The Wrong Bridesmaid Read Online Lauren Landish

Categories Genre: Chick Lit, Contemporary, Funny, Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
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As the wealthiest of the haves, I was treated as either the fabled prince who could do no wrong—despite my considerable list of wrongdoings—or the spoiled rich boy who couldn’t be bothered to actually do anything.

The truth lay somewhere in the middle back then. It wasn’t like I sat around waiting for life to be handed to me on a silver platter . . . but I definitely ignored more than a few rules, confident I wouldn’t catch hell for it.

It was, in ways that a lot of people don’t understand, miserable. A lot of my acting out was simply rebellion, asking someone to actually make me pay for my bullshit. And it kept getting excused. Which of course just led to more bullshit.

However, it did teach me an important lesson. Sometimes people will have preconceived ideas about you, and regardless of their accuracy, they will not be swayed, no matter the proof to the contrary. People liking or disliking me, using or dismissing me, without knowing anything other than my last name was a hard pill to swallow. Even now, living in a city where my name means nothing, I find it difficult to trust people’s intentions.

Shutting off my engine, I relish in the moment of silence, taking one last breath of freedom, and wishing I could reverse out of here and never look back. But I can’t.

All because Winston fucking said please.

I step out of my black Tundra, my boots barely touching the ground before the tall glass double doors swing open and a yellow bomb of fluff blurs toward me. Before I have a chance to react, it launches at me like a heat-seeking missile, hitting me flat in the chest and knocking me to the ground to be attacked by wet, sloppy kisses.

“Mr. Puddles! Hey, buddy! I missed you too,” I tell the goldendoodle, who is nipping at my stubble as though trying to figure out what weird animal is currently living on my face. Mr. Puddles whines, his butt wiggling happily as I pet him. “That’s my stubble, not an intruder,” I tell him laughingly as I press my forehead to his. I did miss Mr. Puddles.

There’s the click of heels on concrete, and another voice calls out, “Well, I’ll be a damned liar! I told Winston there was no way you’d come back, not even for a wedding. Way to surprise even me.”

My sister’s voice is sharp and sarcastic but doesn’t hide the thread of hurt beneath the venom. Knowing her, she meant for it to show so she could twist the knife a little. Pretty much every rock or country singer’s epitome of that small-town girl who can turn his heart inside out and go dancing off into the sunset without a single fuck given, Wren is smart as a whip and more skilled at verbal warfare than anyone I’ve ever met.

Thankfully, I know how to deflect her a little. “I missed you, too, Wren.”

She blinks, not giving in. In fact, her chin rises another inch, her nose haughtily in the air.

“And I’m sorry?” I hope it’s enough because it’s all I have to give her. There’s no big story to tell, no tears of remorse, and no promises that I’ll stay for good this time, because I’m not sorry I left.

Though I am sorry I hurt her by leaving.

“It’ll do,” she tells me, the ice slightly melting in her emerald eyes. “For now.”

In a rapid switch of blondes from goldendoodle to human sister, she’s crouched down beside me, hugging me tight. The smell of sunflowers and vanilla wafts up from her hair, and I realize that I’d forgotten what her signature perfume smells like. It’s more of a gut punch than anything else has been today.

Mr. Puddles takes the opportunity of having two of his favorite people on his level to dive back in for more cuddles, and squirms his way between Wren and me, his belly up as he lets us know exactly where to pet.

I give in, rubbing his soft fur before shifting over and getting up. I offer Wren a hand up as well, and she follows it in for another hug. She’s tiny next to me, barely five foot but full of confidence that makes her seem ten feet tall and bulletproof, another one of her traits that seems to be pure Wren. Of course, the Ford name doesn’t hurt. Neither does the trademark Ford beauty, which she puts to good use.

Early on, Wren learned from Mom how to make the most of her green eyes, hair with natural highlights most women pay for, and feminine figure. I’m pretty sure that during her time at Cold Springs High, just about every guy had at least a passing crush on her, but that’s mostly a guess since I was already gone for the majority of those years.


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