Chapter 28
"This is the best worst idea you've ever had," I snicker, stumbling after the guys through the estate's east wing.
The whiskey's hitting just right, making everything funnier than it should be.
We'd spent twenty minutes in Jefferson's room, practicing what he called, "the ultimate strip routine," but looked more like a bunch of drunk frat boys having seizures.
"Formation, little bro!" Matt whisper-shouts, yanking me behind some potted plants. I nearly knock one over, catching it while trying not to laugh too loud. The fancy parlor's been transformed into something between a spa retreat and a sorority party gone wrong.
Sarah and Ivy's voices ring out, completely off-key but full of drunk conviction.
"Holy shit," Dean breathes, taking in the scene.
I peek around Matt's shoulder, both of us barely containing our laughter.
Mary's passed out on a velvet chaise lounge, mouth open, one arm dangling toward a cocktail glass.
Someone's drawn a handlebar mustache on her face with what looks like liquid eyeliner, and there's a tiara perched crookedly on her head.
Meanwhile, Delilah's dancing on the coffee table, red curls bouncing.
"Magnolia would have a stroke," Jefferson snickers, already unbuttoning his dress shirt. He'd made us all change and practice taking them off seductively, which mostly resulted in Matt getting tangled in his sleeves.
"Look at my girl," my brother whispers, and I follow his gaze to where she's dancing with Ivy.
Sarah's wearing a barely-there silk slip under her pink robe that has him drooling, while Ivy .
. . Christ. Her robe's falling open to reveal a vintage-style cami that hits all her curves right, making my mouth go dry.
"Is Virginia throwing up?" Dean squints.
I glance over to where she's hunched over a clay plant pot, mascara streaking down her face as she heaves.
"Hit it!" Jefferson yells, and the whiskey makes me forget why this was ever a bad idea.
A Britney song kicks in through Dean's portable speaker, and we're all moving like a synchronized disaster of epic proportions.
My body remembers the ridiculous routine we practiced, even if my dignity's begging me to stop.
I nail the spin and catch Ivy's eye mid-turn.
She's doubled over on the sofa arm, tears streaming down her face, and something about her laughter makes me want to be even more ridiculous.
So I do, throwing myself into the next move with Matt, both of us attempting body rolls.
Dean's two beats behind everyone, Carter's aggressively thrusting at thin air, and Jefferson's treating this like his Broadway debut.
"Take it off!" Ivy shouts, and I miss the next move. She's leaning forward now, eyes sparkling. "You too, Miller! Don't be shy!"
"You couldn't handle my signature moves, Shortcake!" I call back.
But I'm saved from proving how uncoordinated I am because Sarah's champagne goes flying, and Matt breaks formation, stalking toward her.
His fingers fumble at his shirt before he just rips, and the sound of expensive fabric tearing mingles with delighted shrieks, buttons scattering across the hardwood.
"Oh my god," she wheezes, clutching her sides as he flexes dramatically. When he turns around, she smacks his ass, causing him to yelp and almost fall over. "You're still the worst dancer I've ever seen."
"Babe," Matt grins, pulling her close until they're chest to chest, "you love my moves."
He attempts to dip her, nearly drops her, and they both dissolve into laughter.
But there's something else there— a flicker of electricity that yanks my gaze to Ivy before I even realize it.
She's watching Matt and Sarah with something tender in her eyes, but when her gaze lands back on me, there's a challenge there.
One that knocks every step clean out of my head.
Delilah lets out a low whistle, raising her crystal champagne flute in salute. "Sweet baby Jesus in a handbasket." She throws back her drink. "Sarah, honey, you better lock that down quick!"
I'm mid-spin, about to throw out some smartass comment about Matt's moves, when Virginia's sharp intake of breath cuts through the room. Jefferson freezes next to me, but his eyes are locked on her with an intensity that kills the party vibe.
"Don't," Virginia warns, voice cracking. "Just . . . don't."
"Five minutes, that's all I'm asking for," he takes a step toward her, and something in his expression looks almost desperate. "V, please—"
But she's already moving, silk robe billowing behind her as she shoves through the terrace doors. The night air rushes in, carrying the scent of mountain laurel and wild roses from the vineyard.
"Goddammit, Virginia!" He takes off after her, leaving his shirt in his wake like some douchebag breadcrumb trail. "Would you just hear me out?"
The glass doors slam shut, but through the windows we can see them—Virginia gesturing wildly, Jefferson reaching for her, both of them caught in some dance way more complicated than the shit show we just performed.
I'm still trying to catch my breath from our routine when Carter zeros in on Ivy. "Enjoying the show?"
My jaw clenches as he invades her space, shirtless and sweating, his eyes raking over her body like he's undressing her right there. I see her smile falter when he gets too close, his hands hovering over her curves without actually touching.
"You smell incredible," he breathes, and my fists clench as Ivy tries to step away. But Carter follows, matching her retreat until she's pinned against the wall. "Come on, baby. Let me give you a private performance."
"I'm good here," she says firmly, trying to slide away, but Carter's hand clamps on her hip.
"Don't be like that." His fingers dig in possessively. "We both know you want—"
I'm there before I can think, shoving him so hard he stumbles into an armchair. "She said no."
"Back off, Miller." Carter's lip curls as he steadies himself. "We're just having fun. Right?"
But Ivy's pressed against my back now, her fingers digging into my shirt, and I can feel her shaking her head.
I lean in close, my forearm across his throat. "Touch her again and I'll make sure you leave this wedding in an ambulance."
Before he can answer, Delilah appears like some Southern fairy godmother in a pink robe. "Carter! Those abs are criminal." She fans herself. "Have you been working out?"
His attention shifts instantly, ego purring. "Actually, I've been doing this new routine—"
"Tell me everything," Delilah coos, leading him away with a wink over her shoulder at me.
I turn to Ivy, who's swaying slightly. "You okay?"
"Never better." She stumbles forward and I catch her against my chest. Her fingers spread across my shirt, and the heat of her palm burns straight through the fabric. "My hero in . . ." She tugs at my collar, frowning. "Why are you still so clothed? Everyone else got with the program."
"Trying to get me naked?"
Instead of the eye roll I expect, she drags her gaze down my body. "Would that be so terrible?"
She's just messing around. She has to be. Right?
Her fingers reach for my top button, and I catch her wrist before she can make contact. "Easy there, troublemaker."
"Scared?" She blinks up at me, wide blue eyes full of fake innocence. "Big bad Caleb Miller, running from little ol' me?"
Fucking terrified. But not for the reasons she thinks.
"Bed," I manage, trying to guide her toward the door. But she spins in my arms, pressing her back against my chest.
"Make me."
"Bed. Now." The words come out strained.
"Only if you're coming with me."
"To sleep," I groan, though every cell in my body's screaming otherwise. "You're drunk."
"So are you." She tilts her head back against my shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck. "And you're usually much more fun when you're drunk."
I guide her up the stairs, fighting every primal instinct her body ignites in me. "When did you become the bad influence?"
"I think I like it better on this side of trouble." She turns in my arms, almost stumbling down the steps. Her fingers curl into my shirt. "Think you can give me a taste of everything I've been missing?"
"Trust me," I mutter, tightening my grip on her waist, "when I do that, I want you to remember every second of it."