2. Keeley
JANUARY
“I have two goals,” I announce, handing Gemma a margarita and sloshing it all over my hand in the process. This is either because the margarita is too full or because it’s not my first of the day. I have a feeling the Langham Hotel is going to regret letting me host an event here.
Gemma smiles. “Only two? Let me guess, neither of them involves a savings account.”
I pinch her. “Two goals for your party , asshole.”
Gemma, to my vast irritation, ran off and married her boyfriend in an entirely elegant and dignified manner, a situation I hope to rectify this weekend. That was the plan, anyway, until her new brother-in-law, Graham, got involved.
“Okay.” Gemma blots the stem of her glass with a napkin and places it on the table. “Let’s hear these ‘goals.’” She does air quotes around the word goals , which feels a little unfair to me when she hasn’t even heard them, but is entirely fair based on our six-year friendship—she knows how I roll.
“One, to throw you the wedding party of a lifetime. Two, to bang the hell out of Six Bailey. Not necessarily in that order.”
Six Bailey, one of her husband’s many famous friends, is a hot, tattooed man-child, the kind of guy who will fuck like a machine and take off before I can tire of him.
Will he reciprocate my interest? Probably.
I’m blond and blue-eyed and look just like my mother, who once had two semi-famous rock stars get into a fistfight over her on stage.
The interest part seems to take care of itself.
Therefore, Six Bailey is already a sure thing, and possibly the one part of this weekend Gemma’s awful brother-in-law won’t manage to ruin.
“I’m just relieved you and Graham managed to agree on something,” Gemma says. “I was beginning to think this party wouldn’t even happen.”
“I’d hardly say we agreed,” I mutter. Because what’s left of my proposed week-long party in Santorini? Happy hour in a hotel bar today followed by an afternoon party tomorrow. Yes, an afternoon party. Like we’re celebrating a fucking baptism.
“I told Ben the two of you would make a terrible couple. Oh, before I forget, they’ve got a new color of the Sydney stiletto in stock at Stuart Weitzman and—”
“Wait, what ?” I cut in. “Ben thought we wouldn’t be a terrible couple?” What sentient human possibly could have believed that Graham Tate and I wouldn’t shred each other to pieces, and not in a sexy way, if given the option?
As I’ve discovered thanks to way too many phone calls, Graham is the kind of guy who does what he’s supposed to at every juncture.
Other women would call him a “keeper”: he saves money, tracks his macros, and has the next ten years planned out.
He will take you out on a series of polite, respectful dates while assessing your ability to bring up his children and say the right thing at work events.
Personally, I have no desire to procreate, say the right thing or meet someone’s standards. I mostly don’t ever want to be “kept” and, therefore, I avoid keepers like the plague.
“It was ages ago,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Graham had—oh, wait, they’re here!”
Her fingers dig into my arm as she drags me across the room toward her tall and extremely handsome new husband…and the even hotter man beside him, who is supposed to be Graham but absolutely can’t be.
I’ve developed an image of Graham in my head after spending six straight weeks bickering with him by phone, so I know he must be bald and tiny and look two decades older than Ben somehow—though he’s actually two years younger.
He carries an abacus or encyclopedia with him everywhere he goes and uses them to discuss things no one but him cares about. Like taxes or healthcare or politics.
Therefore, the broad-shouldered guy with the bone structure of a young superhero and wearing the hell out of a very nice suit can’t possibly be Graham.
Can I picture this guy with an abacus? No. Can I see this guy with an encyclopedia? Yes, but only in a kinky way. Like maybe he’s about to fuck you in the back of the library and doesn’t bother to sweep the books off the table before he pins you there.
He is not Graham. Except he does look a lot like Ben—the same dark hair, the same perfect bone structure, the same quarterback build—and Gemma is currently saying “two nemesises come face to face” in a British accent as if she’s narrating a nature documentary.
“I think the plural is nemeses ,” the guy who can’t be Graham says with the ghost of a smirk on his face. He has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. “I looked it up in anticipation of this meeting.”
I recognize his low, gravelly voice—even sexier now that I’m seeing the face that goes with it. I also recognize the corresponding desire to punch him.
Ugh . It is Graham. I suppose that means any moment now he’ll be asking me how much these margaritas were and deducting them from his share of the costs.
What a waste. You could sharpen a knife on that jawline. Alas.
His eyes meet mine, though I don’t miss the way they went to my cleavage first. Good . I bought this dress hoping to make the most of my assets, and if even boring Graham is looking, Six Bailey is in the bag.
“Well, well, well,” I say. “Look who put down the actuarial tables long enough to show up at the party.”
“I don’t use actuarial tables in my work. I—”
“I’m already bored, so clearly you’re Graham.” I extend a hand.
“And you’re rude and drunk at noon, so you must be Keeley,” he replies with a smirk.
His hand swallows mine in a firm handshake, and I briefly imagine him consuming me, that massive body of his pushing me deep into a mattress.
I’m not sure why the idea isn’t as dry-heave-inducing as it should be.
Maybe I should slow down with the margaritas.
I glance over at Gemma, hoping she finally sees how terrible he is, which I’ve been discussing at length for weeks, but she’s paying no attention whatsoever.
Her arms are draped around Ben’s neck, and the two of them are all whisper whisper whisper while they smile at each other, lips a hair’s breadth apart.
“Jesus Christ,” Graham groans, just as I whisper, “gross.”
He raises a brow. “I imagine that’s the first and last thing we’ll ever agree on.”
I turn toward the bar and he follows. “Ideally we won’t need to agree or disagree because I very much want you to stay away from me this weekend.”
“Have I somehow given you the impression I want you to stay close? If so, I apologize. Nothing could be further from the truth.”
I give the bartender my most beguiling smile. “I’m going to need several more of these,” I say in a stage whisper, lifting my drink. “It’s the only way I’ll survive today.”
“If you not surviving today is somehow an option—” Graham points at the bottle of whiskey in the bartender’s hand. “—it would probably save me some money.”
Go big or go home , is what I say. And by “go home” I mean die , which is what I’m likely to do relatively soon anyway.
The O’Keefe women die young. That my mother, Melinda O’Keefe Connolly, made it to thirty-six before dying of colon cancer was nothing short of a miracle.
Her sister, Mary O’Keefe, had never smoked even once in her life but still died of lung cancer at thirty-four.
My grandmother died at twenty-eight of melanoma, and my great-grandmother died in childbirth, but I bet cancer would have gotten her if childbirth hadn’t.
Therefore, I simply strive to make the most of the time I have on Earth, and this weekend feels like the kick-off.
My dermatology residency is officially behind me, which means—once I get through a three-month observership—total freedom and a doctor’s salary are about to be mine.
I am going to wrest every ounce of fun from this weekend if it kills me, and if it does kill me—O’Keefe curse and all—I suspect Six Bailey is a good way to go: he is inappropriately dressed, drops the word fuck like it’s the only adjective or noun he knows, and is currently ogling his sister-in-law’s breasts. Openly.
“Holy shit, Drew, your rack got fucking huge ,” he tells her before he turns to me. “It’s okay for me to comment because I dated her first.”
He is in no way a keeper, and he might be my soulmate.
My two-night soulmate.
“It’s not okay,” growls Josh, Drew’s husband. “I’m not sure how many times we will need to have this conversation, but I’m happy to end it the way the last one did.”
“Cut it out, Six,” says Drew. “This is my first night away from the baby in months, and I want my husband in a good mood.”
Six takes a long sip of his drink. “With a rack like that, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about his fucking mood.”
“I’m going to kick your ass”—Josh places his beer on the table—“if you say one more goddamn word.”
Heavy drinking? Threats of violence? A serious lack of boundaries? I’ve clearly found my people.
“No fights,” says Drew, looking between them. “I’m serious.” She grabs Josh’s hand, and when she looks at him, he just settles as if he has everything he needs in the entire world.
Nothing about marriage appeals to me, aside from being able to blow through someone else’s income, but watching them now makes me feel like I’m missing out.
Gemma and Ben affect me similarly. She’s so happy all the time now I barely know who she is—I wish there was a subtle way to take a blood sample so I could make sure Ben’s not drugging her.
Six’s eyes travel over me, head to foot. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re hot. I’m sure you already know that. So how charming do I need to be, on a ten-point scale, to get you to—”
Before he can finish this especially intriguing question, a dark shadow looms over us.
“Can I borrow you?” asks Graham with a hand on my elbow. It’s like being dragged out of a kegger by my dad, if my dad was really hot and young and involved enough in my life to drag me anywhere.
I smile at Six as I step away. “This will be fast.”
Which is something I bet a lot of women say before walking off with Graham.