Page 6 of Accidentally Marrying the Best Man

CHARLOTTE

W hatever gene people have for loving parties, I’m pretty sure mine mutated or died off sometime around late middle school.

Actually, I know exactly which moment it was, and it happened in eighth grade.

Patricia told everyone that the dress I wore to the homecoming dance was one of her old ones that she’d given to charity.

I don’t know if it was true or not, but I got that dress at a secondhand shop. I never wore it again.

But that was high school, and now I stand at the threshold of the Grand Mirabelle’s ballroom, dressed in a brand-new red designer dress, fidgeting with the clasp on my evening clutch. My nerves ping from the tips of my toes, enclosed in red stilettos, straight to my scalp.

Beside me, Nick loops his arm around my waist in a gesture that’s equal parts reassuring and—let’s be honest—ownership.

I like it, even though my stomach somersaults from half anxiety, half anticipation.

I look around the ballroom. The high, coffered ceiling twinkles with glass chandeliers, each the size of a hatchback and pronged with a hundred gleaming drops. The air smells faintly flowery.

I take it all in. The glossy marble underfoot, the walls paneled in honeyed wood, the standing tables crowned with tight sculptural bouquets of hyacinth. Those are probably the source of the floral scent. There’s a gleaming grand piano near the doors, and a tuxedoed man plays background jazz.

Nick squeezes my side gently. “Ready, Mrs. King?” he murmurs.

The word hits me with a heady thrill, then a flush of panic. I’ve attended work parties like this before, but never as a wife

Actually, I’ve never even brought a date to one of these. They always feel like I’m still at the office. The same power plays and passive-aggressive insults.

I glance towards the clusters of chattering people, colleagues who knows nothing about my personal life. “Let’s hope so.” My voice is steadier than I feel.

He grins in a way that feels like it’s only for me, and suddenly I wish this wasn’t a work event at all.

The first test comes within ten seconds. “Charlotte!” chirps Lillian from HR, gliding over in a swirl of lemon-colored silk. "So this is your new husband."

I put on my best polite face. “Yes, Lillian—this is my husband, Nick King.” I get a little thrill of calling him mine.

Her eyebrows arch, then dip as she takes him in, head to toe.

I can almost hear the wheels turning. The name, the hand on my waist, the way Nick’s athletic build fills out his suit.

“How wonderful,” she coos, holding out a hand as if she’s a queen, expecting a visiting dignitary to kiss it.

Nick shakes it, with charming deference. “Lovely to meet you.”

As Lillian launches into a story about a minor catastrophe occurring earlier—something about a rogue glass of Bordeaux.

I steal a moment to scan the crowd. There are the department heads in a knot by the bar, young junior associates orbiting them the way moons circle planets.

Patricia is there, center stage, wrapped in emerald velvet, her laugh sharp and practiced.

She hasn’t seen us yet. But she will.

And Nick will see her. His old high-school girlfriend. They dated for an entire year.

My hands go cold and damp.

Nick picks that exact moment to lean down and brush a whisper against my ear. “Want me to get us a drink or cut in on the canapes?”

I hesitate. I could use both, but I don’t want him to leave my side, not yet, with so many wide, curious eyes locked on us. “Let’s stick together. Safety in numbers,” I murmur.

He squeezes my hip again, a subtle claim. “Anything you want, Mrs. King.”

I’m hyperaware of every word and buzzing like I’ve swallowed a battery.

We edge toward the bar, every few feet punctuated with the awkward stop-start of introductions. Most faces are friendly. Most have that faint gleam of curiosity.

Charlotte brought a man? Since when? Married? Did I know that?

I can’t blame them. I’ve never talked about my personal life. Mostly because I don’t have one. Well, I didn’t have one. My work has been my life. Plus, I’m always scared of giving people like Patricia even a single crack to aim their sharp little arrows through.

I’m collecting my third round of “Congratulations, I had no idea!” from Evan in accounting when I feel Patricia’s gaze narrow in on us.

She approaches with her usual confidence. Shoulders squared, chin high, and nails polished in a sharp, beige gloss that somehow seems both understated and deadly. “Charlotte! I almost didn’t recognize you.”

That’s a lie. Patricia’s never failed to clock me, even if only to make sure she figures out the most vulnerable spots to attack.

“Patricia. So nice to see you,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

She’s already turning her chilly attention to Nick.

“Well, well, well. Nick King, it’s been a while.

But you’re as fine as ever.” Her tone is syrupy, and I instantly hate how my chest tightens at the way her eyes flick over him, just a little longer than necessary.

“I didn’t know you still hang out with Charlotte.

It was so nice of you to pity the poor girl in high school. ”

Nick straightens slightly, meeting her gaze without blinking. “I never pitied her. I spent time with her because she was my friend.”

Patricia’s eyes actually widen, just a blip, but I see it. She recovers fast, though, placing a hand on his forearm, cocking a hip with practiced poise. “And you’re still friends, then?” She laughs, crisp as breaking glass. “I didn’t know you and Charlotte even kept in touch after graduation.”

I feel the earth tilt a few dangerous degrees.

Nick’s expression doesn’t shift, but his muscles tense under my hand.

“We did and she’s my best friend, now.” Nick says simply, his thumb stroking small circles against my waist, just enough to anchor me.

“And my wife.” He holds up his left hand.

A gold band adorns his ring finger. I have no idea when he bought that, but the effect on Patricia is perfection.

She flashes teeth. “This is your husband?” she says. You kept that quiet. I knew you were engaged, but why didn’t you tell me it was Nick—my Nick?

I hear the underlying message: I knew him first.

I have a hundred comebacks—some rehearsed since junior year—but none reach my tongue. Instead, I settle for a calm, “I didn’t know it was important, or that you took such interest in my love life.” I lean a fraction closer to Nick, and he responds perfectly, but kissing the top of my head.

She notices, and her eyes narrow. “I was sorry to hear about your grandmother, Nick. You must be grieving terribly.”

Grandmother King passed away over five years ago, so her condolences are more than a little late.

Nick’s smile sharpens. “I had great support to help me through it.” He gives me a look loaded with private history.

She turns the conversation to mutual friends and “Do you remember when…” The sort of competitive nostalgia in which only adults desperate to prove they didn’t peak in high school engage. Nick gives her one-word answers while Patricia glances at me from the corner of her eye, assessing.

“So, Charlotte,” Patricia says, tilting her head, “you didn’t invite anyone from the office to the wedding?”

I force a smile as the mask threatens to crack. “It was a small wedding.” Truth, technically.

She tips her glass toward me in what feels like a dangerous salute. “I always thought you’d wind up with someone more… sedate.” She holds her gaze on Nick for a breath too long. “But I suppose opposites attract.”

My cheeks burn, humiliation and rage mixing like into a dangerous cocktail. Before I can answer, Nick’s voice cuts in, low and sure.

“Opposite or not, I’ve always found Charlotte attractive.” He fixes Patricia with the friendliest threat of a smile I’ve ever seen, like he’s daring her to push further.

Patricia’s mouth twitches, but she drops it, excusing herself with a “Well, I simply must say hello to Jenny from Finance…” and wafts away, perfume lingering like a challenge.

Nick turns to me, eyebrow cocked. “You okay?”

I nod, slowly releasing the cramp-like grip on my glass. “She’s the worst,” I murmur, not bothering to be subtle. “Why did you ever date her?”

He chuckles, wrapping his arm tight around my shoulders. “I was a stupid teenager, filled with raging hormones, and she developed early.”

I laugh. “Boys are stupid.”

“They are,” he agrees. “But luckily, you’ve caught yourself a mature man. Do you want me to ice her out with my devastating charm?”

I laugh again, and this time it loosens the tension knot in my chest. “She made my life hell in school. Used to call me ‘Lottie Secondhand’ because I couldn’t afford new clothes. I was so mad at you for dating her an entire year.”

Nick’s grin fades, turns soft and serious. “That meant nothing, Charlotte. And it wasn’t for that long. We broke up before homecoming.” I frown. It’s true that they didn’t go to homecoming or prom together, but I thought that was because Nick was home, sick. At least that’s what Patricia said.

Nick puts a knuckle under my chin, nudging my face until I look into his eyes. “I’d rather burn this place down than let her make you feel small. We can leave at any time.”

I lean into him, steadying myself. “I’m sorry, she still gets under my skin.”

He leans in and kisses my forehead. “Don’t let her. She’s not worth it,” he whispers against my skin.

We drift through half an hour of party ritual—more introductions, more shallow conversation, and dried-out canapes.

I watch Nick work the room. He’s better at this than I am.

While he chats with people, his hand maintains contact with some part of me—my back, my waist, my arm, like he’s marking out territory.

It should annoy me, but it feels like a badge. Like his claiming me.

Mine. This is mine.

At one point, when he steps away for drinks, two of my colleagues sidle up. Anne and Fran, both from PR, their faces lit with the glow of unfiltered curiosity.

“So…” Anne starts, voice conspiratorial. “Why didn’t you tell us you were getting married?”

I hesitate. I should have prepared better. “No secret,” I say, holding up my left hand, the light from the ridiculous chandeliers reflecting off the gemstones on my ring. “I wore this every day to the office.”

Fran grins, eyes flicking over to where Nick’s chatting with a senior manager. “I guess I’m just unobservant. Either way, I’m happy for you. He adores you. You can see it a mile away.”

Anne nods, sips her wine. “And it’s killing Patricia.” All three of us giggle, sudden co-conspirators in a new alliance.

Nick returns a minute later, pressing a bracing gin and tonic into my hand. He stands so close that even a wide-angle camera couldn’t crop me out. His fingers brush down my arm, settling with proprietary warmth at my lower back.

I introduce him to a rotation of coworkers who all shake his hand as if they’re genuinely happy to meet him.

He gamely fields questions about his work, “I’m in the security business,” and how we met, “She’s been my brother’s best friend since we were kids.

” He always brings it back to me. How we reconnected, how I “rescued” him by being the only person at a mutual friend’s birthday who could quote all of The Princess Bride under pressure.

His eyes never leave my face for long. Every time Patricia passes—a flash of green velvet and a fake smile—I feel him pull me closer, his thumb skating along the hem of my dress just under the safety of the tablecloth.

After a while, the dancing starts. Nick takes my hand, spinning me onto the floor with a calm confidence that soothes my patched-together nerves.

We settle into a slow sway as the band croons some old standard. The room feels gilded and dangerous, old wounds and new pride colliding somewhere in my chest.

“Do I get a reward for making it through this?” Nick murmurs, forehead brushing mine.

“You’ll get a lot more if you keep being this nice,” I say, only half-joking.

He kisses my knuckles. “I like how you look here. Strong. Even if you’re terrified.”

“Terrified is my default setting,” I admit. “Especially with Patricia.”

His eyes soften, impossibly gentle. “You have nothing to be afraid of. You’re a smart accomplished woman. She’s threatened by you, always has been, that’s why she’s such a bitch to you.”

That’s such a cliché, but I don’t tell him that. “If you say so,” I mutter instead.

“I do.”

We dance in silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Patricia watching, her expression unreadable.

“It’s stupid, isn’t it,” I whisper, “caring what she thinks?”

Nick’s hands grip my waist—possessive, reassuring. “Not stupid. But unnecessary. She’s not worth the energy you’re spending on her.”

He means it. Every muscle in my body believes it.

The night glides on, everything sharp and new. We slip away from the dance floor, Nick’s hand in mine, to the edge of the terrace. Warm air, muted city noise, the relief of being away from all those watching eyes.

He turns me to face him. “I’m proud of you, you know. For showing up here ready to fight your ghosts.”

I look up at him, finally feeling the last sticky strands of old, useless shame unravel.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say. “Thank you for helping me fight my ghosts.”

Nick smiles, brushing my cheek with the back of his hand. “Anytime, Charlotte.” Then, quieter: “I’ll always fight by your side, no matter what battles you face.”

Below, the ballroom thrums on—old patterns, old rivalries, all of it smaller from this distance.

Nick puts his arm around me, and I lean into his warm solid body.

Here I am, standing on the terrace of the Grand Mirabelle, married to the boy I never thought I’d have. To the man that’s been at my side for an entire boring work party.

He dips his head and kisses me, sending sparks of awareness through my body. “Want to get out of here?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” I sigh into his mouth.

He grabs my hand, and we walk toward the lobby and the suite we’ve rented for the night.