7. The Slick Entrance
WEST
I’m nursing a glass of something fizzy and pretending the bubbles are speaking to me. I’m trying— really trying—not to give Eva that up-and-down look that’ll betray me, but holy hell, she’s lighting up the evening. Sundress hugging her in all the right places, hair flowing down her back like some damn shampoo commercial. And there I was in the bathroom with her, up close, touching and smelling her. And I helped her look like that—for another jackass.
Taking another sip does nothing to cool me off. It’s not just the way that dress clings to her curves or how her laughter tickled the nape of my neck in that bathroom—it’s the fact that I know that inside, she’s as beautiful as she is on the outside. I know, corny as shit. Again.
I arrived late to this thing after having to shower and change, so I tried to make an invisible entrance. Eva doesn’t see me yet, which is a good thing because I’m checking her out way too hard. So I’m leaning against the bar with all the nonchalance of a guy who didn’t just have to jerk off in the shower after our nothing-burger encounter.
Then there’s Foster, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Lawyer. When she asked what I thought about him, I froze. I don’t like the dude, but it’s not my place to say. I just told her I could tell her dad really liked him. And right now, Foster’s got her full attention. He’s all pearly whites and designer everything as he—
Shit.There goes that head tilt of hers—the one that should come with a warning label. Her laugh rings out, clear and melodic, and I swear it’s got an invisible string attached to my dick. But she’s eating up Foster’s attention, and why wouldn’t she? The guy’s smooth.
And here I am, computer scientist dude, wishing I could telepathically inform her that Foster’s charm is kiddie pool deep. Instead, I resort to taking another gulp of my fizzy friend, letting the carbonation sting the back of my throat—a cheap substitute for the burn of jealousy.
“Oh my God. West Quinn!” I hear from the beach, and I turn my head and wave to a group of women in bikinis.
“Can we get a picture with you?” one says.
My spirits lift, and I head over to the railing. “Of course.”
After they stand around me and get someone to snap a set of pictures, they thank me, and one adds, “We all voted for you to be the next Groomsman to Groom!”
“Thank you so much—fingers crossed!” Admittedly, my balls just grew a bit. I grab my phone and head to the Groomsman to Groom website to check my stats, finding that I have over twenty-thousand votes. Yow! That’s awesome!
Then I scroll to the comments section, where I read:
BlueVineHighAlum: I can’t believe Weirdo West might get his own show. GROSS!
My mood plummets like cement in water. Really? Someone from my high school had to come and comment bomb me with that fucking high school nickname? That thing’s going to haunt me forever.
Focus, West.I put my phone to sleep and push the comment out of my mind. Weirdo West was years ago, and that dork isn’t me anymore. The new West is having a night in the high-society jungle, and I’ve got to look smooth for the cameras. I push away the old wound and move closer to a group of women and, coincidentally, Foster and Eva. I’m almost ready to work the room—as soon as this drink kicks in.
“Did you ever try that pastrami sandwich at Katz’s?” Foster asks, his voice oozing New Yorkness.
“Only every time I crave a taste of heaven.” Eva’s laugh is breezy. “So how was golf today?”
Foster leans back like a man whose ego has its own zip code. “It started a bit rough. But I made a decent comeback—the story of my life.”
“Is that right?” Eva’s eyebrows rise.
“Absolutely. You should’ve seen me on the back nine. I was like poetry in motion.” He chuckles, and Eva joins in.
Poetry in motion?I choke back a snort. Maybe a limerick in sand traps. And was a very sore loser about it, I might add.
“I love a comeback kid.” Eva sips her wine.
I want to jump in, tell her the truth. But I clamp down on my tongue, hard enough to wince. Not my circus, not my clowns. They head out to the beach, thank God.
Time to mingle.
I stride up to the beachside outdoor bar and approach a group of women who’re chatting as the sea breeze flips their dress hems. I’m about to introduce myself when a sonic boom of Southern charm blasts through the chatter. Even before I see them, his all too familiar country twang and her high-pitched squeaky laugh smack me in the forehead.
What the hell are my parents doing here?
I wince as heads swivel in unison.
“This place is fancier than Club Med!” booms my dad, strutting across the patio in his mustard-yellow corduroy suit.
Mom follows, braless, and wide-eyed beneath her too-big sun hat, waving her hands littered with costume jewelry. Spying me, she yells, “They gave us towels just for wiping our hands, Westie! Neat!”
The guests—a collection of New York’s elite and international jet-setters—stifle their giggles behind manicured hands and designer clutches. Not to mention all the camera operators, who are now getting sucked into us like a black hole.
“Mom, Dad,” I say, plastering on a stiff smile. “You came?”
“Came? With bells on!” Dad does some sort of bad Saturday Night Fever maneuver that reminds me why I’m an abysmal dancer. “You know we’re tight with Zach since he crashed on our couch for a week.”
“Everyone’s looking at us,” Mom whispers, as if she’s just stepped into Oz.
“Yep, they sure are,” I murmur, my cheeks hot. I love them, but right now, I wish I could hit ctrl+alt+del on this scene.
I manage to steer them toward a less conspicuous corner of the patio, but it doesn’t help as Tyson, the head camera operator, follows us. And, as fate would have it, we bump into Neil, looking every inch the legal eagle in his tailored suit. I can practically smell mahogany and leather-bound books.
“West, your parents?” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Neil’s never met my parents—they live two hours away from Atlanta, and he doesn’t come to visit Eva often.
“Yup, these are my folks.” I brace for impact. “Bonnie and Buck.”
“Sure is nice to meet you, Mr. Steinberg!” Mom gushes, pumping his hand with an enthusiasm reserved for winning bingo numbers. “Did you get that fancy suit at The Sharp Suiter? They’ve got great threads.”
Neil’s polite front twitches. “Ah, no, this was custom made.” He adjusts his cufflinks as if to prove their authenticity.
“Custom, huh?” Dad chimes in, eyeing Neil’s attire. “Fancy schmancy.”
A server glides by, offering a tray of unidentifiable seafood appetizers, and Mom inspects a delicate puff pastry as though it’s a grenade.
“Is this one of those blowfish dishes?” Mom asks. “Saw a video on YouTube about it—deadly stuff if it ain’t done right.”
“Uh, no ma’am, it’s a vol-au-vent with truffle mousse.” The server somehow keeps a straight face.
“Truffle what?” Dad squints at the pastry, then shrugs and pops it into his mouth. Looking at Mom, he says, “Tastes like mushrooms and chicken, dear. You’ll like it.”
“West, your parents mentioned the groom stayed with them?” Neil’s clearly trying to steer the conversation anywhere else. This crowd doesn’t understand what it took for my parents to get where they are. I’m hellified proud of them, but they’re a bit loud at times.
“Ah, yeah, Zach needed a place to crash for a stint,” I say.
“It was during that rough patch with Paige,” Dad cuts in. “They had a big ugly breakup over his pug, Balls.”
“Really?” Neil raises a brow.
“Paige wanted Zach to get rid of Balls ’cause he was too rough with Coco Chanel, and he was a dirty, smelly mess,” my dad says with the subtlety of a foghorn. “But Zach wouldn’t have none of it. Showed real backbone!”
“Coco Chanel and Balls ended up spending a day together.” My mom waves her hands like she’s directing traffic. “They struck a deal to be respectful siblings. Now everyone’s right as rain.”
“Charming story,” Neil says dryly, scanning the crowd for a rescue.
“Isn’t it?” I resolve to upgrade to the strongest cocktail available at the bar. That story’s not even true—I ended up adopting Balls to help Zach out. And I love that damn dog, who’s going to join me as a groomsman on the day of the wedding.
“Speaking of charming stories,” my mom chirps, “we’re over the moon about West’s next adventure!”
I nearly choke on nothing before managing to whisper, “That’s not for sure yet, Mom. Shh—”
“West is gonna be the next heartthrob on Groomsman to Groom!” Dad booms so loudly a flock of seagulls takes flight. “Just imagine, our boy dating thirty women at once!”
Mom blows out a dramatic phew. “Remember when he was on Paige’s season? Thank goodness that went as flat as a Boomer without Viagra.”
I beg the ground to swallow me whole and say through gritted teeth, “Ah, yes, silver linings.” I really hope I’m not in trouble since they announced something that’s not been decided yet. “Not supposed to talk about that,” I whisper. “New topic.”
“Plus, those sponsorship bucks are gonna be a godsend for our intimate shop, Toys ‘n Joys,” Dad continues, oblivious to the snickers erupting around us. “We’re talking an erotic renaissance! Amazon’s got nothing on our personal touch.”
“Personal experience,” Mom corrects with a nod, as if discussing the weather. She pats Dad’s shoulder. “That reminds me, we have to hand out those samples of organic avocado oil and mango lubricant.”
Faces focus in, some flushed with mirth, others with horror—it’s a toss-up which is worse. I need anything to save me from this social suicide. At least they’re done outing my Groomsman to Groom secret.
Then Eva appears, with all that glossy, midnight hair, and I swear, every coiled muscle in my body unwinds. She sweeps in, saying, “Mr. and Mrs. Quinn!” as she pulls my parents into a hug that sucks the awkwardness out of the air. “I’ve heard so much about your store’s relaunch. Count me in for the grand opening—I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Darling, we’d be delighted! We’re giving kegel-strengthening classes.” Mom beams, clapping her hands. And just like that, the tension deflates like one of my parents’ blow-up love partners.
“Thanks, Manhattan,” I murmur, relief washing over me. Foster isn’t anywhere around, thank you, Jesus.
“Ahh, no worries,” she says. “I love your parents. They’re awesome, like their son.”
And there it is—that effortless way she turns the tide, smoothing over life’s crinkles like she’s ironing out one of those sexy dresses she wears. It’s one of the countless reasons I admire her. Okay, and care for her deeply. But for now, I’m just content she’s by my side.