26. Dutton
Dutton
I f someone would have told me a year ago that I’d be at a seaside wedding making small talk with Mickey Mikalski, I’d have said they were smoking the good shit.
And yet, here I am.
Granted, there’s no sparkling conversation going on here, but that’s because the man still hates my guts and because my version of small talk is pathetic.
Luckily, the two of us have Viv McDonald to keep things rolling.
She’s Maggie’s best friend, and since Mickey and JT are tight, I guess the four of them hang out a lot.
Well, five, counting the baby. And I’m only guessing that’s true based on the stories Viv’s been telling.
I haven’t caught every word because I’ve been watching the double doors like a hawk, waiting for his prey.
Or like a college guy waiting to catch a glimpse of his girlfriend.
“So, then, I was like, wait…maybe we really can do this,” Viv says, moving animatedly. “I mean, I’d never done any pet-sitting before, but sheepdogs are so cute. How hard could it be?”
Mickey’s hanging on every word she says, even though he’s in the story and knows every detail.
This girl can’t be taller than five feet, and she looks like she could fit in Mickey’s pocket, but she may have even more energy than he does.
I'm nodding along and raising my eyebrows when she uses words like “flammable” and “self-driving lawn mower.” I don’t care how much these two claim they're just friends, because after spending five minutes with them, even I know they’re perfect for each other.
But I’m not here to play matchmaker. I’ll leave that shit to Ollie. I’m here for one reason and one reason only, and that’s to make sure Bridgette makes it through the next few hours.
After what feels like forever, the doors open and the deejay begins announcing the bridal party.
They all file in, followed by the bride and groom, but I’m not looking at anyone other than Bridgette.
How the hell could I? She’s fucking stunning, even if that dress covers way too much skin.
The dark green material makes her eyes sparkle, and all that beautiful red hair of hers cascades down her back.
I watch as she takes the dance floor with the balding dude who’s been her partner all day. They’re the tallest two people in the bridal party, and he’s married with two little kids, but I still don’t like his hands on Bridgette.
The minute the dance is over, I stride across the room with one goal in mind: to show Bridgette—and everybody else in here—that she deserves to shine.
It’s probably in poor taste to show up at someone’s wedding with the sole intent of making another guest upstage the bride, but it’s also in bad taste to verbally harass and bully your own damn cousin, so I don’t feel bad at all for drawing attention to Bridgette on Jocelyn’s special day.
When I approach Bridgette and her dance partner goes in search of his wife while the rest of the couples stay connected and move around the dance floor, she looks a little shocked. “I don’t think the deejay opened up the dance floor yet,” she says, biting her lip like the good girl she is.
“And I don’t think I give a shit,” I say, as I lead her around the floor. We’re only a few measures into the song when she narrows her eyes at me.
“You’re an even better dancer than you were on our first date. How is that possible? We haven’t been back since then.”
“We haven’t,” I agree. “But I have. Howard taught me everything he knows,” I tell her, lifting my arm to let her turn toward me in a spin.
We’re floating across the dance floor, and the look she’s giving me makes me feel like a fucking king.
But more than that, I can tell she feels like a queen, and that’s the whole reason I recruited help.
I’ve got enough natural rhythm not to embarrass her out here on the dance floor, but Bridgette doesn’t deserve mediocre or passable.
She deserves the very best. She deserves someone who doesn’t just show up, but knows how fucking lucky he is to be in her presence.
It’s funny because when we met in the business major forum online, my handle was CenteroftheUniverse.
It made me sound like a jackass, not that I cared.
But Bridgette looked past that and offered to help because that’s just the kind of person she is.
And, now a couple months later, I still don’t give a shit what other people think, but she has become the center of my whole world.
“Howard? From the dance hall?” she asks, tilting her head like she’s not sure she heard me right.
“Yeah. I called in reinforcements,” I admit, showing off some of the fancy footwork I learned. “I couldn’t be out here looking like some chump, not with you in my arms.”
I dip Bridgette dramatically as the song ends, and my eyes lock on her body.
Fuck . We are at a family wedding in enemy territory.
Now is not the time for my dick to do its impersonation of a steel beam, but I can’t help it.
Her back is arched, elongating her neck and putting those perfect breasts of hers directly in my line of sight.
She’s so damn graceful, so sexy, so mesmerizing.
I wouldn’t blame the bride for being pissed as hell, because Bridgette’s so effortlessly beautiful, so genuinely stunning that she outshines her obnoxious cousin without even trying.
She straightens and we freeze for a moment, so caught up in each other that the rest of the room falls away.
When the deejay cranks the music again, we’re jolted back to reality only to realize that all eyes—including the ones that belong to the bride and her mother—are glued to us.
We’re making a bit of a scene, and it feels damn good.
“Did you know Howard has two girlfriends?” I ask, pulling her in for a kiss.
She practically melts into my body. “Did you know they’re sisters?” she asks.
It’s a good thing we’re not doing a lift right now, or I’d be in serious danger of dropping my girl.
As it is, I’m fairly certain my jaw is on the floor.
Before Bridgette can fill me in on the drama, she’s being summoned by the wedding planner.
I don’t have any proof, but I’d bet my signing bonus that this additional photo shoot was orchestrated by her aunt out of jealousy.
Even though it means Bridgette’s out of my arms, I’m calling it a win.
It seems like a good time for a break, so I stroll past Mickey and Viv on my way to the restroom.
I take a piss, wash my hands, and then check my reflection in the mirror.
I straighten my tie and run a hand through my hair.
Going to a wedding isn’t on my list of things to do for fun, but I have to admit that dancing with Bridgette was pretty damn fantastic.
Checking my phone, I see a text from my cousin.
For a second, my heart stutters. I know Nick’s just checking in about Mickey’s car.
He’s got to be. I’m ninety-nine percent sure he is, but that one percent chance that he’s calling with bad news about my dad makes it feel like there’s ice running through my veins.
Nick : I’ve got your buddy’s car running again. We doing the family discount on this one?
I don’t bother correcting Nick and telling him that Bran Mikalski and I are definitely not buddies.
Dutton : Thanks, man. And yeah, that’d be great.
Nick : Sounds good. I’ll have a couple of the guys tow it back to the address on Thurston Street and I’ll make sure Marge sends him a discounted invoice. I’ll see you at Thanksgiving?
Dutton: Sounds good. And thanks for helping Bran out, especially after closing time on a weekend.
Damn, Nick’s right. Thanksgiving is coming up. My mom loves holidays and goes all out, from the food down to the decorations. I’m guessing things will be the same this year.
We’re still waiting on dad’s test results, but he’s been having more good days than bad ones, so that’s got to be a positive sign.
I pocket my phone and head back to the party. The deejay’s still spinning tunes, and that means there’s plenty of time for me to dance with Bridgette. It feels so good to hold her in my arms, especially now that we aren’t hiding anymore.
I spot Bridgette talking to an older couple, and I want to interrupt them and take my girl for a spin on the dance floor, but I can’t.
There’s a big-ass catering cart blocking my entrance, and I’m not messing with that shit.
Bridgette and I already stole the spotlight of the bride’s first dance, I’m not ruining her wedding cake.
It’s not that I actually care about this woman or her special day.
Hell no. But I also don’t want to get blamed for sabotaging her wedding.
I don’t need the hassle, and I’m counting the minutes until I can get Bridgettee back into my car, on the road to Bainbridge, and away from her shitty relatives.
I turn down a hallway, fairly certain it leads into the ballroom, but I stop short when I see the bride at the end of the hall. She’s standing there wearing a dress so poofy that it looks like a cloud. She’s got a hand on one hip and an annoyed expression on her face.
What I should do is walk right past her, find my girlfriend, and dance the night away. And I will do that—soon. But first, I want to know why Bridgette’s awful cousin has Mickey cornered.
I know exactly what the many stages of anger look like on Bran Mikalski. That’s no surprise because most of the time, I’m the reason he’s about to lose his shit. Right now, the expression on his face is a solid four out of ten.
I’m not the type of guy to stick my nose in other people’s business or to eavesdrop on private conversations, but I can’t look away.
“What were you thinking, bringing a date to my wedding? You knew I wanted to set you up with Shelby,” the horrible cousin whines.
“You two could be so cute together. You’re not seriously dating the cheerleader, are you?
Because another one of my college friends is getting married in a couple weeks, and I happen to know that Shelby doesn’t have a date yet. That’s all I’m saying.”
Mickey shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m with Viv,” he says, not looking sorry at all.
“Are you, though?” the bride persists. “Because I can pair you and Shelby up at brunch tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t,” he warns. “I’m serious, Jocelyn. I brought a date. I’m not sitting anywhere but next to her, and I’m not interested in your friend.”
The horrible cousin—Jocelyn—frowns. “Fine. I’ll quit bugging you about Shelby, but in return, you have to tell me what the hell is up with Birdie and that hot hunk she brought along. There’s no way those two are together. Did she hire him? Oh my god, she did, didn’t she?”
Mickey's cheeks flame bright and nearly match his hair. He’s practically vibrating with anger and frustration.
For a split second, I worry that he’s going to punch a wall. But, to his credit, he pulls his shit together.
I, on the other hand, do not.
Without thinking twice, I push off the wall and head straight toward them. Jocelyn notices me right away, and she looks like she wants to disappear into the million layers of fluff on her dress.
Mickey’s eyes bug out of his head when he notices me.
I cut the bullshit and get straight to the point. “You had a question for me?” I say, pinning Jocelyn with a glare.
“What? No. I was just talking to Bran. One of the bridesmaids has a crush on him and?—”
“Bullshit,” I toss back, not in the mood for her whiny explanation. “It’s your wedding day, right? Shouldn’t you be greeting guests or dancing, or, I don’t know, spending time with your brand new husband instead of talking shit about my girlfriend?”
The bride starts to sputter a reply, but I’m not in the mood to listen.
“You’re jealous, that’s what this is all about.
Bridgette’s beautiful and kind and so fucking talented.
She’s confident and resilient and so damn sexy.
I’m lucky she chose me, and I know it. I’m gonna earn her love every day.
And what are you gonna do? Oh, that’s right, you’ll be busy putting other people down just to build yourself up.
Fucking pathetic,” I say, walking away and not bothering to look back.
I’m well aware that this woman could whine and cry to her mommy and daddy and probably get me kicked out, but I couldn’t stay quiet any longer.
I’m searching for another hallway that leads to the ballroom when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Before I turn around, I know it’s Mickey. I’m not sure if he’s going to punch me or if he wants to hug it out. With this guy, it could be either or both.
When I turn to face him, he just studies me like he’s never seen me before in his life.
“You really care about her, don’t you?” he asks, like he never would have believed it if he hadn’t seen and heard it for himself.
I don’t call him a dumbass for not seeing it before, and I don’t puff out my chest in a challenge. Instead, I look my teammate in the eye and nod, and go with the truth. “Call it what it is, Mick. I love her.”