Ryan stops right in front of me and sets the coffee down on the ground. I watch as he shrugs out of his jacket and then turns back around to face me—eyes closed. He steps close enough to drape the jacket around my shoulders, and I let out a relieved breath when I’m covered again. The unhelpful brown paper falls to the ground, puddling around my ankles. I pull Ryan’s jacket tightly around me and will myself not to drag in a deep breath of his delicious cologne.
He opens his eyes, and there’s something playful lurking in them. “You know, I still remember the first bikini you ever wore.”
His words pull a nervous chuckle from me. One that sounds wobbly and slightly hysterical because all my insecurities left over from Ben are bubbling up to the surface of my skin after having a man look at me for the first time without my clothes on since Ben cheated. “You do?”
He nods, his smirk not so devilish now and much softer. “It was light blue with white polka dots, and that’s the day I decided we would play shark and minnow every time we all went swimming together.”
I always thought it was because he wanted to prove he was faster and stronger than me. “You caught me every single time.”
His smile grows, and I feel like he’s looking straight through my soul. “Made sure of it. I hated when I had to let go of you.”
“In the pool?”
His gaze holds mine, and he’s quiet for a moment. “Then too.”
The next thing I know, Ryan’s arms are wrapping around me and holding on like he’s afraid I might disappear. He kisses my head, and the tenderness of it all tears me apart. “Do you want me to carry the coffee back there for you?”
“No,” I say into his shirt. “I can take it.”
“Do you want to keep my jacket for a bit?”
“Yes, please.” And I plan on trying to wring it out, extracting drops of his sexy scent into a vial that I will only let myself open and sniff once a year after he’s gone back to Chicago and I’m a lonely, creepy old maid.
“June?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re so beautiful.”
And that’s the moment my heart cracks wide open. I’ve never felt more vulnerable and safe at the same time.
I want to say something, but I’m afraid that if I do, tears will come out instead of words. So I let go of Ryan and bend down to pick up the box of coffee from the floor and then pad my way down the hallway to the bridal suite. I don’t need to look back to know Ryan is still watching me.
I slip through the door, shut it, and then lean back against it with a dummy smile like they do in those classic ’80s movies.
“Uh, that’s not the robe I bought you,” Stacy says, reminding me that I’m not alone.
Each of the bridesmaids’ eyes shoot to me, and when they see that I’m wearing a man’s suit jacket, they erupt in squeals and whistles. “I told you loosening up was more fun! Now get over here and pick a name.”
“A name?” I ask, hesitant to know what their next form of torture—I mean, amusement—is.
“Yeah,” says Carly (ringleader). “We wrote down the name of each single groomsman on a slip of paper and put them in here.” She shakes a little bag in my face. “We each draw a name, and whoever you get is your man for the night. No tradesies.”
I look at Stacy, and she just rolls her eyes, regret of ever asking these women to share her special day written unapologetically across her forehead.
“No thanks,” I say, turning away and going to busy myself with pouring Stacy the first cup of coffee and adding two sugars just like she likes it. There’s no way I’m going home with some guy just because I draw his name from a bag. Not to mention how disgusting it is to do this behind the guys’ back—not even giving them a say. It’s giving off objectifying vibes and I don’t care for it.
“Okay, I’ll go first,” I hear Carly sing.
“Who do you hope you get?” asks another bridesmaid.
“I think you know.”
“Ryan?”
Hearing his name makes my heart stop. Wait. Somehow, I forgot Ryan’s name would be in there. He’s single. He’s a groomsman.
“Duh. He’s so hot.” Carly dips her hand in and pulls out a sliver of paper, and I don’t even remember turning around, but I have, because I’m holding my breath, watching and waiting for her to read off the name.
She smiles deviously. “I got Ryan!”
My eyes shut tight, and now I feel sick to my stomach. I’m filled with a distinct desire to yell STOP and demand that someone push the pause button on life and just give me a moment to think. I just need a second to process. To decide. To weigh all my choices and figure out what I want.
But I don’t get to do that because now the bridal suite door is opening again, and a whole parade of wedding day entourage is entering. Hairstylist, makeup artist, mother of the bride, and Logan’s bratty sister, who managed to wiggle her way in while my guard was down.
I have no choice but to push thoughts of Ryan aside, let whatever happens happen, and focus on Stacy. It’s her day. I will not rain on her parade. And Ryan…well, maybe he’ll go home with Carly tonight and save me the trouble of having to figure out if he’s worth my feelings or not.
Chapter 18 Ryan
Logan and Stacy are married.
They tied the knot about an hour ago, and now everyone has moved on to the reception. I don’t know much about décor, but even I can admit this place looks like something right out of a movie. They spared no expense on this reception. A blanket of string lights hangs above the dance floor, massive flower bouquets sit in the center of each table, there’s an open bar, and a dessert buffet boasts anything with sugar you could imagine.
Everyone has been feeding off the romantic energy, dancing close, stealing kisses from their significant others; and June has stayed as far away from me as she possibly can.
Ever since the incident in the hallway, she hasn’t looked me in the eyes. I think she’s embarrassed by it, but I have no idea what she thinks she needs to be embarrassed about. She literally has a body that makes me want to change both our names and move to some remote island where no one will ever be able to interrupt us so I can devote the rest of my life to showing June just how much I appreciate each of her curves.
Unfortunately, I’m not the only one who’s been appreciating her curves. Ever since the bridesmaids showed up to take photos before the wedding, I’ve had to listen to every male in this wedding party go on and on about June. Her green eyes are hypnotic in that blue dress. Man, that tattoo on her shoulder is sexy. And a whole lot of other comments that I don’t care to relive.
And right now, they are all drooling as they watch her dancing with Stacy in the center of the floor. I don’t like it. I feel like forming a human blockade around her for the rest of the night—arms spread and stance wide, murder glaring at anyone who dares look past me. No one gets a peek!
I’m being a meathead, but I can’t stand the way these slobbering fools stare at her. Like they’re imagining that pretty dress falling to the floor at the foot of their bed. The longer they stare, the more tension grows between my shoulder blades.
And wonderful. When did I become a jackass who wants to keep my woman locked away so no one else gets a chance with her? She’s not even MY woman. She keeps making that fact painfully clear.
“Who do you think picked you?” Groomsman Number One says to Groomsman Number Two. I’ve been sitting at this table on the edge of the dance floor with the other men from the wedding party for about five minutes—which is five minutes too long. Alex is the only guy I can tolerate of this bunch, and he’s on the dance floor, swaying with his girlfriend.
A few minutes ago the guys brought up that they overheard the bridesmaids talking about some hat of names. Apparently they’re all drawing a name and trying to get that guy to take them home? I’m too old and tired for this shit.
“I don’t know, but I hope it’s Carly,” says Groomsman Number Two while wagging his eyebrows like a douchebag.
Number One pipes in now. “I think Katie drew mine, because she’s been all over me since pictures.” He does that thing where he leans back in his seat and rests his elbow over the back of the chair beside him so he can display his chest and arms to the other “weak links” of the group.
“Katie’s cute, though. You don’t want to hook up with her?” asks Number Two.
I’ve only been half listening. Most of me is too busy paying attention to June dancing like an adorable weirdo on the dance floor. But this new development in the conversation grabs my attention and makes me want to groan, because suddenly I realize why Carly has been stuck to me like Velcro all night.
She drew my name, and now I’m expected to sleep with her? No thanks. Her name isn’t June Broaden, so I’m not interested.
