Chapter 1
Logan Reed jammed a finger into the neck of his white oxford and pulled. He needed some fucking air.
What the hell was he doing here anyway?
As he surveyed the church, a bead of sweat popped out on his forehead. His breathing had become shallow and quick. He was going to hyperventilate right there and pass out, making a fool of himself in front of everyone.
With a start, he realized one of the ushers was speaking to him. “What?”
“Bride or groom?”
Bride or groom? Did he look like a bride?
All he wanted to do was strip off his stiff shirt, strangling tie, smothering jacket; throw on a soft, worn pair of jeans and one of his comfortable shirts; sink into his couch; toss his feet on his coffee table; and chug a nice frosty beer.
Now that was a fantasy!
But here he was, standing in a monkey suit in a church, about to be struck down by lightning at any second. He blew out a long breath to settle his thumping heart.
Logan stared at the confused usher. Unfortunately, he understood the feeling. “Neither.”
“Are you okay?”
Logan had vowed to himself to never do this again. Never be in a church again.
He reminded himself he was only there to observe. He didn't have to participate. But it didn't help. Anyone with as many sins as Logan should’ve been barred from religious houses. That should’ve been a law. But it wasn't.
For fuck’s sake, he had to get a grip. This was a wedding, not a crucifixion.
He had promised his sister he would be here. And even though Logan was a sinner, he never broke a promise. Never.
The usher cleared his throat.
“Dude—”
Logan pinned the suddenly flushed, sweating kid, whose suit looked two sizes too big, with a glare. “Dude?”
He watched the teen's Adam's apple bob up and down a couple of times before he felt a whoosh of air against him, and someone grabbed his elbow. Hard.
“Logan! How nice of you to get here on time.” The female voice was singsong and syrupy sweet. And it held a lot more meaning in the tone than in the words.
Logan turned to face his sister. He had to look down because she was nearly a foot shorter than him. “Hey, Shorty. Good timing.”
The petite brunette gave him a tight smile. “I see that.” She turned to the usher. “We're with the bride,” she said sweetly. “We'll just seat ourselves. Thank you.”
The usher looked relieved, and Logan almost felt bad. Almost.
The grip on his elbow tightened, and without warning, his sister dragged him down the aisle and over into one of the pews on the left.
“Sit down,” Paige said through gritted teeth, even though her face held the biggest smile.
He sat.
She smoothed her dress and tucked it ladylike as she settled into the pew beside him.
“Jesus Christ, Shorty. What the hell is your problem?”
Logan watched her plastered smile falter.
“Logan, you’re in a church, for God's sake.
It's not the best place to take the Lord's name in vain.
And if you keep doing that, I might have to move to another pew so when lightning strikes you dead, I'm in a safe spot.” She smoothed her done-up do and gave a pacifying smile across the aisle to the older couple staring at them, mouths agape.
“Hey, I didn't want to be here in the first place.”
“I ask you for one favor—”
“One? Hmm. You must have a short memory.”
“Okay, okay. Knock it off. Believe me, I appreciate your coming.”
“And the thanks I get is a bruised elbow?”
“Sorry, I thought you were going to make that guy piss his pants.”
“Well, shit, he called me dude.”
“Oh yeah, that's so much worse than you calling me Shorty.”
“I thought you liked it—” Paige elbowed him in the gut before he could say anything besides “ooof.”
The wedding march started, and the double doors opened to reveal the bride.
His sister owed him big-time.
Quinn Preston almost choked on her Alabama Slammer when her friend elbowed her in the ribs. “Ooof.”
She saved her drink before it could spill all over her ugly bridesmaid dress.
Yeah, that would have been a shame: to ruin such a nice, frumpy, pukey pink taffeta dress.
One the bride had said she would be able to wear in the future.
Like to a cocktail party. Or maybe her own funeral.
Yeah, right. No one in their right mind would want to get caught dead in this thing.
Ruining the dress wouldn't have been a loss, but losing her drink would have. She was drinking Slammers for a reason—to get good and drunk.
Lana nudged her again. “You see that?” She nodded her head toward the back of the room.
“What?” Quinn really didn't care what Lana was excited about.
She just wanted to get this day over with.
She was tired of watching the happy couple.
She was tired of pasting on a plastic smile for the photographer.
And she was really tired of listening to the sappy congratulations.
All things she might never have—the wedding, the husband, the bridal bliss.
Something her parents never failed to remind her.
Especially now that she was in her early thirties. And single. Again.
“Not what. Who.”
“Huh?” She sucked on the dainty little straw the bartender had put in her drink. Hardly anything would come out of it. Maybe it was designed just for stirring. She pulled it out and threw it onto the bar. She really needed one of those giant straws that came in those fancy frozen drinks.
“Him. Over there.” Lana grabbed Quinn by the shoulders and turned her around to face whatever had caught her friend's attention.
“Oh, him.” She took a deep draw of the punch-like drink, only there wasn't a bit of punch in it. Not the fruit kind anyway.
“Yeah, him.” Lana dragged out him like she was sucking on a maraschino cherry and enjoying the sweetness on her tongue.
Quinn didn't even take a good look. Men were on her shit list at the moment. She didn't care how hot they were. The potent drink in her hands was all the company she needed. She smiled into her glass; it was the best date she'd had in a while.
Another pink taffeta blur whirled up to them, out of breath.
“Jeez Louise. Did you see that hunk of man meat?” Paula, another victim of the wedding fashion nightmare, was flushed and had a bead of sweat running down her chipmunk-like cheeks. “Do you think he's single?”
Quinn raised one shoulder in a half shrug and turned back to the bar.
It was bad enough when the three of them had to stand next to each other at the altar, then throughout the grueling pictures, followed by having to sit beside each other at the head table.
All in that awful pink froth. But now that it was all over, and they had done their duty for their friend Gina, there was no reason they all had to stand there looking like someone threw up Pepto-Bismol.
She leaned into the bar and asked the semi-cute bartender the time. When he answered that it was six, she gritted her teeth. They had only been at the reception for an hour. It was way too early to bail.
Damn.
With a sigh, she turned back to her friends. They were still ogling the male eye candy across the room.
Paula's sigh drifted over her. “I wonder if he likes women with a little meat on their bones.”
A little meat? She opened her mouth to correct Paula, but shut it quickly. Her friend didn't need to be on the receiving end of her miserable mood.
“Quinn, I bet he'd make you forget Peanut.”
Quinn winced and took another long draw from her drink.
She loved the flavor and the tanginess on her tongue.
And she was trying to forget Peanut. She hated the nickname her friends had called her ex-boyfriend, Peter.
Once they had actually called him Peanut in front of his face—by accident, of course.
Right. It had taken her a while to brush that one under the rug.
He had never liked her friends after that.
On the other hand, her friends had never liked Peter from the beginning. Unlike her parents, who loved the bastard. Probably more than they loved her.
“Yeah, Quinn, he could probably fuck your brains out, and you'd never remember that douche again.”
Quinn frowned at Paula. She noticed her friend's string of pearls hiding in the skin around her neck. Quinn's hands automatically went to her neck to finger a similar necklace—a part of the stupid wedding costume. Ugh. She hated pearls!
She hated taffeta. She hated pink. She hated frilly dresses.
She took a long swig from her glass.
And she hated Peter. The asshole.
His gift to her last Valentine's Day wasn't an engagement ring. Oh no, after five long, wasted years of dating the shit, he couldn't have gotten her a ring. Nope. Instead he sent her a text message.
That was it.
A stupid little text message. Two simple lines.
This isn’t working anymore. I’ve found someone new.
She deserved more than that. Something better. After all those years of loyalty, standing by his side, being the “good, proper” girlfriend. As Peter had expected. As her parents had expected. The girlfriend any decent man would want on his arm. Right?
Not even a sorry. Not even an explanation. Nothing.
And the next day, FedEx had delivered a box with all the things she had left over at his apartment during the last half decade.
Quinn emptied her glass and turned back to the bar, blocking out her friends' chattering over that man.
She needed another man like she needed a hole in the head.
She slid her glass over the bar top, and before she could ask for another, a deep voice washed over her.
“Put her next drink on me.”
Dumb ass. The drinks are on the house. She turned to ream out whoever it was, and stopped. Her mouth opened, but nothing escaped.