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Story: Daddy's Naughty Bridesmaid
I'll be watching.
I'm in serious trouble. And the storm has only just begun.
CHAPTER 2
The rehearsal dinner stretches into the kind of elegant, endless affair where champagne flows freely and conversations bubble up around stories I'm supposed to know but don't. So far, I've navigated four "remember when" moments with the skill of a professional liar. I wonder briefly if I should be playing poker in Vegas instead of performing this skit as a bridesmaid.
"So Jackie," Greg's mother leans across the table, "Catherine tells me you two were roommates at Vanderbilt?" Catherine’s mother is aware of my job, but the groom’s family is not. Catherine is my client, I do as she wishes. She expressed how Greg’s mother is a real gossip and can’t keep a secret, it’s best to not let her in on the charade, for now, anyway.
I take a sip of champagne, buying myself precious seconds. My notes said UNC Chapel Hill, not Vanderbilt. Either Catherine changed the story or I'm about to crash spectacularly.
"For a semester," I say smoothly. "Before I transferred to Chapel Hill. Catherine and I met in the dorms freshman year."
Mrs. Dayton nods, satisfied, but across from me, Matt's eyes narrow. He hasn't stopped watching me all evening.
"What did you study at UNC?" he asks, his tone conversational but his gaze anything but.
"Event management and hospitality," I lie easily. "With a minor in psychology. You learn a lot about human behavior when planning events."
"I'm sure you do." He takes a slow sip of his bourbon. "Like how to spot a liar, for instance."
The table falls silent. I force a laugh, like this is some delightful inside joke.
"Matt's teasing," Catherine says quickly. "He's always so suspicious of new people."
"Not suspicious," Matt corrects, his eyes never leaving mine. "Just observant."
I meet his gaze head-on, refusing to be intimidated. "And what are you observing, Matt?"
"That you're very good at what you do," he says finally. "Whatever that is."
The double meaning isn't lost on me or on him, judging by the heat in his eyes. The conversation shifts to the wedding itself, and I exhale quietly. Round one to the suspicious brother, but the night is young. I make it through dinner without any more near-disasters, fielding questions about my "history" with Catherine with the kind of vague, affectionate answers that could apply to anyone.
As dessert is served, I excuse myself to the restroom, desperate for a brief escape from Matt's unrelenting attention.
In the mirror, I assess the damage. My curls are holding up, my makeup still intact. I look like exactly what I'm pretending to be, the successful, confident best friend of the bride. But underneath, my nerves are frayed. Usually, I blend seamlessly into wedding parties. No one questions my presence or my stories.
Matt Dayton isn't just anyone, though. He sees too much.
When I emerge from the restroom, he's waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall.
"Ambushing women outside restrooms?" I ask, arching an eyebrow. "How gentlemanly."
"Just happened to be passing by," he says, straightening. In the narrow hallway, he feels larger, his presence more commanding. "Thought we could have a chat. Without an audience."
I fold my arms across my chest. "About what, exactly?"
"About how you and Catherine have supposedly been best friends forever, yet there isn't a single photo of you on her Instagram. Not one mention of a 'Jackie' anywhere in her social media history."
Shit.
I hadn't thought to check social media. Rookie mistake.
"I'm not big on social media," I say, which is actually true. "And neither was Catherine until recently."
"She has posts going back to 2014."
"Are you cyber-stalking the bridal party?" I deflect. "That seems excessive, even for a protective brother."