Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Imake it to the church with less than thirty minutes to spare. To tell the truth, when I woke up this morning, I had every intention of rolling over and going back to sleep because fuck Paige.
She doesn’t actually care if I’m there or not. She served me up as her plus one for the same reason she dragged me to Millie’s rehearsal dinner—because she knows bringing me to family functions annoys her mother and because she gets a weird kick out of leading me around by my dick.
Not that you’ve ever complained before. Matter of fact, you can’t run fast enough when she snaps her fingers. Every time she goes radio silent, you swear it’s the last time you’re going to let her in and every time she turns back up you say yes. Why is that?
Because I’m a glutton for punishment.
That’s why.
Picking up my phone, I check the time.
It’s after noon.
The ceremony starts in a few hours.
Before I can set my phone back down and make good on my plan to roll over and go back to sleep, a notification pops up at the top of my screen.
Paige Blackwell posted to her Instagram stories
Because I’m obviously a dumbass who can’t leave well enough alone, I click on it and am instantly taken to Paige’s latest IG post. A series of strategically angled selfies of Paige sitting in a chair, surrounded by a small team of hair and make-up artists, getting ready for Millie’s wedding. The caption reads:
My bestie is getting married today! I love you Millie, you’re going to be a beautiful bride!
I let my gaze move past Paige, finding Millie in the background. She’s sitting in a chair, plate of barely touched food balanced on her lap, staring off into space while everyone celebrates around her.
She looks beautiful.
And fucking miserable.
Fuck.
Pushing myself out of bed, I take a quick shower and shave before putting on the same gray suit I wore to dinner on Friday night, pairing it with a lighter gray shirt and dark blue tie.
Making sure I have my wallet and house keys, I decide to splurge on an Uber instead of taking the subway.
Locking up, I take the elevator down to the lobby and step out onto the sidewalk, just as my phone buzzes in the breast pocket of my suit.
Keeping one eye on traffic to make sure I don’t miss my ride, I pull it out.
Paige: I’m at the Hawthorne, all alone… you want to meet me here instead of the church? We can fuck in Millie’s bed before the ceremony.
Jesus Christ.
Me: No
Spotting my ride—a late model, silver BMW, I hit send before stepping off the curb, lifting a hand to make sure the driver sees me.
He gives me a short, I see you honk before dive-bombing his way across three lanes of traffic.
As soon as he stops, I open the door and climb in, rather than wait for him to get out and do it for me.
“St. Patrick’s Cathedral, right?” he says, throwing me a quick over the shoulder look before shooting back into traffic.
“Yeah.” My phone buzzes in my hand again and I contemplate throwing it out the window. Instead, I pull up my texts.
Paige: When did you stop being fun, Mercer?
When I found out you’re screwing around with your cousin’s fiancé.
Me: Sorry—I’m just a lowly peasant, Paige. I don’t have the luxury of waltzing into the social event of the year, fashionably late.
Paige: You were late to dinner, Friday night. It didn’t seem to bother you then. But I guess it’s different since you were with Millie.
Me: I wasn’t with her. I stopped at the restaurant bar to check in on one of my employees and she happened to be there. That’s it.
Even though it’s the truth it sounds like a lie. Feels like one too, considering the things I said to her that night.
I can see your nipples through the fabric of your dress, Princess. They went stiff the second you realized who you were sitting next to…
Paige: And the two of you fought?
Did Millie and I fight?
I guess you can call it that.
Me: When have you ever seen us in a room together and we’re not fighting??
Paige: You weren’t fighting the night I found you in her room at Gwen’s bachelorette party. What were you two doing in there, all alone? You never did tell me...
Me: Talking. We were just talking.
And kissing.
Well, almost kissing.
Paige: When have you ever just talked to a woman you were alone with?
“Hey, we’re here,” The Uber driver says from the front seat. Looking up from my phone, I see the stone steps leading up from the sidewalk to the cathedral’s white marble exterior.
Me: I’m pulling up to the church now. I’ll see you when you get here.
Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I mutter a quick thanks before letting myself out.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, there are a few of the more diligent members of the press already posted up, cameras poised, waiting for the happy couple to make their grand exit.
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket again.
Undoubtedly Paige. Closing the door behind me, I barely hear the click of it before my Uber launches itself back into traffic.
I should’ve stayed home.
Should’ve ignored that punched in the gut feeling that seeing a miserable-looking Millie on Instagram gave me and just do what I do best.
Yeah—you should’ve but you didn’t, and now you’re here so you might as well get your ass up the steps and get a front-row seat to the shitshow.
Right.
Making my way up the steps, I run the gauntlet, ignoring the scrutinization that always comes with arriving unaccompanied to a Blackwell event. The few times I’ve arranged to meet Paige, rather than arrive on her arm, I’ve had to submit myself for interrogation.
This time is no different.
Walking past the loose knot of paparazzi littering the base of them, I focus on the pair of formidable-looking security agents in dark-colored suits, standing guard at the top of the steps. I’ve gotten to know most of the Blackwell security team over the years.
These men are not them.
“I’m sorry, sir,” one of them says, glaring at me from behind a pair of blackout aviators. “This is a private event.”
“Yes.” I give him a nod, gesturing vaguely at my suit. “The Blackwell wedding. I’m a guest.”
Agent number two makes what I can only assume is supposed to be an intimidating noise in the back of his throat. “Name.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s asking me for mine. “Mercer,” I tell him, regretting not meeting Paige at the Hawthorne, if only so I could get past security. “Dean Mercer. I’m Paige Blackwell’s escort.”
Agent number one looks at me like I’m a filthy liar. “Ms. Blackwell hasn’t arrived yet.”
“I know.” I give him a head bob. “She’s running late.”
Lifting his arm without answering me, he mutters something into the cuff of his suit while his partner stares me down and the paparazzi behind me gets ready to memorialize my humiliation on the front page of every gossip rag in print. I can already see it—
Paige Blackwell’s Boytoy Bounced down Cathedral Steps.
Dropping his arm, agent one tilts his head slightly like he’s listening to something, mouth held in a tight line while his partner keeps staring. Just when I think the paparazzi are definitely going to get their headline, the door to the sanctuary opens and Millie’s father appears.
“It’s alright—he’s a guest of the bride,” he says before looking past them to give me one of his friendly smiles. “Come on, Dean—you’re cutting it close.”
Thank god.
“You two have a good day.” Flashing them a friendly, fuck you smile of my own, I blade myself between the two of them, taking the rest of the stairs, two at a time.
“Sorry about that.” Mr. Blackwell’s smile turns slightly exasperated. “Secret Service—Andy’s here. They’ve got the entire place sewn up like it’s the goddamned White House.”
Andy is Anderson Waverly—the Vice President of the United States. I remember reading somewhere that Preston Blackwell and the VP were in Skull and Bone together at Yale. He’s Millie’s godfather.
“Well, I’m sorry you had to come rescue me, sir,” I say as we move into the vestibule of the cathedral. “I know how busy you are.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Blackwell says, giving my shoulder a fatherly pat. “I just happened to be passing by on my way to find Millie so we can get this show on the road.”
“Is Paige here?” I take a quick look around. “When we spoke she said she was running late.”
“She’s on her way.” He gives me another single, hard pat on the shoulder before he starts to walk away. “Find a seat where you can—we’ll start as soon as she gets here.”
“Yes, sir.” Giving him a flat smile, I make my way deeper into the church to stand at the base of the long aisle that leads to the altar.
Scanning the pews for a seat, I spot Paige’s mother.
When she sees me, her gaze narrows into a disgusted glare before she looks away from me, dismissing me completely.
Well, I guess I know who to thank for having me taken off the guest list.
Whatever.
Squeezing myself into an end seat at the back of the sanctuary, I mutter my apologies and sit, just as my phone buzzes in my pocket again.
Sure it’s another text from Paige, the type of which I shouldn’t be reading in a church, I pull my phone out of my pocket to turn it off altogether.
Instead of shutting it off, I find myself reopening Paige’s Instagram story.
My bestie is getting married today! I love you Millie, you’re going to be a beautiful bride!
Shit.
Backing out of IG, I pull up her number.
Not Paige’s.
Millie’s.
Me: You okay?
What the fuck are you doing, Mercer. Princess Millie made her bed. Let her cry in it.
Millie: I’m fine.
Me: You sure? Because you look like shit on Insta.
Millie: You’re a true gentleman, Dean—just what every woman wants to hear on her wedding day. Thank you.
Shit.
Me: You know what I mean.
Millie: That you’re a couthless asshole?
Me: Couthless? Is that even a word? If we were playing Scrabble, I’d definitely challenge.
Millie: Please—we both know you’re not smart enough to play Scrabble.
Stung for some stupid reason, I don’t answer her because what I said to Paige earlier is the truth—Millie and I can’t be in the same room together without fighting.
Hell, we can’t even exchange text messages without hurling insults at each other.
Moving to turn off my phone before I say something that’ll get me dragged out by my hair, it buzzes in my hand again.
Millie: I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. You were just being honest.
Me: It’s okay. We both know I deserved it.
Millie: No, you didn’t. You’ve been uncharacteristically decent to me throughout this whole thing.
Okay—so we’re just going to pretend that yesterday’s Facetime session didn’t end with me calling her uptight and her telling me what a rude, insufferable asshole I am. Or that I basically called her a slut Friday night after which she slapped me so hard my ears were ringing.
That’s not a dress, Mills. That’s a goddamn pocket square with straps. And you don’t look nice. Matter of fact, you look about as far from nice as you can possibly get…
It’s the truth.
She didn’t look nice.
She looked completely and utterly fuckable.
So fuckable that it made me angry.
And a little crazy.
Me: That’s me—Decent Dean.
I’m not decent.
Right now, I’m about as far from decent as you can get.
Millie: I really am fine. I’m just… out of sorts. I don’t like the feeling.
Out of sorts.
After finding out her fiancé and her cousin/best friend have been sleeping together behind her back for basically their entire relationship, any other woman would be a complete fucking mess. Yelling and screaming. Crying, throwing up, and sliding down the wall.
Not Princess Millie.
She’s just out of sorts.
Me: Want me to send you a picture of my dick? Seeing it always cheers me up.
Millie: Sure—I could use a good laugh right about now.
I bark out a laugh when I read her reply, loud enough to earn myself a few withering glances.
Me: LOL who’s the asshole now?
Millie: Me. But to be fair, you’ve always brought out the worst in me.
Staring at her text for a few moments, I feel something heavy settle in my chest.
Me: Have you decided what you’re going to do?
Millie: Yes.
Marry him? Are you going to cave and marry that piece of shit? Is that what you’ve decided to do? Because sitting here, in a cathedral full of wedding guests, it looks a hell of a lot like you’re going to go ahead and marry him.
Before I can muster the guts to ask, she sends another text.
Millie: Are you here?
Me: Yeah. Stuck in the cheap seats with the rest of the peasants. Your Uncle Andy’s stormtroopers almost didn’t let me in.
Millie: I’m sorry. Do you want me to send someone to escort you to the front?
So I can have a front-row seat to watch you marry that cheating piece of shit? No thanks.
Me: Nope. I’m fine, right where I am.
Millie: Okay. It’s probably for the best, anyway. Paige told everyone that the two of you were together last night and that you kept her up until all hours with your “big dick” that you apparently “know how to use”. Aunt Reneé was less than pleased.
What the fuck? No wonder Paige’s mom tried to have me bounced.
Me: She’s lying. I wasn’t with Paige.
It’s true.
I wasn’t with anyone last night. I stayed home. Watched Bar Rescue and ordered Thai from the place across the street. When my neighbor, Becca, knocked on my door, I ignored her. It took her a few minutes, but she eventually got the hint and left me alone.
Millie: It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have said anything. Paige is here. Thank you for coming. I know this is the last place you want to be.
No sooner do I read her text do the opening violin strains of Ode to Joy float down from the cathedral’s mezzanine and a hush falls over the packed sanctuary.
The shitshow is about to start.