The Wedding Situation (Unintentionally Yours #1)

1. Quinn

Quinn

“Do you think Justin and I are right for each other?”

My friend Dani is sweating bullets, her arms stretched out in the air while two of her other bridesmaids dab under her arms with hotel-provided washcloths in the hopes her perspiration doesn’t stain her pre-wedding wedding dress.

Yes, you heard that right.

She has a dress that looks almost identical to her wedding dress, except that it’s pink instead of white, that she’s using for the rehearsal dinner.

“Of course you are!” Regina says.

“Justin is such a catch. And he’s rich,” Mandy adds.

But Dani looks up at me as I fix her faux eyelashes for the third time. They keep falling off because she keeps crying.

“What do you think, Quinn? You’re the expert,” she pouts.

An expert, I am not.

I simply run a nonprofit called We Still Do, where I connect married couples on the brink of divorce with marriage counseling.

Most of the time, the couples are hard-up for money (counseling is very expensive and not usually covered by insurance) and walking through my doors is their Hail Mary.

I will say that our success rates are high. Nine times out of ten, if you can get the couple through the door, they’re on their way to healing.

Okay, so maybe I am sort of an expert.

But that’s just what happens when you’ve spent your entire life believing that love is the most important thing in life and any relationship can be saved.

“I think the question you should ask is, do you love him?” I say, still working on her lashes and praying she doesn’t start crying again.

Dani is an emotional girl. While most people don’t start crying until the actual wedding day, she’s been crying since she got engaged.

And the alcohol doesn’t help.

“Of course I love him. More than anything,” she says.

“And does Justin love you the same way?” I ask.

“Yes. He tells me every day. And he never gets upset about how many Amazon packages he has to wade through on the front porch every day when he gets home from work, as long as I recycle the boxes. Which I do…”

“God, that is love, isn’t it…” Mandy sighs.

All that aside, I offer Dani another reassuring smile. “I think you have nothing to worry about,” I say, and Dani smiles too. Then her lips quivered, tears flood her eyes, and her lashes are a mess, again.

Sigh.

But wardrobe malfunctions aside, everything is beautiful. The gala is gorgeous; the dinner is extravagant, and there’s even a live band (yes, for the rehearsal dinner), a dance floor, and an open bar.

I grab a flute of champagne and enjoy my favorite, favorite part of weddings: watching the bride, flirting, smiling, dancing, and kissing.

They made it. It’s their big day (well, tomorrow is) and their love made it.

It’s no secret that I am a romantic.

It’s also no secret that I love weddings, obviously.

People go into them with so much hope, hope that they need to screenshot and tuck away for the rainy days when life gets hard. Because with foundations like this, anything can be overcome. Any obstacle can be faced if you only do it together.

Love can and will always win.

Suddenly, despite my overwhelming joy for my friend, a pang of loneliness starts bubbling up from my belly to my throat.

I am, afterall, here alone. I sleep alone. I wake up alone.

And I go to weddings alone.

“Look at those two…” a man standing next to me at the bar says while watching Dani and Justin.

“I know, right?” I gush, my eyes still on them as well.

“So temporarily happy. So much money wasted. Such a shame.”

I slowly turn to him, mouth gaping, expression unapologetically disgusted.

“Excuse you,” I hiss up at him.

And yes, even in my heels, I have to look up at him. Very up.

He’s got to be no less than 6 foot two. Stacked. Mahogany hair dashed with salt and pepper. Eyes the color of the ocean (not the blue beaches but the deep sea that could swallow you whole at the turn of the tide).

He’s attractive.

And he’s out of his mind.

“What?” he asks. “Most relationships don’t even last five years anymore. Just stating the facts.”

“Yeah well, that happens to be one of my best friends. And I like to think, no, choose to believe that they will live happily ever after,” I state, taking a sip of my champagne.

“And I like to be realistic,” he says, taking a measured sip of his beer. “They still have time to run.”

“Let me guess. Single?” I shoot back, still looking at Dani because as heated as I am right now, it’s hard to be this salty when I’m staring at the Atlantic Ocean.

But the man turns to me, his eyes slowly raking up and down my body without indifference. “Let me guess. Same?”

My mouth pops open in a scoff. “How dare you?”

“You fired the first shot,” he says casually, and I swear to God those cocky lips of his are twitching in a smirk.

“No. You fired the first shot when you said my friend’s marriage is dead on arrival,” I say.

“Like I said, I’m a realist.”

Before either of us can say anything else (which is honestly probably a good thing), Dani rushes over, her pink heels that match all the bridesmaid dresses clacking as she holds up a mountain of tulle. “Quinn! There you are! Oh, and I see you met Reid.”

I don’t bother to look at him, though I can tell he’s looking at me. I can feel it.

“Come on, you two, the whole wedding party has to be at our table,” she says.

I take a seat three seats down from Dani. She is a friend of mine from Sweet Cakes, a bakery I worked at a few years back before starting We Still Do.

While we are still good friends, I’m not the maid of honor so I’m further down the totem pole.

Which is fine by me, except that it turns out Reid is also on the same tier, which puts him in the chair directly across from me.

Lovely.

I trade out my now empty champagne glass for a new one and blur him out of my peripheral as I smile up at the happy couple as they give a little speech, thanking us all for being here.

After they sit back down, I sigh and take a sip.

“So how do you two know each other?” Regina, who is sitting next to me, asks.

“Oh, we don’t,” I say quickly.

“We just had the pleasure of meeting,” Reid says.

I let out a high-pitched giggle. “I’m sorry, I just…I’m not sure pleasure is the right word.”

“I’m surprised you know what the word means,” Reid shoots back, and I snort.

“I meant how do you know the groom, Reid?” Regina asks, her eyes darting between him and me.

“Oh, right,” he says.

“Obviously,” I mutter with a smile.

“Justin and I went to law school together,” he states.

“Justin is a lawyer?” Mandy asks. She’s a sweet girl, but for all those wheels turning in her head, there’s not a lot of live hamsters.

“He works in the entertainment industry, repping music artists,” Reid says.

“You’re a lawyer,” I ask, though it comes out more like a statement because I’m honestly not surprised.

“I am,” he smirks. “A divorce lawyer.”

I literally choke on my champagne at that, and Reid hands me a napkin, clearly amused.

Jerk.

“That’s kind of hot…” Regina says.

“But less entertaining,” I say once I’m done coughing.

“So you guys kind of do the same thing then,” Mandy says pointing back and forth at us.

“Not really, Mandy,” I smile nicely.

“How so?” Reid asks.

“Because you’re a divorce lawyer and Quinn helps keep married people together,” she says like she just finished a paint-by-numbers and is delighted that she figured out what the picture is.

Reid looks amused, and I decide for my own dignity to take over from here.

“I run a nonprofit that connects married couples with relationship counselors,” I say with confidence.

“Interesting,” he says. “Why?”

That one syllable has other people choking on their champagne, too. But I’m not so easily thrown off my horse.

I meet his eyes, and his smirk, before answering. “To prevent divorce.”

“Well, this is fun,” Collin, the groomsman sitting next to Reid, says, jumping into the conversation. “Why don’t we talk about something more lighthearted? Like the war in Iran.”

Everyone laughs as Collin starts to change the subject, luckily not to the war in Iran but to the recent New York Knicks game, but Reid seems happy to continue with the current debate.

Fucking lawyers.

“No, I’m seriously intrigued. Why would you put energy, time, and money into something like that?” he asks, and I nearly break the stem on my champagne glass when I set it down.

“Because the divorce rate is through the roof and shouldn’t be,” I say. “Because people give up too soon.”

“Too soon?” he asks, his eyes lock hard on mine. “Or at the right time?”

“It’s never the right time to give up on the person you love.”

“Unless it was never right to begin with,” he argues.

“If you love each other, it’s right,” I say, picking up my glass again.

“That’s assuming love is enough. Or even exists at all,” he says.

I set my glass down again before even taking a sip. “That’s ridiculous. Everyone believes in love.”

“Not me,” he says and music starts to play again.

And as everyone makes their way to the dance floor, I make my way outside. I need air before I lose my shit at a wedding.

But before I can even take in a breath of the salty Manhattan air, I hear Satan’s wing-tipped shoes on the concrete behind me and I whip around

I’m not expecting him to be right behind me, and we bump into each other.

I step back, both so my breasts aren’t brushing against his abs and so I don’t strain my neck looking up at him.

“Did I say something to upset you?” he asks patronizingly.

“You haven’t upset me,” I lie.

“So your feathers are always this ruffled at weddings? I thought you enjoyed them.”

I amp it up a notch. “Only when cocky divorce lawyers show up in an attempt to shatter my belief system, which you are not, and will not do.”

He studies me without blinking and then clicks his tongue. “Do you happen to know the leading cause of divorce?”

“Infidelity,” I answer without missing a beat. I know my stats.

“No. Marriage,” he states.

I almost laugh.

Then I stop myself. “Oh my god, you’re serious.”

“I am. But I do find it interesting that you think the answer is something sex-related,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking out over the bay.

“Sex with other people, yes,” I say.

“Maybe because the best sex isn’t within the shackles of marriage,” he states, and I know for a fucking fact he is trying to ruffle my feathers to the point of molting.

Unfortunately, it’s working a little.

“You support sex outside of marriage?” I ask.

“Support it? I recommend it. Sex in marriage shouldn’t be labeled sex at all.”

“Well, I don’t believe that. I’m not really a supporter of sex outside of marriage at all,” I say with my chin tipped up.

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“So you’re a virgin.”.

“That is none of your business,” I snap.

PSA: I’m not a virgin. But it’s still none of his business.

“How about we agree to disagree,” I suggest. I’ve been looking forward to this wedding for a long time, and Mr. Killjoy here is putting a damper on it.

“Because I’m right?” he smirks.

“Because you’re wrong.”

With that, I turn to walk back inside.

“We’ll see about that…” he chuckles.

And my nerves are tingling.