Page 14 of The Worst Best Man

“Don’t fuck with my extensions!” Taffany screamed.

“Oh. Shit. Here we go again,” Pru muttered. She put her fingers in her mouth and whistled. The sand volleyball game came to a screeching halt as Chip called a timeout.

“Babe?” he called from the beach.

“They’re fighting in the pool again,” Pru called back and pointed.

The groomsmen, ever the gentlemen, sprang into action echoing gleeful shouts of “cat fight.”

Davenport, tall and skinny, took up position on a lounger and pulled out his phone. “Okay, I’m recording!” Digby, the shorter blond with eight-pack abs that he was constantly showing off dove into the water like an Olympian with Ford—Bradford on his birth certificate—hot on his heels. Ford let out a war whoop and cannonballed into the fray.

Aiden surveyed the scene from the safety of the beach.

In moments, Digby and Ford had wrestled the girls apart. “I hate all of you,” Margeaux shouted, slapping the water in disgust.

“I hope your herpes flares,” Taffany screeched, trying to claw her way over Ford’s shoulder.

“Jesus, if my dad catches wind of this, I’ll never hear the end of it,” Pru lamented. Chip pulled her into his arms.

“Don’t worry, babe. We’ll just get them drunk and make them sleep it off in their rooms.”

“My hero,” Pru sighed, turning to kiss her groom.

Frankie watched the groomsmen drag the girls and the bottle out of the pool. “Let’s do shots,” Digby decided.

“Shots!” Taffany made a mad dash toward the bar.

“Hey there, maid of honor,” Ford said, flashing Frankie a wink and a grin. He was ridiculously good-looking. They all were. But Ford had a boyish charm that was hard to resist and was constantly falling in love. It never lasted longer than a week or two. But every time, he insisted that “this girl is the one.” He’d tried to convince Frankie to go out with him for going on three years now and vowed that he wouldn’t rest until they were married with eleven grandchildren and a house in the Hamptons.

“Don’t talk to her!” Margeaux hissed, sliding her arm around his wet waist. “Pay attention to me.”

Frankie wiggled her fingers in greeting and watched Ford wrangle the angry blonde away.

“God, I hope he doesn’t fuck her again,” Chip murmured as they watched the sloppy foursome make a spectacle at the bar.

“That would be unfortunate,” Pru agreed. “Davenport, you remember you signed a non-disclosure agreement, correct?” She looked pointedly at the man reviewing video on his phone.

“Come on, Pru. This is like debutantes gone wild.”

“No.”

“Don’t make me delete it. This is ideal blackmail material if Margeaux ends up landing a senator or something.”

Pruitt’s lips quirked. “Fine. Keep it, but don’t post it. This is a low-key, private wedding.”

Frankie shook her head. She would never understand the upper class. You could be ostracized for carrying last season’s bag, but wrestle a rich bimbo into a pool over a bottle of vodka and that was fine. “I need a drink,” she announced. “And not from that bar. Also, food.”

“I would be honored if the lady would accompany me to dine upon whatever this humble establishment can supply, though it will surely dim in comparison to the delectable nature of one as lovely as she.”

Frankie blinked at Davenport. “Oh Jesus. Are you reading Chaucer again, Dav?”

“Ladies love a man with a romantic turn of phrase. Plus, Digs bet me I couldn’t pick up a chick spouting off classic literature.”

“Well, it worked on me. Feed me, and tell me I’m pretty, and I’m all yours,” Frankie joked.

Davenport offered her his arm. “Dost the lady care for seafood or pizza?”

“Definitely pizza. And a beer.”