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“Great place for a wedding reception.”
He puts his hand on my behind and pulls me close as he puts his mouth to my ear. “Great place for our first fake date.” His breath tickles my senses, and goose bumps scatter. I smile bashfully.
Stop it.
Fake date . . . this is a fake date.
Don’t forget that for a moment.
He’s already said we can never eventuate into something, due to us living next door to each other, and to be honest, he does have a very valid point.
Henley pulls the invitation out of his pocket and glances down at it. “The service is out on the lawn.” He pulls me by the hand. “This way.”
He’s so tall and intentional. As he pulls me through the room, people turn and look at him. And suddenly, I remember.
I remember what it’s like to have someone take charge.
I haven’t had it for so long, and I didn’t realize how much I missed it.
He leads me through the garden to the perfectly lined up chairs. “Which side?” he whispers.
I smile up at him.
“What?”
“How many weddings have you been to?”
He smirks, embarrassed by his obvious inside knowledge of weddings. “I’m thirty-three—nearly everyone I know is married. Some of my friends twice.”
“Left,” I reply.
He ushers me through. And we sit to the left. He picks up the program and flicks through it. “How did these two meet?” he asks.
“Who, the bride and the groom?”
“Yeah.”
“Um.” I lean into him to talk softly. “They met on Tinder and went on a date but hated each other. He wore her down for a second date and then redeemed himself.”
He smirks.
“She wasn’t interested at first.” I want to elaborate on my story a little. “But he has a really great dick, and she couldn’t resist.”
Naughtiness flashes across his face. “And so she shouldn’t—great dicks are hard to find these days.”
“That’s what I said.”
He leans back and puts his arm around the back of my chair. “What else did you say to her?”
I try and think of something sexy to say. “I asked her what position her groom preferred.”
He smirks and glances up at the groom, who is standing at the altar with his groomsmen as he waits. “Hmm . . .”
“I think missionary,” I whisper.
“No.” He twists his lips as he looks him up and down. “Reverse cowgirl.”
“Reverse cowgirl?” I frown. “Why do you think that?”
