Chapter 12
BOYFRIEND STYLE
REMY
“Smile for the camera.”
The directive comes from a pale, lanky, British guy in a porkpie hat, a Nikon slung around his neck.
He’s the photographer Fresh Face hired to shoot the picnic, starting with the wedding party members and their plus-ones.
Caroline’s brand manager, Margot, circulates here too—she’s over by the tables, fussing with napkins—while a woman named Fallon from Fresh Face stands next to the photographer.
Fallon’s stern as a sentry with her tight bun and no-nonsense expression.
Caroline was right about finding a vibrant color—the teal cardigan I’m wearing looks great with the flowers behind us at the Botanic Gardens, and the khaki pants I’m wearing don’t steal focus.
Lake, though?
He steals focus so hard in his untucked white linen button-down and tan pants that hug his thick thighs and strong ass. The man doesn’t miss glute day, that’s for sure.
Has Clementine’s hockey-playing brother always been this hot? Sure, empirically Lake’s criminally handsome. But he’s also just plain hot. Like sex hot, like do-bad-things-to-me hot, like bend-me-over-the-bed-and-pull-my-hair hot.
And…I really need to be careful about these filthy thoughts running wild as we pose in front of the white snowdrops and yellow and purple crocuses.
Lake’s arm is draped around me “boyfriend style” as he said earlier with a husky whisper in my ear. A whisper that sent a hot rush through me. Like what’s happening now as his fingers curl around my shoulder.
The problem is we’re part of the wedding party, and we’re next to my sister and Parker.
My parents are here too, and I did a quick intro with them and Lake before Fallon ordered us over for pics.
I haven’t seen Jameson yet, and I’m half dreading and half psyched for him to see the arm candy I’ve got.
Oh, was that petty of me? I don’t even care.
“Lovely,” the photographer coos, as he lowers the camera to check the display. “How about just the maid of honor?”
Is that part of the plan? I snap my gaze to my sister. “Do you want that?”
“Yes, that’s on the shot list from Fresh Face,” Fallon interjects. “Proceed.”
Caroline squeezes my shoulder. “I told them you’re a devotee. And it’s good to show how great the makeup looks on someone of a different gen.”
I scoff. “I’m eight years younger. That’s not a generation.”
“In wrinkles it is, my gorgeous little sister,” Caroline says, practically ebullient for her, then grabs Parker’s hand, leading him off with a “Let’s say hi to some of the bridesmaids.”
He smiles dotingly as he replies, “Whatever you want.”
He’s everything she wants—someone who happily lets her take charge.
With them gone, Fallon shoos Lake out of the shot. “Just the MOH,” she says, as if uttering the words maid of honor takes too much work. Then, something must catch her eye across the gardens. “The MIL’s lipliner!”
She sprints to triage Parker’s mom’s makeup.
The photographer smiles my way. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you, love.”
Lake deals him a dark look that does something dangerous to my insides, then steps out of view of the camera. But he stays close as the British shutterbug lifts his lens to capture me. “Now, love. If you can just give me a nice pout, yeah?”
Is that really on the shot list—a pout from the MOH? But Caroline wants everything to go smoothly, so I don’t protest. Instead I get creative and say, “This is my best pout.”
Then I don’t give him my sexiest expression. Fresh Face can have mild vamp only.
“Brilliant. Just brilliant.” He keeps clicking. When he’s done, he says, “Thanks again. You’re fun to shoot.”
It’s said with a gaze that lingers a little too long on my chest. An uncomfortable feeling slithers through me, but I’ve handled moments like this before. I can do it again, by maintaining my professional distance.
“You’re welcome,” I say, my tone distant and clipped, and right as I’m about to march off—since you should always march off from leery men—Lake materializes at my side, setting a strong hand on my arm. “Fallon said she wants FP now.”
I furrow my brow. “Full wedding party?”
“Yup.”
“Why not FWP?”
“I have no idea.” He smirks like he’s in on this too—the silliness of shortening everything.
“They’ll certainly need me, then,” the photographer says. I guess we can’t quite shake Mr. Leery.
Lake turns to the photographer, shifting to full game face—all stony and don’t mess with me. “Yes, they will.” And when Lake returns his gaze to me, his blue eyes flash with warmth, maybe even heat, as he says, “I’ll walk with you, beautiful.”
Oh.
I just acquired a pet name. One that sounds possessive and private rolling off his tongue. Lake ups the ante once more, dropping a quick but firm kiss to my cheek. My skin buzzes, whether from the beautiful or the kiss, I don’t know. Probably both. I smile up at him.
“The moment called for it,” he says.
Is it wrong if I hope the moment calls for a kiss again? “Good thing you listened to the moment.”
“I always do.” The man is seriously delivering on the fake boyfriend role. Like above and beyond.
We make our way to the picnic table, leaving the photographer in our wake. Lake keeps his hand on the small of my back, like we outlined at Costco, but somehow it feels like bending the rules of fake dating. Maybe because it’s delicious and tingly, and I want so much more of it.
But you can’t have it. Or him. That’s not what this is. This is fake.
Reality is seriously irritating.
As we near the party, Lake brushes my hair out of the way and says, “If it’s FWP, then fucknozzle will be here.”
I wince. “I know.”
Lake circles his arm around my waist now, like he’s kicking things up a notch. “Have I told you that you look stunning?”
He said as much when he drove me over here. He’s probably saying it to keep my spirits high. But I like Lake’s compliments, so I eat this one up happily. “A few times,” I say, as we pass purple hellebores on the way to the enemy.
“Because it’s true,” he says.
My heartbeat dares to speed up. But I can’t let my mind be tricked into thinking this fake thing with Lake is real, like my body seems to want. I lean into the playfulness instead. “My, my, you are very super boyfriend-y.”
He pulls back for a second to look at me, like he’s measuring my words and weighing if they add up, but his gaze snaps to the crowd.
I catch an annoying glimpse of Jameson and his floppy undercut, his light blue shirt, his ever-present vest. He’s chatting with Parker, smiling, laughing in that gregarious way he has. He’s twenty feet away now, and any second, we’ll have to do the FWP photos together.
Jameson’s head turns my way, and a second later, he’s taking me in, then boom—he pads across the grass toward me.
Grinning.
Like I’m his long-lost bud.
My stomach churns with dread. This is my first time seeing him since the Jumbotron Dump. I knew this moment was coming, but it doesn’t make it sting any less. That’s the man I was going to say yes to. The man I thought I loved. The man who only wanted to be friends.
But as Jameson comes closer, I don’t feel any more than the residual singe of embarrassment. I don’t feel…much of anything else. Immediately, I know two things. One, we weren’t sparky, fiery, passionate lovers when we were together. And two, I don’t miss him now that we’re apart.
When he reaches me, I go first, since it feels important to set the pace with a cool and professional tone. “Hi, Jameson.”
My ex smiles, glancing from Lake to me and back. “Hey, Remy. Is this your new dude?”
“Yeah,” Lake says, standing taller even though he towers above Jameson. “I’m her boyfriend.”
My cells shimmy from the way he throws down. No bullshit. No games. Just a clear message. The preemptive strike my sister wanted.
“That is so awesome,” Jameson says, and he sounds like he’s happy for me, but almost a little too much. “I was really hoping you’d find someone quickly. And look at you. You did it. Go you.”
I rewind his words and there’s something a little…overly gregarious about them. Maybe he’s trying to keep the peace? I just don’t know. I suppose it’s better than the alternative—him being a total dick. “Yay me,” I say.
Lake cinches an arm around me, nodding to Jameson. “And thank you, man. Remy’s a goddess, and I wasn’t going to miss my shot to be with her.”
And hello, possessive man stealing focus once more. I want to run my nails down his chest. To grab him by the shirt collar. To say mine, mine, mine. “You’re the best,” I say, then what the hell? I give a little tug of his shirt collar.
Who is this possessive demon inside of me? I was never possessive with Jameson. But I like it.
“This is just so great,” Jameson gushes, ruining my demon glow-up. “I love this for you. I started seeing someone too.”
I glance around, looking for the hoptimist. “Where is she?”
“Oh, Chelsea couldn’t make it. She had a thing at her brewery. But hey, why don’t we all set up a double date?”
My jaw comes unhinged. Jameson’s leaning seriously hard into this I’m a good guy and let’s be friends image. I bet it’s all for show. For his bar. For the optics.
I’m tempted to tilt my head and say in a too-sweet tone, “Do you want me to break out the bracelet kit and we can make a matching pair?”
But if I activate my sarcasm, I’ll look like a serious jerk at my sister’s event.
I don’t have to, though, since Lake tugs me closer so I’m flush against him.
He heaves a sigh, like he regrets this so damn much, then shakes his head at Jameson.
“Thanks for the invite, but I don’t share. Even our dates.”
On that mic drop, the hockey stud cups my cheek, drops his mouth to mine and brushes a tender kiss across my lips. My brain goes whoosh as he claims me in front of the whole wedding party, but especially the guy who broke up with me in front of the whole hockey arena just over three weeks ago.