Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“Ah, a leftie,” she says, and yup . . . she got the lay of my land.
At that exact moment, the door opens again and Wren shouts, “Wyatt!”
Looking in the mirror’s reflection, I see behind me, and a pit of horrified shock slices through my gut, leaving me wide open. Wren stands in the doorway, her hand still on the knob, which wouldn’t be so bad except that with her are two other women.
One is a middle-aged blonde wearing a pastel print pantsuit, a chunky necklace, and large round pink frames over heavy eye makeup that makes her lashes look a mile long. At first, she’s looking at the tablet in her hand, but when she looks up to see me, her eyes go wide. The other woman is Avery. I recognize her from the pictures Winston showed me, telling me how gorgeous she is, but also how kind and smart. Her mouth drops open before she covers her eyes politely.
“Um, excuse us,” Avery says, but the other woman just keeps getting herself an eyeful as if that’s all I’m here for. And Wren’s looking amused as hell, as if her brother looking foolish is just good TV.
“What the hell, Wren? Get out!” I order, cupping my hands over my dick as if that will hide my state of undress.
“No time for that, my boy. There’s work to be done,” the middle-aged blonde woman with Wren says as she barrels into the room, waving my privacy away. “I’m Cara DeMornay, the wedding planner.”
She holds out a hand, offering a shake that I refuse with a lift of my brow. I am not shaking hands while standing in my underwear. I don’t do that with my doctor, so I’m sure as hell not doing it with some random woman who shouldn’t be in here to begin with.
“Uh, Wyatt?” Wren says again, more questioning than shocked this time.
Red faced, I grumble, “Don’t start. This is all her idea.” I point at Mrs. Hinsley, who promptly pokes me with a pin.
“Stop moving.”
“I wasn’t moving,” I insist.
She gripes under her breath and then begins humming again. I’ve never heard “Spoonful of Sugar” sound so aggressive as it does in her off-tune, off-beat growl through clenched teeth.
Cara snaps her fingers in front of my face, being flat-out disrespectful. “Good, now that we’ve settled that, we have things to discuss. You’re the best man, correct?”
I look at Wren in surprise and see Avery beside her, nodding politely while still averting her eyes. Winston hasn’t said anything about that. I mean, if I’d thought about it, I probably would’ve assumed simply because we’re brothers, but I haven’t had a chance to even consider it.
Wren obviously has, because she rolls her eyes and says on a sigh, “Don’t act so shocked, Wyatt. Of course you’re the best man—you’re Winston’s brother. It’s expected.”
Oh. Any warm fuzzies about the wedding trying to bubble up inside me dissipate. It’s not that Winston wants me to stand by his side; it’s that I’m a box to check off the list. I’m simply another rule to follow. Winston has always been good at that, better than me, at least. “Wow,” I deadpan, “I can feel the love. Such an honor.”
“Wah wah wah,” Wren whines mockingly, and I have to admit it hurts a little. “Poor Wyatt wants to be wanted for who he is, and not because he’s the firstborn male heir.”
She’s being playful, but there’s a thread of bitterness in her teasing. If there’s time, maybe she and I need to do some relationship repair. I wish I could put it higher on my priority list, but right now I can’t. Not when I’m naked, and not with the wedding looming. Instead, I give her a look. “Wren?”
“No worries, big bro. Winston’s not all Miss Manners approved. I’m a groomswoman.” The absolute delight is vibrantly bright in her eyes, and I think it’s both because she’s getting the honor and because it is a bit of a middle finger to the rule book. Women are bridesmaids; men are groomsmen. It’s tradition, but it’s the twenty-first century, and if Winston wants his sister at his side, then that’s exactly where she’s going to fucking be.
That’s what I like to hear. I hold up my hand and Wren high-fives me. We switch to a fist bump and then wrap our forearms around each other and high-five again, backward this time. It’s automatic, though we haven’t done it in years. It feels like some of that relationship repair I was just thinking about. But now I’m somehow standing here in my boxer briefs again with no hands to hide behind. It’s oddly more comfortable since no one else is acting like it’s a big deal. Slightly so, at least.
Mrs. Hinsley pokes me again, but I ignore it this time. “I like it,” I tell Wren, “though maybe you should be best woman, and I’ll be a groomsman.”