12. Ruin the Friendship #2
His thigh presses against mine under the table. I shoot him a cheeky glare, the memory of last night flashing behind my eyes—wet skin, hot breath, his mouth on me, everywhere.
He smirks. Then winks.
And just like that, I have to shift in my seat.
Andrew pulls up a chair beside him, giving me a careful glance—I’m sure he’s glad I’m still here and he’s still alive.
“Good morning, Andrew,” I say sweetly and I can tell it catches him off guard.
“You’re extra chirpy this morning, Elena,” Broderick says knowingly pressing a mug to his lips.
Oh he wants to play. Okay.
“Yeah,” I hum, taking a sip of orange juice. “I had a good scream last night.”
Broderick nearly chokes on his coffee.
Philippa turns, eyes wide, practically glowing. “Oh my God, you should have seen us,” she says, beaming. “We were like barefoot lunatics running through the gardens. I screamed so loud it echoed.”
I bite down on my lip to keep from laughing as Broderick turns to me slowly—clearly trying to decide if Philippa’s talking about the same kind of screaming he thinks I’m referring to.
His expression is priceless. Confused. Intrigued. Just the tiniest bit smug.
I shoot him a look over my glass.
Not those screams, you menace.
“So,” I say, turning to Andrew with a grin, “did those screams have the intended results?”
Philippa shrieks, half-mortified, half-delighted. “Elena!”
But she giggles, cheeks pink as she ducks her head.
Andrew just laughs and shrugs, raising his mimosa—guilty as charged.
“Phil, I love this new bubbly side of you,” Sienna chimes in, swirling her glass. “It’s so fun.”
Philippa beams, still flushed but glowing.
Just then, Avery slides into the seat beside Sienna, sunglasses still on, her voice sleep-rough.
“Hi, Broderick,” she says, giving him a cheeky little wave.
My eyes flick to her, then to him.
He nods politely, the corner of his mouth twitching.
I realize I’m not the only woman at this table who’s had thoughts about the man beside me.
Without a word, I slip my hand under the table, resting it casually on his thigh.
He stills.
Then slowly, I trail my fingers up, stroking the inside of his leg—light, teasing. The tension rippling through him.
I cup him through his pants, giving a slow, firm squeeze.
Mine.
He exhales through his nose, barely, the muscle in his jaw tightening.
I sip my mimosa unbothered.
Broderick dips his head toward my ear, voice low and dangerous.
“You better behave…unless you want me to fuck you right here, right now.”
I choke.
The bubbles burn down my throat, and I grab my napkin, coughing once—sharp and involuntary.
Right on cue, two more chairs scrape back from the other side of the table.
“Elena, you remember James and Cole—my other groomsmen,” Andrew says, totally unaware he’s interrupting a full-blown footsie fiasco beneath the table.
James and Cole Sinclair. His cousins. We’d met during the Hamptons weekend.
I nod politely. “Nice to see you both again.”
“You look lovely today, Elena,” James says, voice dripping with charm as his gaze blatantly drops to my cleavage.
Beside me, Broderick stiffens. His thigh goes rigid under my hand.
I lift my mimosa to my lips to hide my smirk.
“James hasn’t stopped talking about you since the Hamptons,” Andrew says cautiously as he takes a bite of his pancakes.
Broderick’s hand curls into a fist on the table.
James grins, leaning back in his chair like he’s waiting for applause. “What can I say? You’re gorgeous.”
I smile sweetly. “Well. I do tend to leave that impression.”
He laughs.
Broderick shifts beside me—the irritation radiates off him. His hand finds my thigh under the table.
This time, he squeezes.
Hard enough to make me bite down on a gasp.
“You sure do,” James says, smiling like he thinks he’s charming. “Hopefully you can save me a dance at the reception?”
His eyes are wide. Eager. Too eager.
I open my mouth to respond—maybe something flirty—but Broderick beats me to it.
“Jim,” he says, voice tight, “let the girl eat her food before you try to shoot your shot—this isn’t happy hour.”
The table goes a little quiet.
James blinks, surprised. “Just being friendly.”
Broderick doesn’t even look at him—just picks up his fork, calm as anything. “Friendly’s not staring down her dress, bud.”
“Brody, as if you haven’t looked as well,” James says smugly.
He shakes his head slowly, unruffled. “Careful, James. You’re sounding a little desperate.” He sips his coffee, voice mild but edged. “Might scare her off before you even make it to the dance floor.”
“Boys, behave, this is a civilized breakfast.” I shoot a wink at James and the smile that spreads across his face makes Broderick’s whole body tense.
A slow, sharp smirk curls at my lips. I know I’ll pay for this.
I sip my mimosa again, biting back a laugh.
Beneath the table, Broderick’s hand trails up my skirt toward my thigh before pressing firmly, heat radiating from him like a warning.
I bite my lip trying to stifle a groan.
Mine, it says. Loud and clear.
As the last of the coffee cups are cleared and plates scraped clean, Yasmin—the ever-composed wedding coordinator—stands at the front of the banquet hall, clipboard in hand and headset barely visible beneath her sleek bun.
“Good morning, everyone,” she calls out with a bright, practiced smile. “Now that you’ve all been thoroughly spoiled, we have a few activities available for those of you looking to enjoy the estate this afternoon.”
She pauses as the room settles.
“For those interested, we’ve arranged horseback riding through the lower trails, spa treatments in the conservatory wing, garden strolls with guided history tours, and tee times available on the estate’s private golf course. Please see me or one of the staff if you’d like to book in.”
She flips her clipboard, her tone shifting to business-smooth. “And just a reminder to the bridal party, the wedding rehearsal begins at five sharp in the garden courtyard, followed by the rehearsal dinner with everyone else at seven in the Rose Room. Attire is cocktail formal.”
Then she smiles again—sharp, no-nonsense, perfectly in control.
“Enjoy the day, everyone.”
I spot Natalie, Philippa’s friend, walking over. “Hey ladies, mind if I join you?”
“Of course not!” Sienna says.
“Spa?” Philippa shrills, practically vibrating with excitement.
Sienna and Avery chime in with matching woos, clinking their mimosas.
Riley and I glance at each other and roll our eyes.
Yay. Spa.
Jack heads to his room for a much-needed nap. Between the morning of thinly veiled glares, wandering hands, and under-the-table threats, I’m wound tighter than a violin string—buzzing, restless, and aching for release.
But Broderick and I agreed, no more funny business.
He and the rest of the groomsmen head out for golf, all smug swagger and pressed polos. As he walks out with the group, he shoots me a look.
That look.
Then my phone buzzes.
Broderick
My scout’s honor is hanging on by a thread.
I bite back a smile and slide my phone under the table.
Elena
You were never a scout.
Broderick
Exactly.
The spa is luxuriously over-indulgent—like everything at Ravenswood—but the way the masseuse works every knot and ache out of my body? Practically a religious experience.
Riley and I are side by side for a couples massage, acting like complete idiots. We’d started moaning louder and louder with every swipe of oil, like we were playing the penis game—except with groans.
By the time we’re lying there, hot stones lined down our spines, faces turned toward each other, we’re both on the verge of losing it.
“I think I need to fart,” Riley whispers, eyes wide with panic and amusement.
I bite my lip so hard I nearly launch a stone off my back.
“Shut up,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “They’re going to throw us out.”
“Can’t,” she murmurs, smug. “They’re on the payroll, Princess.”
“I’m sure Philippa made them all sign NDAs. But imagine the headlines.”
“Elena Montgomery orgasms during hot stone massage next to farting friend,” she deadpans.
I lose it. A full-body tremble of silent laughter shakes every stone loose.
After we’re showered and dressed, Philippa’s bridal party—plus Riley and Natalie—head out to the garden for mid-afternoon refreshments. The rest of the guests sprawl across the estate, soaking up the unusually warm sun.
Blankets are spread across the soft grass, pillows in muted tones scattered between trays of fruit, macarons, and charcuterie so perfect it looks like edible art. The whole thing looks pulled straight from a mood board.
I drop down beside Riley, who immediately shoves a strawberry into my mouth before popping one into her own.
“You two give off lesbian vibes.” Sienna laughs from across the blanket, lounging like a spoilt cat, champagne flute in hand.
“We are,” Riley says, planting a quick peck on my lips—like we’ve joined some midday hedonist cult. “Jealous?”
Sienna laughs.
“Shame about Alexander, though,” Avery says, tossing a macaron into her mouth.
“Avery,” Philippa cuts in, voice firm.
I glance over—catch her eyes on mine, soft and steady. I got you.
But it doesn’t stop Sienna, her tone feather-light and fake-sweet. “Yeah, sucks about the baby mama drama.”
Thanks for the reminder bitch.
I exhale, keeping my voice even. “Pip, it’s fine. I’m off men anyway.”
“Shame,” Sienna says, smirking. “James seemed pretty eager at breakfast.”
“Ugh, James is not great in that department,” Avery groans, waving her glass.
Riley perks up like a wolf catching a scent. “Small dick? Fast finisher? Jack rabbit?”
Avery’s cheeks flush instantly. She sputters into her drink.
Riley grins, ruthless. “C’mon. Don’t leave us hanging.”
She’s done it—steered the conversation away from Alex—but the damage is done. My mood sours, a creeping bitterness settling beneath my skin.