Chapter 27
Sharing a room with Ivy tonight is going to kill me.
Not like, metaphorically. I mean literally. They'll find my body, and the coroner's report will read, Cause of death: blue balls and bad decisions.
I can't exactly walk up to her and say, "Hey, quick question: want to have sex until I stop obsessing over you?" Yeah, that'd go over great. "PS: I know we're friends and this is probably weird, but I'm pretty sure if we don't hook up soon, I'm going to spontaneously combust."
Tonight's supposed to be the real bachelor party, after the horrible scavenger hunt Kristal organized this morning. This is guys' night. Just poker and whiskey, and whatever other stereotypically masculine bullshit Preston's planned.
Should be great.
If by great, you mean watching a bunch of dudes pretend cigars don't make them want to puke, while talking about stocks, or whatever the fuck rich people discuss.
At least there's booze.
The backyard looks like what happens when you skinned a gentleman's club and stretched it over mountain bones. There's a stone fireplace crackling away beside weathered oak barrels repurposed as cocktail tables, and enough vintage leather furniture to make a cattle ranch jealous.
Dad managed one drink before muttering something about "early start tomorrow" and "waste of good whiskey on you boys." Which is weird, because Dad never turns down free whiskey.
Come to think of it, Dad's been weird all night.
He showed up with his hair actually combed, and a fresh shave instead of his usual stubble.
He kept twisting his wedding ring around his finger like he was nervous about something.
Hell, he barely said three words all evening.
Instead, he just sat there checking his watch, and glancing toward the house every five minutes.
Not that anyone's complaining about his early exit. Pretty sure even Preston exhaled when Greg finally stomped off. The man can clear a room faster than a gas leak, and with about the same level of toxicity.
Over by the fireplace, Matt's desperately trying to mirror Preston's stance—shoulders back, chin up.
He keeps nodding about investment portfolios while throwing around words like "market fluctuation" and "dividend yields" that sound rehearsed.
The Matt I grew up with once ate a live worm for five bucks.
"Raise fifty," Carter says, adjusting his Rolex. "So, about that blue-haired hottie you're rooming with . . . Man, the things I'd do to wake up to that view."
My cards crease under my grip.
"I've been watching that ass in sundresses for days." He downs his whiskey, tongue darting out to catch a drop. "Tell me you've at least gotten a peek while she's changing? No way you're that much of a gentleman."
Jefferson snorts, his tan somehow getting darker by the minute under his white button-down.
"Did you see her at the pool yesterday? That high-waisted bikini thing?
Man, girls like that are always the freakiest. All that modesty's just an act.
" He elbows Carter. "Plus, you know what they say about the curvy ones. "
"Fuck yeah," Carter's eyes glaze over like he's replaying the memory. "Those tits in that retro top? And that ass when she bent over to grab her towel? Built for sin, my friend. Built. For. Sin." He traces an hourglass shape in the air. "The things I'd do to get my hands on all that—"
"Watch it," I growl.
"Come on, Miller. You've had a front-row seat all week. She's got to be gagging for it by now, stuck in that room with no action. Bet she'd be real grateful if someone showed her a good time."
The poker chip in my hand splits clean in half. Dean, looking lost in his pastel polo and boat shoes, shifts uncomfortably.
"She's not like that," I manage through clenched teeth.
"Like what?" Jefferson smirks. "The kind who needs convincing? Because trust me, every girl's just waiting for the right motivation. Even your precious little—"
"Finish that sentence," I say, voice dropping to a growl, "and you'll be drinking dinner through a straw for a month."
"Dude," Dean says, looking between us, "maybe cool it with the—"
"What's wrong, Miller?" Jefferson cuts in. "You getting territorial over your friend? Because last I checked, you don't do the relationship thing. What was it you always said? 'Why buy the cow when—'"
"You can get milk for free, yeah, we know," Matt interrupts, shooting me a look that clearly says don't kill anyone at my bachelor party.
"Boys," Preston says as he joins our table, "the Macallan 18 is meant to be sipped, not slugged like cheap beer." He eyes my nearly empty glass with disapproval.
I drain it just to spite him and Matt shakes his head at me.
The night drags on. More poker. More cigars. More listening to Carter make comments about Ivy that have me fantasizing about creative ways to remove his tongue.
"All I'm saying," Carter's still talking, Jesus Christ, "is that a wedding is the perfect place to win Virginia back. A chance to remind her what she's missing." He winks at Jefferson.
"Please," Dean snorts. "She blocked you on everything for a reason. How about you take the hint?"
Jefferson's face darkens. "We're working things out. Had drinks last night—"
"Yeah, because she had to," Dean cuts in, rolling his eyes. "Wedding party stuff. She literally told Dixie she'd rather eat glass than—"
"Fold," Matt announces too loudly from where he's sitting next to Preston, tossing his cards down. It's his third one in a row, and Preston's pile of chips is growing suspiciously fast.
I catch my brother's eye. "Since when do you fold on a straight?"
"Bad hand," he mutters, but I know better. Matt used to clean out my entire friend group at poker night. That one time he hung out with us instead of studying for college exams, he walked away with three hundred bucks, and James's favorite Patriots hoodie.
"Sure," I drawl. "Nothing to do with sucking up to your father-in-law by letting him win?"
Matt kicks me under the table, but Jefferson's already talking over us.
"Virginia's just playing hard to get." He downs his whiskey. "Give it time. She always comes back."
"Dude," Dean says, "she pushed you into a fountain this morning."
"That was a misunderstanding!"
Preston blinks, reaching for his Rolex. "Good lord, is that really the time? I hadn't realized we'd been out here so long. I should head in. We all have a big day tomorrow with the rehearsal dinner."
"Indeed," Jefferson agrees smoothly.
Preston stands. "Perhaps you gentlemen should consider wrapping up soon as well."
The moment his footsteps fade, Jefferson's polite smile morphs into something wicked. "Actually," he says, standing up and dropping the cards on the table, "I've got a better idea for tonight."
"Yeah?" Carter perks up.
"Who wants to crash a bachelorette party?"
Matt looks torn between his Preston-approved persona and the guy I actually grew up with. "If Magnolia finds out . . ." He glances at the house.
"Already in bed," Carter points out. "If Preston's turning in, you know she is too. Come on, Matthew. Give the country club act a rest."
"Think about it," Jefferson pushes, and I hate how he can read a room. "The girls are doing some lame spa night or whatever. We show up, add some excitement . . ." He flexes, and I fight the urge to remind him that the gym membership clearly isn't paying off. "Make it a night they'll remember."
Dean perks up. "Like Magic Mike?"
"Exactly! Come on, Matthew. One last wild night before you're officially off the market."
"Sarah would kill me . . ." But I can see the gleam in his eyes—that dangerous itch that showed up right before he helped me steal the rival school's mascot senior year.
"Sarah would love it," Carter argues. "Besides, aren't you curious what they're up to? Virginia mentioned something about a stripper—"
"A what?" Jefferson's head snaps up.
"I'm in," Matt decides, already pulling off his jacket. "Come on, little brother. For old time’s sake?"
I stay in my chair, watching these idiots in their thirties act like they're auditioning for Thunder From Down Under. "Hard pass."
"What's wrong, Miller? Worried about getting caught staring at Ivy too long?" Jefferson's smirk turns sharp. "Been doing a lot of that lately."
"Almost as much as you've been stalking Virginia," I shoot back.
"At least I had her." Jefferson's voice drops low and mean. "You? You're just the guy who delivers pizza and pines from a distance. Standing in the shadows, hoping for scraps."
My chair scrapes back before I realize I'm moving, and Matt's hand lands on my shoulder—not stopping me, but pausing.
"Boys, boys. Why fight when we could crash this party properly? One night. Pure mayhem." He spreads his arms wide. "We show up looking like gods, and remind these girls why they can't resist a surprise."
"There's no point—"
Matt leans in close, voice dropping. "You sure about that? Because Carter's been talking about 'wearing Ivy down' all week. You really want to leave her dealing with that alone?"
I glance over. Carter's already got his shirt off, practicing what he calls his 'sex face' in the window reflection.
"She can handle herself," I mutter, but my fists are clenching.
"Sure," Matt agrees easily. "But should she have to?"
Goddammit.
He's right. Carter's the type of guy who doesn't understand the word 'no' when he's sober, let alone drunk. And Ivy's too nice to tell him to fuck off properly.
"Ten bucks says I get her number," Carter announces to the group. "Twenty says she's not sleeping alone."
Fuck. She's not mine, but tell that to the fucking animal pacing in my chest.
"Fine," I growl, standing up. "But I'm keeping my clothes on."
"So that's five of us," Jefferson counts, then smirks. "Unless anyone wants to go wake up Wyatt and his convenient migraine? Though I guess one ass-kicking from Matt this week was enough for him."
"Leave him," Matt says, voice hard. "He's lucky a headache is all he's nursing after the way he has been acting all week."
I knock back the rest of my whiskey, the burn matching the heat crawling up my neck. This is stupid. This whole night is stupid. And I'm about to do something even stupider.
Because Ivy deserves better than Carter's brand of attention, and even drunk me knows that.
Hell, especially drunk me knows that. And, if I'm being honest, I want to see her.
When I'm around her, everything else fades away—the noise in my head, the constant pressure, all of it.
Maybe that's selfish, but it's the most honest thing I've felt all night.