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“Yeah, yeah, rub it in that you’re deliriously domestically happy.” The words held no sting. She was happy her best friend had found the love of her life in Roman Bassani. Between Allie and Lucy, it was almost enough to convert Becka to a romantic way of thinking.
Almost.
Too bad I’m well acquainted with the downsides of romance. Hard to put on rose-tinted glasses when I’ve been up close and personal with everything that can go wrong.
God, she was a mess. She needed to do something—fast.
There was nothing quite as distracting as a man. The one currently staring at her as if memorizing every inch of her would fit the bill nicely.
It’s just a Band-Aid.
She shoved the knowledge aside and made her way to the bar, never taking her gaze off Aaron. He watched her but didn’t move from his spot. Letting her approach. Letting her set the tone. Smart man.
Becka sidled up to the spot next to him and broke eye contact to order a vodka seven. This close, she could smell his cologne—something expensive that made her think of hot and dirty sex in the best way possible. Down, girl. If this wedding was for anyone else, she wouldn’t hesitate to haul him to a convenient closet or bathroom stall to silence the ugliness inside her, but she wouldn’t do that to Lucy. Her sister deserved the best on her wedding day, and damn it, Becka would make sure she had it.
At least until Lucy got into the limo.
Then all bets were off.
“Maid of honor.”
God, even his voice was wonderful, low and even with just a hint of growl. She twisted to face him. “Wedding guest.” He just raised his eyebrows, and she smirked. “Sorry, I thought we were throwing out labels.” She held out her hand. “Becka Baudin.”
“Becka being short for Rebecka?”
“Something like that.” No one called her Rebecka—not even Lucy. She certainly wasn’t going to hand out that name to this guy, no matter how magnetic he was or how he seemed to be so close to what she needed in that moment, it was a wonder she hadn’t conjured him into existence.
But then, Becka didn’t believe in magic any more than she believed in romance.
“I’m Aaron.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. His five o’clock shadow scraped against her skin, completely at odds with the softness of his lips. It would feel good to have him sliding his mouth along other parts of her. Better than good. Decadent and sinful and absolutely perfect.
Not yet.
She licked her lips. “I know.”
“I see you’ve done your homework.”
“More like your reputation precedes you.”
“Can’t complain about that if it brings a woman like you my way.” He let their hands drop but didn’t release her. Aaron slid his thumb over the same path his lips had just taken, as if he had every right to seduce her with a single touch. His lips quirked into a smile and, damn it, it made him even more handsome. “Nice wedding.”
Come on, Becka, you can do better than this. Stop staring at him like a lust-struck idiot. She cleared her throat and reclaimed her hand just in time for the bartender to deliver her drink. She turned to face the bar fully, needing some distance, even if it was only in her head. No matter what her plans for this man were, she couldn’t afford to lose focus until later. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe you should find someone less magnetic, less overwhelming, to lose yourself in. Even as she thought it, she knew she wasn’t going to. A few short minutes of conversation and Aaron Livingston had dropped a lure she couldn’t have resisted if she tried. Better to just let things unfurl on the path they were both obviously heading down.
It’s only one night. Tomorrow I’ll go back to my life and it will be nothing but a fond memory.
What had he asked her? Right. The wedding. Of course it was the wedding. That was all anyone had been talking about for months, and they were at the damn event right now.
She downed half her drink. “It’s a wedding. They’re all flavors of the same thing.” Damn it, that sounded bitter. She took a careful breath and pasted a happy smile on her face. “It’s what Lucy wanted, and she’s happy, so I’m happy.” That, at least, was the truth.
“I take it you don’t subscribe to the American dream that ends with a white picket fence?”
Becka shot him a look, trying to gauge where he was going with that comment. Even if he shared her views on marriage and weddings, this was hardly the event to start bitching about how cynical they were. “We live in New York. We don’t do white picket fences here as a general rule.”
