You May Kiss the Bridesmaid Page 4

My gaze lands on the entrance’s revolving doors where, to my horror, two of my ex-friends, Susan and Daria, are walking into the hotel, carry-on luggage in tow behind them.

  The first ghosts from my past have arrived.

  I turn my face away, wishing I had an invisibility cloak under which to disappear. Or, to be more pragmatic, that I had at least a beanie to conceal my hair. I love my long, white-blonde locks, but the mane is hard to miss. In a panic, I hastily get up and ask the bartender where the restrooms are. The man points me to a hall to the right with a toilet sign above it. I hop off the stool and follow his directions. I’ve already signed the receipt and won’t need to come back to the bar. And to go back to my room, I can find another set of elevators or take the stairs, steering clear of the lobby.

  Down the hall, I push the bathroom door open and hide in a stall for good measure. Gosh, this is terrible. How am I going to survive a week trapped in a hotel with all these people I never want to see again? Avoiding two of them for an evening won’t solve the problem, and I can’t be a bitch and ditch all the events. I’d be spoiling the celebrations for Winter. Before coming, I was aware I’d have to face people, but the real-life experience is worse than I expected. I’m not ready for the panic and shame assailing me even without a face to face. What about when I’ll be forced to really confront them?

  I close my hands in tight fists, digging my fingernails into my palms, and sag against the metal door to stare at the ceiling. Two glasses of wine should’ve helped me relax, but no, I’m still a bundle of nerves. And if a little liquid courage can’t even help me chill out, this week is going to be truly horrible.

  The bathroom door swings open, and Susan’s voice drifts in. “Couldn’t you wait until we got up to our room?”

  “Sorry,” Daria’s voice replies, getting closer. A door bangs next to me; she must’ve occupied the stall to my left. “It was a long drive, and you’ve seen the line at the check-in.”

  On alert, I push away from the stall’s door and backtrack to the rear of the tiny space, hoping my feet won’t show underneath. Could they recognize me from my shoes? I doubt it.

  “Whatever,” Susan says, her voice closer now. I can picture her staring in the mirror while bouncing up the edges of her short bob of brown hair. “Are we going out tonight, or are you tired?”

  “I don’t know,” Daria says. “You?”

  “I texted Winter; they’re downtown at a French brasserie.”

  “Who’s ‘they?’ Is the Scarlet Woman going to be there?”

  Blood turns to ice in my veins; she’s talking about me.

  “Probably.”

  “Yuck.” After the longest time, Daria flushes and comes out of the stall. “Then it’s a pass for me.”

  “You’re still that mad at Summer?” Susan asks. “If Lana could move past—”

  “Lana is an angel fallen from heaven,” Daria interrupts, turning on the water to presumably wash her hands. “I’m not.”

  Susan must make a face, because Daria says, “Susy, drop it.”

  “Okay, I will, if…” A pregnant pause follows. “If you explain why, just once.”

  The sound of paper towels being yanked from their container on the wall is the only noise that fills the room for a few unbearably long seconds. In the ringing silence, I’m scared they’ll hear the pounding of my heart against my rib cage.

  “What difference does it make?” Daria asks.

  “I hate that our group fell apart and disintegrated. We were so close, the six of us, and now it’s just you and me most of the time. And I’m not saying I don’t love hanging out with you, but it isn’t like before.”

  When Susan says the six of us, she’s talking about them, plus me, my sister, Lana, and Ingrid, who’s the wife of Johnathan’s best friend, Mike. The moment the affair became public, Johnathan and I were sort of cast out and Mike stuck to his buddy, leaving the group as well and pulling Ingrid along. But I had no idea that even Winter and Lana didn’t hang out as much with Susan and Daria anymore. I’d just assumed I’d dropped off the invite list to their nights out.

  “Sorry, sweetheart, but the group will never be the same,” Daria says. “That ship sank when little Miss I’ll Go and Screw My Best Friend’s Boyfriend torpedoed it by having an affair with Johnathan. I still don’t understand how Lana found the strength to forgive her, but I never will.”

  Daria’s last words cut through my heart like a blade.

  “But why? Summer didn’t steal your boyfriend.”

  “Susy, she was my best friend. Summer supported me when Tom had the affair, and then Gabriel. She witnessed firsthand what being cheated on did to me, how destroyed I was. Now, tell me, what kind of cold-hearted bitch would consciously unleash all that pain on another woman, let alone her supposed best friend?”

  The blade slices through my already-injured heart, fileting it to shreds. What I did to Lana was wrong, inexcusable. And Daria’s right: I didn’t deserve Lana’s forgiveness.

  “No, no, you’re right,” Susan says. “She’s a total bitch.”

  I cringe in my corner, flushing in shame.

  “Lana got lucky she fell into a new relationship straight away, but she could’ve been broken to the point of no return,” Daria continues. “I’ve learned my lesson, and Summer Knowles is the kind of toxic person I don’t need in my life, thank you very much. And besides, she hasn’t had the guts to send me a single text since she was outed.”

  “Yeah, me neither,” Susan says. “Honestly, I don’t know how she’s going to show her face around this week. I mean, everyone knows.”

  Thank you, Susan, for pointing that out. As if I wasn’t worrying enough already. Susy is one of the most good-hearted people in our group, and if this is what she thinks of me… Anxiety twists in my stomach, and I fight hard to choke a sob in my throat. They can’t find out I’m in here, hiding and eavesdropping on everything they say.

  “Serves her right,” Daria snaps. “Let’s go.”

  Wheels roll on the floor, and the washroom door is pulled open.

  “Speaking of Lana’s new relationship,” Susan says, her voice moving away. “I have it on good authority Christian Slade will come to the ceremony. He should arrive by Thursday or Fri—”

  The door slams shut, and Susan’s voice gets cut off.

  After they’ve left, I wait another ten minutes before coming out of the stall, in case they forgot something and bounced back in. When I exit, I’m half-stumbling and need to steady myself by bracing my arms on the marble sink. Their words hit me worse than if they’d taken turns punching me. They loathe me. Despise me. And I deserve every ounce of their hatred. Everything they said is true.

  I take a hard, long stare in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, but I managed to keep the tears in. Still, my skin looks pasty, except for the bluish bags under my eyes. At this moment, I’d give anything to be anyone but myself. And I know just the person who can grant me that wish.

  I storm out of the bathroom and head for the bar.

  Archie is no longer at the counter, of course, but I need a little extra liquid courage before taking him up on his offer.

  Not bothering to sit again, I wave at the bartender to attract his attention.

  He comes my way at once. “You wanted something else?”

  “A shot, please.”

  The bartender eyes me slightly too long before asking, “Any preferences?”

  “Whatever,” I say. “Make it strong.”

  He nods and gets mixing.

  When he puts a tiny glass in front of me five minutes later, I don’t even ask what’s in it. I raise the glass to my lips and tip my head backward, downing the liquid in one swallow. Vodka, mostly, with some lemon soda and sugar. The alcohol burns my throat and makes my eyes water. I do my best not to let it show, and drop the empty shot glass back on the counter.

  An annoying smirk stamped on his lips, the bartender asks, “Another one?”

&
nbsp; “No, thanks,” I say. “One is fine. Put it on room 452.”

  I don’t wait for the bartender’s response, but head straight for the elevators. The best man is about to get lucky; the least he can do is buy me a drink first.

  The ride up to the fourth floor is short enough to prevent any second-guessing, and in no time, I’m standing in front of room 452 knocking on the door.

  Five

  Summer

  Archie opens the door a minute later without even asking who it is. His face barely registers surprise at finding me standing on his doorstep.

  Bastard.

  He hasn’t changed clothes, except that he is now wearing hotel slippers instead of sneakers. The new ensemble should be ridiculous, but the prick has never looked more handsome.

  Arms crossed over his chest, he leans against the doorframe with a smug smile curling his lips. “What can I do for you?”

  I don’t have the will to play cat and mouse, so I cut to the chase. “I’m ready to forget my name.”

  Ice-blue eyes study me, x-raying me down to my core. Until, finally, Archie steps aside. “Come on in, then.”

  I walk into the room, the door closing behind me with a loud click. This is it, I’m in. No turning back.

  Archie is still studying me, and I can’t withstand the scrutiny. So, for lack of better alternatives, I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him.

  This is the first time I’ve kissed someone with a beard, and it’s not what I expected. The hairs are soft and a bit ticklish, but leave the full lips underneath one hundred percent enjoyable.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Archie pulls back. “Are you drunk?” he asks, probably tasting the vodka on my lips.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I had one shot. You’re not taking advantage.”

  I try to kiss him again, but he tilts his head backward and upward, away from me. Then he gently removes my arms from around his neck, and, still holding my hands, places our joined limbs between us like a barrier.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Not how this is going to work.”

  I frown, confused. “What? You have a no-kissing policy?”

  If that’s the case, I’m leaving faster than the Roadrunner from Wile E. Coyote.

  Beep Beep!

  “Oh, no. We’re going to kiss,” Archie says, and I relax and tense at the same time. “Just not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “Something happened downstairs that made you so worked up you downed a shot and came up to my room half an hour after swearing you wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole.”

  I hate that he can read me so well without even knowing me. “I’m entitled to change my mind.”

  “So am I.”

  “If you don’t want to do this anymore, I can just go.”

  He shrugs. “I’m just not up for angry sex. Not that it doesn’t have its merits, but not tonight.”

  My jaw drops. This guy is so arrogant, so full of himself, so—

  “I want you to have a clear head before anything happens,” he adds, smoothing the tension. “That okay?”

  I was about ready to get the hell outta here, but he’s pulled me back in.

  “What do you propose?” I ask.

  “How about a foot massage, to start?” he asks, and, eyeing my shoes, adds, “Those stilettos must be killing you.”

  The heels are uncomfortable, but… “A foot massage?” I ask. “I thought we were going to do something a little more daring than that.”

  Archie’s thumbs circle over my wrists, which he’s still holding. Letting me know everything this man does with his hands is daring. “I promise,” he says, his grin growing more wicked. “It will be the dirtiest foot massage you’ve ever had.”

  That, I can believe.

  With my mouth already a little dry, I nod.

  “Let’s go outside. The night is warm, and I won’t even need to put on ambient sounds.”

  He guides me across the room, then lets go of my hands to open the French doors on the other side. The balcony is a photocopy of mine: fifteen feet by ten, furnished with a table, two chairs, and two chaise lounges, all in brown plastic wicker.

  Archie gestures to one of the recliners and I lie down on it, kicking my shoes off as soon as my feet leave the floor—gosh, these pumps are real killers. As I ease back on the cushions, the skirt of my black dress rides up my legs, showing a quantity of skin I’m not usually comfortable with. The fact doesn’t escape my host’s eyes, and he throws me a hungry look. Well, pal, you’re the one who wanted to waste time with stupid feet rubs. He turns the other chaise lounge at a ninety-degree angle to mine and sits on the edge, patting his thighs expectantly.

  I give him my right foot.

  Warm, dry hands swallow my foot in their grip. Either my feet have shrunk, or his hands are really big. The moment his fingers start to move in slow, soothing circles, I relax against the back of the recliner. Despite my initial reservations, I close my eyes and let out a moan of appreciation. Maybe a foot massage wasn’t such a terrible idea.

  Until the masseur disrupts my quiet enjoyment by starting to talk.

  “So, are you going to tell me what sent you bolting for my room?”

  I lift a single eyelid. “Actually, I was planning on enjoying my massage without having upsetting conversations.”

  “Sorry, I play by different rules.”

  “Really?” I turn my full attention to him. “When you promised me a week of fun, I thought the purpose was for me to forget about my problems, not to get the third degree about them. Why do you want to know?”

  Archie rubs my heel. “You’re a riddle, and I’m curious.”

  “A riddle, how?”

  “I know your sister pretty well, and you’re nothing like her.”

  “Just because we look the same doesn’t mean we are the same.”

  “No, okay. But you don’t seem like someone who would—”

  “Stab her best friend in the back? Have an affair?” I offer, a bitter smile parting my lips. “Admittedly, those weren’t in my thirty before thirty list of things to do.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Would you believe me if I told you I’m not sure?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I dated the same guy throughout high school, college, and a few years after that. When I left it, the dating world was all about meet-cutes and school dances. No iPhones. No Facebook. Fast forward fifteen years and the romance world had gone to Tinder, Bumble, Asparagus, or whatever dating app is the flavor of the month. I went from talking about marriage and kids to trying to avoid receiving unsolicited pictures of strangers’ genitalia.”

  Archie chuckles. “I’m pretty sure there’s no dating app called Asparagus.”

  “This isn’t funny. I spent months running into guys that… Well, guys like you.”

  “You mean handsome and dashing?”

  “In part,” I admit. “It’s not that hard to find a pretty face. But they were all interested in a hookup and nothing else, like two weeks was the standard max expiration date for a relationship. I woke up in a world where talking about commitment before forty was sacrilege. One guy never calling me back after we spent the night together was enough to convince me I’d never meet anyone, that I’d die alone with the proverbial ten cats.”

  “And how did that translate into sleeping with your best friend’s boyfriend?”

  “We ran into each other, had lunch, and it was… unexpected, easy, fun, safe. New and familiar at the same time. Like what I’d imagine it’d feel to discover you suddenly have feelings for an old friend. And I mistook being comfortable for being in love. And then I came up with a million excuses to justify what I was doing. Johnathan and Lana were wrong for each other, nothing should get in the way of true love, she’d be better off with someone else…”

  “Which she ended up being.”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t doing Lana any favors. I was being
selfish, full stop. I was doing whatever I wanted to do at the moment, and damn the consequences.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the worst way to live.”

  “Ah, but then you really have to not care about the consequences, ’cause karma is a pesky bitch and it catches up.”

  “Has it?”

  The same pain and shame that wrecked me when Johnathan called to announce Lana had found us out hit me in the gut as if it happened only yesterday. Winter disowning me as a sister. The fallout with all my friends. And the breakup. The memories all swirl in my head, making me dizzy.

  “You’re depressing me,” I say, trying to claim my foot back. “I should go.”

  I pull with my leg, but he keeps my foot hostage in his hands. “Nuh-uh, sorry, my bad. No more sad topics.” Archie circles his thumbs under the sole of my foot in a motion so sublime it threatens to make my eyes roll in the back of my head. I can’t help but sink back on the chaise lounge and relax. “What did you think of the beard?” Archie asks casually, as if we hadn’t spent the last half an hour discussing the darkest stains in my past. “Was it that horrible to kiss?”

  I can’t help it; my lips curl up in a smile. This guy is something else. “I thought it’d be worse, but I’m not convinced I like it yet.”

  He grabs my other foot and starts to give it the same delicious treatment as its predecessor. “By the end of the week you’ll be a fan, I promise.”

  I chuckle. “Oh, so only hipster boyfriends in my future?”

  “I’m not a hipster,” he retorts.

  “And I’m not posh.”

  Archie smiles. “Fair enough.”

  I stare into his ice-blue eyes, which are filled with mischief. “So, Mr. Hill, your turn to share. What’s the worst thing you ever did?”

  His smile turns wicked. “Oh, baby, the night isn’t long enough for that list.”

  “Don’t call me baby.”

  “Okay, Summer Knowles, I won’t.”

  Our eyes lock. Hold. Then his movements on my foot shift, oh so slightly. I wouldn’t be able to explain how, but they become more suggestive, sensual. As if every touch had a sexual double entendre. Electricity tingles up my leg—and it’s just as well I’m lying down because my knees just turned to Jell-O. This is officially the dirtiest foot massage I’ve ever gotten. Makes me wonder if the man can deliver on all his promises.