Stuck With The Best Man: A Sweet Small Town Enemies to Lovers Romance

Chapter One Ruby

“At least tell me you’re leaving the ballet slippers at home,” Eva says on the other end of the line.

I adjust the phone to my other ear and frown down at my suitcase, which definitely has a pair of pointe shoes tucked neatly between a spare leotard and some tights.

“I can’t go that long without practicing, Eva.”

She laughs exasperatedly. “It’s just a long weekend! Four days, Ruby! Don’t you deserve a rest?”

Eva doesn’t get it. No matter how many times I’ve explained it to her in the past, she insists that I’m too obsessed with ballet. Aren’t most people obsessed with their careers, though? Isn’t that the entire point?

What she doesn’t understand is that ballet isn’t natural. Our bodies aren’t technically supposed to do that, which means that dancers have to make sure they’re keeping all their muscles in perfect shape at all times. I can’t take four entire days off. Not even for Eva’s wedding.

“I promise I won’t wear my pointe shoes with the bridesmaid dress, if that helps.”

Technically, I’m not just a bridesmaid, but the maid of honor. When Eva asked me to accept the title a year ago, I was hesitant. As a professional ballet dancer, I knew I didn’t have enough time in my insane schedule to devote to my friend’s wedding. Luckily, though, Eva insisted that it was a title in name only. Much like me, she’s a bit of a control freak, and has dealt with most of the traditional maid-of-honor duties herself or delegated them to the other bridesmaids.

“I’ll take it. Hey, by the way, can I thank you for the thousandth time for suggesting your adorable little hometown as a wedding location? I mean, this place is just so cute. Obviously, we scouted it, like, three times before making the decision, but I just want you to know this place is so endearing.”

I smile to myself. I’m used to Eva’s flowery, enthusiastic way of talking by now.

Eva and her fiancé arrived in Mermaid Shores a few days ago. In about two hours, I’ll be hopping on the train to meet them and the rest of the wedding party there. My hometown is something of a fairytale and is most commonly referred to as a hidden gem among the overrated beach towns in the region. Tucked away in a tiny inlet of Cape Cod, the town hosts some of the most high-profile and high-net-worth individuals every tourist season. It also boasts the prettiest views off the coast of New England, in my humble opinion.

Eva, who was a struggling model when we met thanks to a Craigslist roommate ad four years ago, is now a veritable supermodel with seven figures in her bank account. When she told me that Sebastien, her sexy French boyfriend, proposed last year and they were looking for an idyllic seaside venue, I threw out Mermaid Shores as a casual suggestion. When Eva took it seriously, I was shocked. She could afford a destination wedding in Italy or Bali, but she chose a sweet little town in Massachusetts. People are full of surprises.

I’m happy, though. Now I get to support one of my dearest friends on her big day and visit my darling hometown. It’s a win-win. Despite all my anxiety about skimping on training, I’m convinced this weekend is going to be amazing.

“Glad you love it, Eva. I’m heading to Penn Station in a bit. I’ll see you soon!”

She lets out a little excited squeal that makes me snort. Classic Eva. Fame and prestige haven’t changed her one bit.

New York City is a funny place. I’m a nobody from nowhere, but thanks to many random twists of fate, one of my best friends is a millionaire model about to marry a famous photographer.

I do have to admit that it’s hard not to compare myself to Eva, though. She rocketed to success in the industry within a couple of years.

Meanwhile, I’m still fighting my way to the top. Of course, it’s no small feat to be a soloist in the New York City Ballet, but still… I want more. I want to be a principal dancer—the pinnacle of success in the ballet world.

I’m going to make it happen. At twenty-six, I’ve only got about a decade left of my career before my body will force me to retire, and I’m going to make it count. Otherwise, what was the point of it all? What was the point of spending my childhood in all those ballet classes in Boston while everyone else my age was playing on the beach with reckless abandon? Even my twin, Amy, who is now a fairly famous painter, was a relatively normal kid.

I carefully fold a pair of leg warmers into the suitcase and then triple-check that I have all the necessary wedding things: the dress, the shoes, the makeup. When I’m satisfied that I’m fully prepared, I zip up my luggage and head out.

“Gram, I’m surprised a seabird hasn’t plucked you off the sidewalk and carried you away to its nest.”

As usual, my grandmother’s arms, hands, and neck are covered in silver bangles, shimmering gemstones, and leather cords of handmade charms. She looks a bit like a bird herself, what with all the many chiffon-y layers of earth-toned fabric draped on her. The sea breeze pushes her long, white hair away from her face as she grins at me and folds me into her embrace.

“You look well, Ruby,” she murmurs. “Although, I’m sensing a slight disturbance in your solar plexus chakra.”

“Don’t you start,” I respond lightheartedly.

Gram chuckles and gestures for me to follow her to the car. The train from Boston doesn’t stop in Mermaid Shores—no train from anywhere stops there—so I always need to be picked up in Hyannis when I come to visit. Usually, Amy is the one to do it, but my sister is currently in Edinburgh, painting one of her famous murals.

In the driver’s seat, Gram arranges all her metaphorical feathers, then pauses to frown softly at me. “Your heart chakra too.”

I sigh loudly and drop my head back against the seat. “I’m fine, Gram.”

She tuts her tongue but puts the car in drive and steers us toward Mermaid Shores without another word.

To everyone else in town, Gram is known as Miss Maisie. Or, more mystically, as the wise woman of the beach. She’s a legend of sorts, handing out blessings and gemstones to unsuspecting tourists and locals in desperate need of spiritual guidance. She also does formal tarot and palm readings, but she’s more popularly known as somewhat of a spectral creature roaming the dunes and speaking with the sirens under the cover of the coastal mist.

At least, that’s how the others see her. To me, she’s just Gram. Quirky, warmhearted, vegan-baked-ziti-making Gram.

With some kind of New Age music crooning from the outdated stereo system, I relax into the seat and watch slivers of the grayish-blue Atlantic Ocean slip through the trees. Gram pulls off the highway onto a familiar, unmarked road. A tiny wooden sign, mostly hidden by dense pine branches, announces that we’ve entered Mermaid Shores.

I don’t need a sign to tell me when I’m home, though. I can feel it. There’s a shift in the air—a spark of electric energy that washes over me each time I pass the borders of this strange little town. Even the most agnostic of people can admit that there’s something magical about it.

It’s not common for people to move away from Mermaid Shores. When they do, the furthest they usually end up is in Boston. Or maybe somewhere in southern Maine. Rarely, so very rarely, does anyone dare go as far as an entire two hundred and fifty miles south to New York City.

Honestly, I didn’t even think I’d go that far. I auditioned for the Boston Ballet and figured I’d spend my entire career there. Despite all my ambition, it felt impossible that one of the best ballet companies in the world had accepted me into their ranks instead.

I’ve lived in downtown Manhattan for years now, but I’ve made sure to visit Mermaid Shores at least three or four times a year.

Our parents, on the other hand, retired early and moved out to Montana. For a change of scenery, they claimed. We only see them on Christmas and Independence Day now, but at least they were nice enough to leave Amy and I the house. Our childhood home is a safe haven—a place that’s available for us to run to if we ever need it.

Gram doesn’t drive us to that old Victorian on Cedar Road, though. We go to Cherry Street, where her eclectic little house with its purple gate and yellow shutters is waiting cheerfully for me.

When I told Gram I’d be coming for the weekend, she insisted that I stay with her. I was quick to agree since Amy’s boyfriend just moved into the other house with her, and I don’t feel like being roommates with a random guy all weekend. Not that I have anything against Liam Moore. I just don’t know him that well. Technically, we grew up together. Except, of course, I was so busy with ballet that I never saw much of him or his little sister, Mina, when we were kids. Amy was the social butterfly with all the friends and normalcy and whatnot.

I was the weird, quiet twin.

A massive nazar bead smacks against the front gate as I push it open, and a tangled assortment of enchanted twigs—or whatever they’re supposed to be—nearly get caught in the handle of my suitcase, but I manage to make it through the mystical barrier of Gram’s colorful abode.

I head inside, the screen door of the front porch groaning loudly in hello as I push it open. My body is stiff from the train journey, so I park my suitcase by the foot of the stairs and head into the cluttered living room to do some stretching. Gram murmurs something about making tea, and I’m pretty sure I catch another muttered comment about my chakras, but I decide to ignore it.

You don’t grow up with a grandmother like her without learning quite a lot about spirituality by accident. Still, I swear my chakras are perfectly aligned. I’m fine. Everything is great. Totally, absolutely, great. Why wouldn’t it be? I mean, yes, I do have some career-related stress, but that’s normal. So normal that it’s basically negligible. So, maybe I haven’t been on a date since college—unless you count that one time about a year ago, which I don’t—but who cares about boys, anyway? Who cares about any of that nonsense when I have ballet and the stage lights and my bright, hopeful future?

“Will you be eating here tonight, darling?” Gram calls from the kitchen.

I fold forward over my legs, wrapping my hands under the arches of my feet.

“No, tonight’s the rehearsal dinner,” I remind her.

“Ah, yes,” she croons, puttering into the living room with two steaming mugs of tea. “At Blakeley Manor, right? How romantic!”

I snort. “How posh is more like it.”

Eva isn’t a snob. Nor is Sebastien. They just have expensive taste. Also, sometimes I think my friend has something to prove. I would, too, if I came from humble beginnings and then exploded into stardom. Eva is now constantly surrounded by the wealthy and privileged, and I know that she feels pressure to seem like she effortlessly belongs.

Hence, the wedding being hosted at the most exclusive venue on the Cape: Blakeley Manor.

Gram settles herself in her usual armchair by the hearth, which is crowded with at least two dozen unlit candles and a collection of dried herbs. She has almost the same coloring as me and my twin, as well as our mother—her daughter. She named all of us. Emerald, or Em for short, is our mother. Amy is short for Amethyst. I lucked out with the simplest name: Ruby. From old pictures, I know that Gram’s silver-white hair used to be blonde like ours, and that she and my mother have the same dark brown eyes. Amy and I took after our father in that department, though. We have icy-blue eyes, which are pretty enough, I guess, except that they’re insanely sensitive in the sunlight.

My eye color is exactly why Eva insisted I borrow one of her dresses for the rehearsal dinner tonight. It’s a lovely slip of silk the same color as the larimar stone in the ring on Gram’s left thumb—exactly the sort of thing that I would never wear unless my friend forced me into it. Personally, I prefer neutrals. And when I’m not wearing leotards and leggings, I like my clothes to drown me.

But it’s Eva’s weekend. It’s her special day. So, I’ll oblige.

Gram watches me stretch. She has that look in her eye that makes me feel like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Luckily, even the wise woman of the beach can’t read minds.

“I’m fine,” I tell her again before she can say anything.

She purses her lips and glances away. “Of course, darling.”

I clutch my little white purse like a lifeline as I step into the glamorous foyer of Blakeley Manor. It’s half past seven and I haven’t had the chance to see Eva yet. I’m wearing the blue dress, though, so she’ll at least be pleased by that. The silky fabric clings to my body in a way that I typically only tolerate when it comes to stage costumes, but it’s the least of my worries right now.

This event is crawling with VIPs. I should’ve prepared for that ahead of time. Should’ve known that being dropped off in Gram’s old Subaru would be a laugh in the face of the sleek foreign cars and tuxedo-clad chauffeurs.

I’m pretty sure I’ve already seen at least one Hadid sister and a famous Hollywood heartthrob, and I’ve barely been here for two minutes.

I take a deep breath and push farther into the space, hunting for the shiny black hair and flawless golden skin of my wildly successful friend.

Just when I think I’ve spotted her, holding court by the entrance to the chandelier-laden dining room, another figure blocks my path.

I halt immediately, staring at the man with blatant shock that I’m unable to disguise quickly enough. His gaze locks with mine, causing him to pause.

I recognize him. How could I not? Tall and toned, with a confidently relaxed posture. Thick, slightly wavy hair somewhere between auburn and chestnut brown. Dark eyes that, even from this distance, I know are flecked with gold.

Unbearably handsome, of course. Almost ostentatious. The kind of person who earns double-takes and appreciative glances even on the star-studded streets of New York City.

He’s ridiculous. Utterly, completely ridiculous.

I know who he is. I know that he has strong opinions about modernist literature, and that he absolutely despises Hemingway in particular. I know that he doesn’t drink his coffee black, like most manly men claim to, but rather with way too much milk and sugar. I know that he comes from a horrifyingly important family—Manhattan royalty, frankly—but that he’s never really cared about that at all.

I know that he is absolutely off limits, and that I should turn right around this very second and walk away. I should pretend I never saw him and carry on with the night, or I could wave to someone over his shoulder and pretend that I was never looking at him in the first place.

What I should definitely not do is march up to him and say, “Hi. I wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight.”

Yet, that’s exactly what I do.

The obtrusively beautiful man raises his eyebrows at me. The corner of his lips curve upwards like a comma—like the promise of more to be said.

Then he lifts his hand between us for a handshake and says, “Hello. I’m Ben. Ben Hawthorne. I’m the best man.”

Just like that, I want to jam the heel of my shoe into the arch of his foot.

I should’ve known better. I really should have.

Because of course, Ben Hawthorne doesn’t remember me.