as torturous as listening to Maria’s bridesmaids nitpick every fucking detail of the wedding. And he still had to endure the rest of the weekend. Since he didn’t expect God to step in and intervene, he’d have to rely on alcohol.
“I’ll take a Rusty Nail.” He leaned against the bar, scanning the room as he waited.
Across the room the sexy blonde from the church sat perched primly on a barstool facing the windows overlooking the river, spinning her wineglass in her fingers. She lifted the glass to her mouth, and he couldn’t help picturing those lush lips stretched around his dick. Maybe this weekend wouldn’t be a complete waste after all.
“Your Rusty Nail.” The bartender slid his drink across the glossy wood bar top.
Finn thanked him, taking the glass and leaving a bill in its place. He’d decided to introduce himself to the mystery woman when he heard the shrill sound of Bianca Christensen Van Hoose’s voice, the second oldest of the Christensen clan.
He cringed. The woman was going through a nasty divorce. Over the past two hours she’d flirted with every man at the rehearsal, including the preacher. Finn had finally walked away when her hand kept inching toward his crotch. He was all for a little fun and games during a wedding weekend, but three women were completely off limits for him: Abigail, Bianca and . . .
“Gretchen Christensen.”
Finn’s head swung to Abigail stomping through the door. “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded, following Bianca.
His heart plummeted to his stomach. The moment of truth had arrived and now he’d have to face the only person who’d ever loved him without condition or expectation and face how he’d let a moment of lust wipe her adoration away.
