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Or rather, Harrison’s whiskey.
The thought makes me smirk to myself. I’ve been carting this bottle around all night at great inconvenience to myself just because I refuse to let him have it back. It’s stupidly expensive bourbon, but he can afford another bottle.
He loves to dig at me, so this is my petty revenge. Bourbon theft.
That’s another reason I was going to just grin and fucking bear it today.
Harrison.
If my feelings for Ivy are straightforward—I love her but the timing was never right between us—my feelings for Harrison are a tangled and twisted mess.
As an introvert, I’m drawn to the opposite, and Harrison is definitely that. When I first laid eyes on him, my impression was that he was hot as fuck and a lot of fun.
He’s both.
The things he can do with his talented tongue…
I shift and clear my throat, wishing I could adjust my dick in my tux pants. I never bothered putting on my tie or jacket.
But after a night filled with laughter and then a whole hell of a lot of naked fun, Harrison sneaked out of my apartment at dawn before I woke up and then didn’t answer my calls. I felt like a complete idiot for misreading the signals. I’d thought we had a connection. I’d woken up prepared to make breakfast for him and I don’t even cook.
Maybe I’m more of a romantic than I like to think.
Not Harrison.
It was rude as hell.
Even if it was a casual hookup to him, I still think someone who got naked with you deserves the courtesy of a goddamn goodbye.
I’m an adult, I can handle a “this was fun, but nothing else” brush off. But say something.
Then again, Harrison is best friends with Brad, the disappearing groom, so there you go.
“Fuck ghosting,” I mutter aloud.
Even as I say the words, I’m looking all over the barn to see if I can find Harrison. He’s nowhere to be found.
“Damn right,” Patrice says, sidling up alongside me in a plunging red dress with earrings shaped like champagne bottles. “Fucking ghosting. But that’s L.A. for you.”
Ivy has known Patrice longer than me and they’re friends, but Patrice is a little flaky. She is just as likely to do the ghosting as to be ghosted.
“Bourbon?” I hold the bottle out to her. My wrist is getting tired from gripping the neck and picturing breaking it over both Brad’s and Harrison’s heads.
I glance over at Ivy. She’s throwing back a shot of something, which makes me frown. I feel like she’s already had enough to drink.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Patrice accepts the bottle and takes a sip. “By the way, it’s not weird at all that you’re standing on the edge of the dance floor pining for your best friend at her wedding with a bottle of liquor in your hand and your hair artfully disheveled.” She reaches over and ruffles my hair. “It’s actually a rom com, Liam.”
I yank my head away from her touch, frowning. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh. Sure you don’t.” The look she gives me smacks of pity. “The whole sad writer thing is really working for you.”
“I’m not asadwriter. I work on a science fiction show.” I also happen to be secretly giddy that Ivy isn’t married.
Patrice eyes me up and down. “Uh-huh. Sure. Hey, did you know that if you wear a red dress to a wedding as a guest, it means you fucked the groom?”
That yanks me out of my complicated thoughts. I stand up straight, turn, and stare at her. Patrice has chaotic layered black hair, thin lips, and heavy eye makeup.
Patrice is wearing a red dress. “Did Brad cheat on Ivy with you?” I demand.