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Chapter1
Keely
“Why do you look so depressed? It’s a wedding.” His voice is a low rumble. I turn from where I’ve been hiding in the shade, my shoes tossed aside somewhere back at the house so my toes can brush through the sand, nursing a glass of wine and watching the waves lap against the shore fifty yards away.
The smell of the ocean’s everywhere, briny and salty. The wind whips through my hair. I’m at a high-top beside an enormous fake fern, lugged down here at obscene effort, all to add a little more ambiance to the New England beach. In the background, the Crowley family vacation house looms, stately and column-ringed, while the majority of the guests are clustered around tables under circus-sized tents, drinking top-end alcohol, toasting to the Crowley family’s continued prosperity, dancing on a portable dance floor also lugged down here at unthinkable cost, while a DJ blasts Y2K-era R&B.
Nolan Crowley leans against the table like he owns it. Which technically, he does.
“It’s not a wedding,” I tell him.
He frowns slightly. “It’s not?”
“They’re renewing their vows. It’s not a wedding. And what do you care how I look?” I turn away from him. I should be more excited than I am—the Crowley brothers are all filthy rich and drop-dead beautiful, which is such an unfair combination. You’d think the mega-wealthy would atleastbe a little bit ugly to balance things out, but not Nolan—except I can’t bring myself to care about anything right now. “Shouldn’tyoube off having fun? It’s your brother’s celebration.”
The party started an hour ago. I came up with Jamila, Bernie, and Fulco, my coworkers and good friends. It was a long trip, but we’re staying at a fancy hotel, all on the Crowley family dime. Which is endless, as it turns out.
Nolan’s chuckle is low and throaty. I refuse to look at him again, mostly because I’ll stare at his full lips, his light green eyes, his tousled black hair, his stupidly attractive face, and those absurd muscles on his chest. How much time does this guy spend in the gym? Actually, I’d rather not know, because he’s only a passing annoyance, and I’ll end up picturing him all sweaty and glowing from pumping iron, like a glorious Viking post-raid or whatever, and I’m not trying to cultivate that kind of energy right now.
He leans closer. I get a whiff of something spicy. “You’re Ash’s friend, right? Keely-something?”
“Yep, that’s me, Keely Something. Nice to meet you.” I glance at him. “Don’t worry, the pleasure’s all yours.”
He seems delighted. “All right, Keely Something. You work at Bottle of Smoke with Ash and all the other ones.” He waves dismissively at the dance floor, which makes my blood boil.
Bottle of Smoke is my home. It’s a bar Ash owns, the girl that’s getting her vows renewed, married to Nolan’s brother, mother of Nolan’s little niece and nephew. Cute kids. Him acting like he barely knows about the place is beyond annoying.
The Crowley family runs their little empire with Ash’s husband, Carson, at the very top of the pyramid. Ash doesn’t talk about it much, and I get the feeling she works hard to insulate us from the rest of her family—but little pieces of them creep through. Like suddenly, after she’s married to Carson, all our vendors wanted to give us discounts despite the fact that Ash doesn’t worry about money anymore, and suddenly the place is crowded every night, and suddenly important people want to have dinner there much to our chef Fulco’s constant frustration. (“This is not fine dining! You tell them it’s bar food, no more, no less!”) Nolan must look at me and see a tiny little ant in a tiny little pale blue dress in tiny little heels with sexy windswept hair—okay, I’m happy with my outfit today, but that’s still not helping my mood.
“Listen, Mr. Crowley, it was really nice meeting you—”
He grimaces. “Mr. Crowley? That’s the most painful rejection I’ve ever heard.”
“It’sreally, amazinglynice meeting you,” I say, pretending to gush.
“Now you’re stroking my ego. But go on, I like it.”
I smile despite myself. “I’m just not in the mood for whatever this whole thing is.” I wave a hand at him.
“You mean this?” He arches an eyebrow. “My brooding handsomeness?”
“I was going more for arrogant assholishness, but sure, we can say your thing instead.”
“My outgoing charm is a counterbalance to the storm clouds you have practically circling your head. You do realize thunder and lightning at a wedding—”
“Vow renewal,” I remind him.
“Whatever. Vow renewal. You’re over here brewing up a grumpy typhoon and I’ve come to manage the weather.”
I grimace, leveling a hard stare at him. Ihatebeing called grumpy. Normally, I’m the life of the party, always getting into trouble, dancing my tits off, getting other people to have a great time with me, and to be calledgrumpyis beyond insulting. I’m about to slice into this guy—howdarethis dude think he can walk over here and start telling me to smile more, the misogynistic dickhead—but I force myself to stop. Because he’s not wrong.
It’s Ash’s special day and I’m being a jerk.
I raise my chin, tightening my jaw. “I got some bad news earlier today, all right? I’m sorry if I’m killing your vibe, but you can go ahead and pretend like I don’t exist.”
His expression softens. “Anything you want to talk about with a stranger?”
“I’d rather do the Cha-Cha Slide for ten hours than tell you about my problems.” Which is an exaggeration. I’d max out at six hours. Ireallyhate the Cha-Cha Slide.
