“And I don’t have to play that either.”
“You’re officially the luckiest bastard. Congrats on the exodus from the wedding business. You were keen on that.”
“I’m not totally out the door, but it’s swinging in that direction.” He scrubs a hand across his goatee, glancing thoughtfully at the sky. “Speaking of, how’s your exit plan going? I bet business has been even better after that Gentleman’s Style piece from a couple months ago.”
“The one where the bloke from the UK bragged about how fast his undercover groomsman business was expanding? He’s enjoying The Wedding Ringer effect, for sure. That film has been the best thing that ever happened to the business. Good thing I started my work well before Kevin Hart made it look cool, so I could ride the wave too.”
“But you do know you can’t do this forever?”
This is typical Walker. He’s the wedding-circuit Buddha, and he sees it as his duty to share his wisdom.
“Thanks for the reminder. I was starting to think I was going to be making toasts in my fifties.”
He shoots me a stare, holding his ground. “It’s my job to remind you of the benefits of having an exit plan. The money can start to seduce you, make you think it can be your full-time lifetime gig. And I know you have other goals.”
I flash an easy grin. “The whole gig is one gigantic see-you-later strategy. And I’m paving the path toward it every damn day.”
“Keep paving it, man. Otherwise, someday you’re going to be waxing eloquent on the radio about how to land a promotion, and when you leave, the guy down the hall will remember the toast you gave at some wedding as Jay the best man, or Jackson or Jackoff.”
“Good thing I’ve been using the name Walker lately,” I say, then wave goodbye with my middle finger.
I take off, running the last mile home, repeating Walker’s reminder that this is temporary, even though the pay is quite good lately.
Quite good indeed.
When I return to my place, I down a glass of water, settle in with my laptop, and power through the speech. Next, it’s shower time, where I do not think of Truly.
As the water beats down, I don’t picture her jumping rope, or taking up boxing, or shaking her fantastic arse in that booty boot camp this morning.
That would make me a dirty perv.
Oh, right. I am.
Because, hell, she looks good when she sweats.
And she can screw like a woman who loves her cardio.
Dammit.
I can’t let this tempt me.
Even though I am tempted. I have been since I met her a few years after settling into New York City. Having dual citizenship courtesy of an American-born, London-raised father gave me the flexibility to live here, one of the few decent things he managed to pass on. I connected with Malone first, thanks to the softball league we both play on, then got to know his sister soon after.
Seemed a bit like a big “piss off” from the universe to make the sister—twin sister, no less—of a good mate a right fucking fox.
But she is, and she has a fiery personality too, which is an even bigger turn-on.
I resisted for years. And soon, resistance became the norm. It was easy enough to be friends with her, to sign up for crazy, heart-pumping classes together, to run a 5K by her side.
That was how we operated. She was one of the gang.
Until that night earlier this year. She’d suggested we go snowboarding, and naturally, I’d said yes. We’d spent a Saturday shredding the white powder on the slopes a couple of hours away, tackling tough run after tougher run. That evening, still high on adrenaline and black diamonds, we wound up staying the night in her room at the ski lodge.
We didn’t sleep more than an hour.
The next morning, as daylight shone its harsh light on our misdeeds, we vowed never to fall into bed again.
I knew that was for the best, especially after she explained why.
And her reasons are only a few of many that steered me back onto the well-trodden path of resisting her. Now she’s going to help me with my work, which needs all my focus as I finish up these gigs.
I rinse, turn off the shower, and grab a towel. Once I’m dressed, it’s time for business mode, so I put on a button-down shirt—always best to look proper—and log into Skype for a virtual coaching session. When I’m done, I see I have an hour free before I meet Truly.
I decide to give Abby a ring.
Her adorable, freckled face fills the screen. My favorite person looks exhausted, her brown eyes deeply shadowed.
Her brown hair is knotted in a messy bun. She yawns a “Hello.”
“You look completely knackered.”
“Gee, thanks. And you look like shit too.”
“Aww, that’s the sister I know and love. Always ready to sling mud at her poor, beleaguered brother.”
She shakes her head, bemused. “You’re so dramatic. And do you think I don’t know I look like the poster child for Buzzfeed’s List of Top Ten Signs You Need Sleeping Tablets? I’d be one through eleven.”
