Page 9

Music switches on and the doors behind us open.

Kevin comes out, trotting down the aisle in his tuxedo.

Next is a procession of familiar faces, Blair’s sisters and friends, all dressed in the same ugly purple dress.

Each of them walks down the aisle on the arm of one of Kevin’s friends.

Then the music changes and the crowd stands in unison.

My throat goes dry before I even see her.

This is why people shouldn’t attend their ex’s wedding.

I’m over Blair. There isn’t even a hint of feelings or attraction left between us.

But seeing her in a big, white dress…well, it’s hard not to consider the what-ifs.

What if Blair and I hadn’t broken up? What if it was me standing at the end of this aisle in a tuxedo?

What if I had ruined my fucking life by marrying this woman out of some misguided sense of obligation?

Suddenly, all the doubt I felt after running into Blair at the bar evaporates.

My life is exactly what it should be. I’m sitting here beside the hottest woman in the room.

She may only be pretending to like me, but I’m not so sure that’s any different than most relationships.

There’s a whole lot of pretending involved, and I’d much rather not have to pretend to be interested in anything more than a one-night stand with the women I take home. It works for me.

Blair walks down the aisle in unnaturally slow, hesitant steps while Kevin blubbers up at the altar.

All that normal wedding bullshit. I look over at Marlow as the ceremony begins.

She glances over and gives me a quick, sympathetic smile.

When I turn my attention back to the front of the room, I feel Marlow’s gaze linger on me.

Her hands slides over mine until our fingers are intertwined.

Neither of us looks at each other again until the ceremony is over.

___

Halfway through cocktail hour, it’s pretty obvious that Marlow is a natural at weddings.

If I didn’t know better, I would think she is actually enjoying being here…

and that she actually likes me. She’s beaming at everyone, laughing at jokes (even mine), and touching my arm just enough to let everyone else know that we’re together.

I have to keep reminding myself that we’re not. Especially when Marlow leans against me and my arm finds a natural home at her waist.

Marlow does have a gift for talking to people – I’ll give her that. Most of the women I meet either never stop talking about themselves or look to me to lead the conversation because they hardly have anything to say.

It doesn’t take me long to realize that Marlow’s trick in these situations is the same as mine: keep steering the conversation back to the other person.

People like to talk about themselves. Every time they ask her a question, she provides a brief answer then deflects the conversation back to the other person.

For some reason, everyone finds this charming. And Marlow has definitely mastered it.

She rarely lets more than a couple of words slip about herself. It might come off as humble to others, but to me, it’s a frustrating mystery. An ice princess who never lets anyone see beyond her hard shell of polite smiles and well-rehearsed talking points.

When cocktail hour is over, we are all herded through the double doors into the hotel’s ballroom. As people spill into the room, they all wander around the maze of circular tables, but no one seems to sit down right away.

Marlow’s arm is tucked into the crook of my elbow. She seems to sense my confusion and moves her lips close to my ear to say, “We need to find our table. Just look for our names on the place cards.”

Ah, yes…my nemesis, the place card. The very reason that Marlow is standing beside me right now.

Although, I’m having trouble remembering to be annoyed with this whole situation right now.

She’s sort of the perfect date: friendly, polite, and drop-fucking-dead beautiful in that dress.

There’s no denying that. I see the way that men subtly slide their eyes in her direction as she walks by.

And the way women purse their lips as they give her a lethal stare-down, especially if their date is less-than-subtle about checking Marlow out.

“You’re family, so our table is probably near the front,” Marlow says as she gently tugs me forward.

And she’s right. We’re front and center at a table with my dad and Cheryl.

In the center of the table, there’s a glass food jar filled with sand – or maybe it’s more glitter. There’s some string tied around it with sticks poking out in every direction.

“What the fuck is that?” I ask Marlow in a whisper.

Marlow tilts her head down, hiding her smile from the rest of the table.

“It’s a centerpiece.”

“It looks like trash. Why’s it on the table?”

I don’t miss the way Marlow’s cleavage strains against her dress as she laughs.

“It’s decorative,” she whispers.

“Says who? Oscar the Grouch?”

Marlow gives me a playfully scolding look, tilting one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows up. As much as I’d like to think that Marlow is just like Blair, I know that the woman beside me would never throw a heap of trash on a table and call it décor.

The other seats at our table start to fill up. My dad and Cheryl are the first to arrive. Before Marlow is done laying on the charm for both of them, Cheryl’s sister and her husband join us, along with her daughters and their dates.

I’ve heard Cheryl mention her sister before, but I’ve never met her or her kids.

Before introductions are done, the DJ starts yelling indiscernibly into the microphone about something.

A second later, the doors part again, the music cranks up ten notches and the wedding party starts dancing their way through the room, up to the long table at the front.

These are the people I recognize. Well, at least some of them.

None of them are remotely fun enough people to make this display anything but awkward and embarrassing to watch.

Both of Blair’s sisters shake their flat asses through the room in their poofy bridesmaid dresses while shouting ‘woooo’ at the top of their lungs. The guys beside them are Kevin’s frat brothers, I assume. They’re fist-pumping through the tables to a rhythm that apparently only they can hear.

Everyone cringes. People are adjusting the napkins on their lap over and over again just so they don’t have to look up. An elderly woman is cupping her mouth. Somewhere in the distance, a child is screeching.

For the grand finale, the DJ yells something else into the microphone as Kevin and Blair walk into the room, their fingers locked together as they raise their arms in the air together.

Blair puts on a fake-as-shit look of surprise.

Like she didn’t know we were all sitting here waiting for them to enter the room.

Marlow grabs my hand under the table. When I look over at her, she smiles at me and squeezes my hand.

“You okay?” she mouths.

I nod and try to wipe the disgusted look off my face. I think she’s misinterpreting the reason behind it. And if Marlow is, so are other people. I rearrange my face into the most neutral look I can manage.

The waiters start buzzing around the tables, filling wine glasses and delivering salads. One of Cheryl’s nieces wastes no time launching into a conversation about her new baby.

“We’re so happy…but we haven’t slept in weeks.”

“He’s such a joy…but parenthood is a nightmare.”

“We love him…but he just never stops crying and pooping.”

Somewhere around the time nipple cream is mentioned, I have fully checked out of the conversation.

Judging by the way she’s gulping down her glass of wine, Marlow is just as uncomfortable.

I reach over under the table and squeeze her knee gently in a show of commiseration.

When she looks at me, we exchange the briefest of ‘what the fuck’ expressions before pleasantly smiling at each other as if we’re just two regular people who are too enamored with each other to care that this woman is babbling on about her chafed nipples.

Eventually, Cheryl is able to get in a few words and asks Marlow and me all the questions that we expected.

“Where did you two meet?”

“Work.”

“How long have you been dating?”

“Not long…just a few weeks.”

The entrees arrive in time to save us from elaborating too much.

The waiter sets Marlow’s plate down first. It’s a beige lump of chicken breast with scalloped potatoes and roasted vegetables.

Mine is a steak with mashed potatoes and the same vegetables.

Marlow side-eyes me and then looks down at my plate.

Shit.

She’s a vegetarian.

When I RSVP’d to the wedding, I had to select dinner options for both of us, but I didn’t know who ‘us’ was yet. I picked chicken and beef. They seemed like the safest choices at the time. Lots of people don’t like fish, and I never would’ve guessed that I’d be bringing a vegetarian as my date.

“Do you want me to flag down a waiter and ask for something else?” I whisper to Marlow while everyone else starts digging into their dinner.

“No, it’s fine.”

“You don’t need to eat that, Marlow.”

“I’m not…you are,” she says as she plops the chicken on my plate when no one’s looking.

“What are you going to eat?” I ask.

“The potatoes and vegetables…and probably your potatoes, too,” she laughs.

“Fair enough.”

I’ll gladly sacrifice my potatoes to keep Marlow happy and to keep our table from becoming suspicious.

The lull in conversation while everyone takes their first bites provides ample opportunity for Nipple Cream Lady over there to start blabbering on about the unpleasantries of motherhood again. This time, she leads with a detailed tirade about cloth diapering. During dinner.

Marlow looks over at me, raising her eyebrows in a look that can only mean, ‘Is this woman fucking serious?’ It’s a quick glance that no one else can see, but it makes me laugh out loud.

My eyes linger on her mouth for a second too long.

The delicate bow of her soft lips is suddenly front and center in my mind.

She catches me staring but doesn’t turn away.

Instead, she gives me a curious look and straightens up in her chair.

This offers the distraction that I need, since it puts the swell of her cleavage on full display.

Marlow’s look shifts from curious to knowing.

It’s a smug little smile, like she just solved the world’s hardest puzzle.

And I know that puzzle is me. She caught me in a moment of weakness where I have to admit that not every single part of me hates Marlow Stephens.

In fact, there is one part of me (which is luckily hidden beneath the table right now) that responds rather positively to her sometimes.

Because I am at least a little bit of the asshole that she believes me to be, I take the opportunity to see if Marlow’s hate for me runs as deep as she’d like everyone else to believe.

Settling my gaze on her, I reach up and run my thumb over that pouty lower lip of hers, dragging it slowly across her mouth. Marlow squirms a little in her chair, but it’s not out of discomfort. Her breath stalls and her eyelashes flutter together.

A wave of something like pride rushes through me because in that moment, I know that there is some part of Marlow that responds positively to me as well. Even if she’ll never admit it out loud.

I drop my hand and smirk over at her, breaking the tension of the moment.

Realizing that I was only fucking with her, Marlow blots her mouth daintily with a cloth napkin and mouths the word ‘Asshole’ so quickly that no one but me would ever catch it.

Unfortunately, touching Marlow’s lips did very little to quell the growing situation under the table. Dealing with an erection during an already awkward dinner is a small price to pay for beating Marlow at her own little game though.

We both turn our attention back to our plates. I down Marlow’s chicken breast quickly. Marlow is taking the opposite approach – dragging out each dainty bite to make it seem like she’s eating more than she is. But I also see the way she’s side-eyeing my mashed potatoes.

“You want to try some of my potatoes, babe?”

“Sure, babe .”

It sounds more like a threat than an invitation, but she’s still smiling. She knows I’m still fucking with her. Might as well go for broke.

Marlow reaches over with her fork, but I beat her to the heap of potatoes on my plate. Scooping a bite onto my fork, I hold it out for her.

She stares daggers at me. When she leans forward to capture the bite in her mouth, Marlow takes her time running her full lips across my fork. As she swallows the bite, she moans like she’s having sex rather than eating dry mashed potatoes.

In a breathy, sultry voice she rasps, “Oh, that’s so good” loud enough that only I can hear her.

Yeah, so I lost that round.

Marlow raises an eyebrow at me just to rub it in.

Our eyes snag on each other for a second too long. It dawns on me that we’re actually getting along. There’s nothing fake about the way we’re joking around. Sure, we’re lying like crazy to everyone else, but we aren’t putting on a show for anyone else right now.

Why weren’t we doing this all along? We could have been joking around and having fun at work instead of finding new and interesting ways to make each other miserable. We could probably even legitimately be friends by now if we always acted like this.

Then something snaps in Marlow. She tenses up and sets her jaw, slowly turning away from me. The anger is rolling off her in waves. I have no idea what I did wrong.

Well, it was nice while it lasted, I guess.