Page 1

CHAPTER ONE
(Charlotte)
To take the pink bikini ornot to take the pink bikini…
“You’re taking the pinkbikini, right?”
I turned my dropped-jawexpression on my best friend. “Are you reading my mind?”
Sarrah shrugged, looking aseffortlessly cool as ever as she lounged on the sofa that provideda line of demarcation between my bedroom area and my living roomarea. She tossed her glossy black ringlets, and the beads of herdangly boho earrings clicked together. “I’m just here to playcostume designer.”
“I’m packing for mybrother’s wedding. Not playing Madison Square Garden.” I turnedback to the mound of clothing on my bed. I didn’t need a costumedesigner, but I definitely needed someone who could stop me fromtrying to take every item of clothing I owned along for mybrother’s destination wedding.
Sarrah sighed her patentedfed-up-with-Charlotte’s-bullshit sigh. “Packing for your brother’swedding at a tropical resort—”
“It’s in SouthCarolina.”
“Packingfor your brother’s wedding at a resort where there is still goingto be a pool and an ocean andplentyof opportunities to wear thetiniest swimsuit you own,” Sarrah amended. “Believe me, you need tolook hot. Twenty percent of married people met at other people’sweddings.”
“That’s not true.” I picked up a much safer pink ginghamone-piece—when one lived in one’s parents’pool-house-slash-guesthouse, one tended to have enough swimsuits tochoose from.
“It’s probably not,” Sarrahconceded. “But you do know that at least one eligible bachelor willbe there.”
“Ah yes.” I snorted a laugh.“The elusive billionaire my brother mooches off.”
“Says the woman who livesin her parents’ guesthouse,” Sarrah pointed out. “Besides, if youhad a superrich best friend to finance an amazing destinationwedding at a four-star resort—”
“Which he owns, okay?” Ikept reminding everyone of that; it wasn’t like Matthew Ashe haddug deep into his pockets and saved his pennies to pay for mybrother’s fiancé’s dream wedding.
“We take what we areoffered.” She finished with a satisfied flourish of herwrists.
She had a point. My parents weren’thurting financially—a guesthouse, for Chrissake—but they didn’thave resort-wedding-on-Hilton-Head money.
They would have, if you hadn’t wasted it.The closer the date of my brother’s wedding got, the morecritical of myself I became. I didn’t want Sarrah’s evaluation ofmy situation to sting, but it did. I’d dropped out of college. I’dwasted a huge chunk of money that could have paid for a beautifulwedding for my brother. I had nothing to show for my frustrating,on-and-off relationship with college. They might as well have usedthose funds on the non-disappointing child.
“Isn’tthebride’sfamily supposed to pay for the wedding?” I grumbled under mybreath.
“What?” Sarrahasked.
I shook my head. “Never mind. I thinkyou’re probably right, though. Scott does have a lot of richfriends. Maybe it’s time to consider the life of a trophywife.”
“Right, better get hitchedbefore you’re an old maid.” Sarrah gave me two thumbs up. “You’retwenty-five and unmarried. You’re a burden to yourparents.”
“I know you’re joking, butouch.” Not that it was Sarrah’s fault my feelings were hurt. I’dspent most of my life feeling like I let everyone down. Especiallymy brother. Scott deserved a nice wedding.
And why was I being sobitter about the fact that his best friend was rich? I hadthebestbestfriend.
And she gave good advice. I wadded upthe pink bikini and tossed it in my suitcase. “Fine. But I refuseto become a cliché. I’m not going to throw myself in front of therich guy.”
“Agreed. Financiallycomfortable guy. Or girl.” Sarrah paused. “Does your brother evenhave any women friends?”
I scoffed. “Of course he does. He’s notsome kind of misogynist weirdo.”
“Well, you make his friendssound so unappealing,” she pointed out.
“Unfair of me. I haven’tmet them. It’s not like we hang out a lot, socially.” Scott hadbeen fourteen when I was born. He’d been out of the house before Iremembered him living with us.
“Well, this weekend is asgood a time as any to get to know one. Or two. At the same time.”She waggled her eyebrows.