Sneak Peek - Marrying My Brothers Best Friend #2
Like a movie star, Luca gets out of the car and hands his keys to the valet, exchanging a nod with the man while walking toward the front door. Always on the move.
As we head up the stairs, they light up. There’s gold plating on the exterior doors, and they open automatically.
Feeling like I might be left behind, I hurry to keep up with him. Luca always forgets his legs are longer than mine, then he’ll stand there, holding the door open and frowning back at me as I try to catch up.
But this time, a tall man in an impeccable suit steps forward, opening the door for both of us, a polite smile on his face as we pass.
“Holy shit, Luc,” I say, when we step into the lobby.
The building is gorgeous, all washed in whites and golds, the ceiling vaulted high above our heads.
Light pours in from the street, glinting off the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
Thousands of tiny crystals dangle from each one, sending little rainbows throughout the room.
There are vintage couches I’m sure cost more than my car, and every ten feet there’s a man standing in a full tuxedo.
I can only assume their purpose is to quickly pick something up if a guest might ever drop an item, or to sweep the floor right behind every visitor as they walk along.
Our family was firmly upper-middle class, with both of our parents working in stable careers.
By the time we were graduating from high school, they’d paid off their house.
We took two family vacations every year—one in the summer, and another over winter break.
I’ve never wanted for anything, but every time I’m reminded of Luca’s new tax bracket, it takes my breath away.
My parents might be able to afford to pay for a nice wedding in a countryside venue, for a triple-layer cake and a decent hotel. Without Luca’s help, I’d get a pretty decent wedding from them, something a little too expensive, but memorable. Something that made sense.
But Luca can afford to pay for this.
For over-the-top, almost mindless luxury.
This is the kind of hotel that tacks on a fee for everything you do—from using the fitness room to drinking something from the mini bar—but Luca probably doesn’t even bat an eye at the bill when it comes his way.
Our family is used to choosing all-inclusive resorts.
Mom and dad would drag us around to every restaurant on a resort, ensuring we got our money’s worth.
But when you’re this rich—famous athlete rich—everything is all-inclusive.
“Good morning, Mr. McKenzie,” a concierge says, a barely contained smile on her face. With a sleek blonde bun, she’s the picture of professionalism, but I can see in her eyes that she knows who my brother is, and she’s fangirling a little inside.
“Good morning, Shelly,” Luca says, giving her a grin, and I watch as this middle-aged woman’s knees get weak. I roll my eyes, but I’m used to this, too. Women like my brother. He remembers names. He’s charming, organized, and now—rich.
As we continue down the hallway, my phone buzzes with a text.
Sidney: Hey, article is ready to publish when you give the green light.
When Luca turns to me, I quickly shove the phone back into my pocket, heart hammering.
When our gazes lock, he gives me a look, eyes narrowing.
He can always tell when I’m up to something, but I’ve managed to keep this particular secret from him for long enough that he can’t pick it out at least right away.
“So, we’re planning to have the ceremony up in the Sky Chapel,” Luca says, eyes relaxing. Maybe at this point, I’ve just adopted a perpetually guilty expression. We exit the lobby and walk into the hallway.
“Sky Chapel?” I ask, eyebrows shooting into my hairline. “That sounds like an old rock song.”
“It’s an elevated chapel at the top of the building. Views of the city, indoor and outdoor ballroom.”
“Oh, of course it is,” I laugh. “Of course it is. Are you ever going to be normal again?”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.” He’s right—it may be endlessly shocking and ridiculous, but it’s also impressive. And fun. And I can’t wait to take a thousand pictures in the Sky Chapel.
Most people wouldn’t assume a famous NHL player would be this involved in planning his own wedding, but my brother is meticulous. In high school, he told me again and again that his success would come from being diligent, from making a plan, and following it.
Turns out, he was right.
“And where’s Amanda?” I ask, trying to keep the forced politeness from my tone. It bleeds through anyway.
“Mandy,” Luca corrects, something in his face becoming serious. “She’s rebranding to Mandy.”
“Oh,” I say, desperately trying to keep the disdain from my face. Even he can’t talk about her without using a word like rebranding. And they’re getting married in a week. “Right.”
It’s not that I don’t like Mandy, it’s just that she feels like a La Croix in sea of rich mocktails and fancy drinks.
I don’t understand why Luca would choose her—her personality reminds me of a faint breeze.
The last time I saw her, I asked her about her interests, and she seemed hard-pressed to provide any.
When I asked if she liked to read, she said, “I’m not sure. ”
The only thing I could see that she enjoyed doing was being annoying, constantly whining to my brother about stuff he couldn’t fix. When we were having dinner in the garden, she asked if he could do something about the bugs. This was after a fly buzzed past her arm.
“She’s just hanging out in the spa,” Luca says, glancing back at me. “It’ll be better for her to relax, and besides, I like doing this stuff. We’ve also hired wedding planners to help.”
“Of course,” I say, following him onto an elevator. A man in a suit presses the button for us, and I have to keep from laughing. God forbid a rich person press a button for themselves.
“This is the floor for the bridal party,” Luca says. “All the bridesmaids and groomsmen are staying here.”
I swallow and nod, remembering my surprise when Mandy had reached out, half-heartedly asking me to be her maid of honor. Online, I saw other maid of honors receiving heartfelt care packages, invitations that referred to their long friendships.
But I wouldn’t be getting one of those, because I barely even knew Mandy. Everyone coming to the wedding would know that I was a practical choice, if not the only one she had.
“Maid of honor?” I’d asked Luca, practically hissing into the phone, when I got the ask. “Doesn’t she have, like, a sister? Or a best friend?”
“No,” Luca said, sounding exasperated. “She doesn’t really get along with women.”
I’d stood quietly for a moment, waiting for that to sink in for him. There was not a bigger red flag than not getting along with women.
What does that even mean?
“So, will you do it, Bug? It would mean a lot to me.” Luca only pulled out that nickname when he really wanted something from me.
It felt ridiculous to be Mandy’s maid of honor, considering the fact that I hardly knew her, and didn’t really like her, but I would do anything for my brother.
So, I was in charge of planning her bachelorette party. Rather than space the events out according to the traditional schedule, they’re going for an all-out wedding weekend. We’ll have the rehearsal dinner, bachelor and bachelorette parties, and ceremony all in the span of a few days.
“Perfect,” I say now, when Luca hands me a hotel key card, gesturing toward room 1004, which is apparently all mine. “Thanks.”
“We’re asking everyone else arriving today to come up to our suite in a while. A little get-together. If you’re interested.”
“We?” I ask, double-checking. “Who else is here? Mom and Dad?”
“No, they’re not coming until tomorrow,” Luca says, but his voice fades out when a door opens at the end of the hall.
A familiar man steps out. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a mop of dark brown hair that’s always falling into his eyes. When I look at him, I feel it in my throat and chest all at the same time. The smack of seeing someone who was, once, a daily installation in your life.
He’s wearing a pair of dark slacks and a deep brown button-up shirt. A pair of sunglasses is hooked on the front pocket of his shirt, his leather shoes polished. I can almost picture him googling “casual Las Vegas outfits” and copying his favorite result exactly to make sure he got it right.
Every time I see Callum, it’s like he’s added another ten pounds of muscle. I wonder if he and Luca are in a race to see who the biggest man in the NHL can be.
If Luca brings back memories of our childhood, Callum brings back memories of being a teenager.
When he straightens up, his eyes meet mine, and we freeze for a moment, staring at each other.
The air between us seems to pulse for a moment, and I think of physical science class and learning about potential energy.
“Sloane Ranger!” Callum says, finally, breaking the spell.
His face splits into a grin as he steps forward, the smell of his cologne washing over me as he holds his hand out for a game of rock-paper-scissors.