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She tilts her head. "So I’ve heard people say. Then they fall in love and learn better."
"Never gonna happen to me."
This time she throws her head back and laughs. "Famous last words." She grins at me. "Also, give my husband a kiss. Not from you, but from me, of course." She disconnects.
I stare at the now empty screen. It’s another twenty-four hours before the rest of the guests are supposed to arrive. So, what did she mean by—
"Here’s the bridegroom. Still standing, ol’ chap?"
I swing around to find Sinclair Sterling prowling into the room. Which doesn’t surprise me. After all, his wife is here so it stands to reason he wouldn’t be far behind. With him are my brother Weston and Hunter Whittington.
"What are you guys doing here?" I scowl.
"Is that any way to speak to your groomsmen?” Hunter smirks.
"I didn’t ask any of you for advice."
"Which is why we volunteered it," Weston says in a cheerful tone. He ambles over and grips my shoulder. "Welcome to our merry tribe, bro. I’m glad you finally decided to change your ways."
"If by that, you mean, getting married, then I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I don’t plan on changing much. She’s the one who’s going to have to adjust."
Weston stares at me. "Wow, you really do believe your life is going to continue how it used to be before you got married?"
"Of course I do."
Hunter makes a choking sound and turns it into a coughing fit.
Sinclair covers his mouth with his palm, but his eyes are crinkled like he’s fighting not to laugh.
Weston opens and shuts his mouth, then quickly turns away from me and heads straight for my bar.
I’m glad they’re all so amused. Douchebags."What are you up to?"
"What does it look like?" He reaches for my whiskey—my most expensive, unopened bottle of Macallan twenty-four-year-old reserve. He grabs my tumblers, lines them up on the counter, then proceeds to pour a splash of the whiskey into each of the glasses.
Sinclair and Hunter walk over and pick up one each.
Weston ambles over and slides one to me.
"It’s not even six p.m. yet,” I grumble."
"Best to knock it back, brother. You’re going to need it for the hard truths coming your way."
"And you’re the one who’s going to give them to me?"
My younger brother—a pain in the butt since the day he was born—heaves his bulk into a chair and places his feet on my table. On my antique Empire desk.
I scowl at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He swirls his drink in his glass then sniffs at it. "Considering you’re not having a stag do?”
"What’s that?" I sniff.
"You know, the kind of party where you invite your male friends and we all drink to your health and give you advice and warn you about the end of your existence as you know it—"
"You mean one of those urban male bonding traditions?" I look down my nose at my brother, who knocks back the whiskey in one go.
"Easy, tiger, that’s some vintage whiskey you have there."
"I’d recommend you do the same. You’re going to need it," Weston drawls.
