Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
The largest linebacker can miss the easiest block.
The most unassuming wallflower can have a drawer full of sex toys.
I put that out of my mind as I hit the start button for my truck, engine noisily thundering amongst a parking lot full of luxury sedans and sport utility vehicles. Family cars.
“Thanks for the lift.”
“Sure.”
I hope she doesn’t keep talking—I have nothing to say.
“And thanks for helping me move. I don’t remember if I told you that or not.”
She did, only a dozen times last weekend while I was schlepping boxes into her house—as if I had all the time in the world to waste, fucking around with her move, this girl who is going to be my brother’s new family.
In-law.
Family-in-law.
Regardless, Buzz is excited, so I guess I should ease up on the indifference and throw the girl a bone.
Chandler is cute but meek, nothing to write home about. A woman who looks more like a recent college grad, or jailbait. I spare her a glance, keep my eyes to the front, small talk unnecessary.
“You were the one dressed like a lumberjack last week.” Chandler attempts to tease me, albeit shyly, eyes downcast and cheeks flushed.
I grunt, having no response to Captain Obvious, despite having just decided to converse with her for the sake of my brother. If she tells him I was rude, he’ll be pissed. It’s not that I worry about him, but he’ll squeal to our mom, and she’ll chew my ass out. I’m sick and tired of having my ass handed to me by our parents, having gotten more lectures these past few weeks than I did my entire youth.
“This is your brother’s special night—don’t ruin it.”
“You’re a reflection of this family—please don’t ice anyone out with your bad manners.”
Bad manners? Since when is being honest bad manners?
“Could you at least smile? It looks like you’re headed to a funeral, not an engagement party.”
“No, you may not bring Chewy to the wedding ceremony.”
What about the reception?
“No dogs! PERIOD!”
This whole month of festivities has been a drag. Who wouldn’t want my dog at the wedding? He’s fucking awesome!
Chandler is quiet, as if reading my mood, and when I glance over, she’s got her eyes trained out the window, chin propped on the hand resting on the door armrest.
Fine.
Good.
Dude, why are you being such a damn grouch? My brother’s voice suddenly becomes my conscience as my fingers grip the wheel tighter. But now that we’ve driven this far in silence, it would feel weird to suddenly make conversation.
Wouldn’t it?
It takes another ten long minutes to arrive at the restaurant where dinner is, and Chandler pops her door open and hops out before I can even think of going around to the passenger side to help her.
She climbed in just fine by herself—why would I help her down? Don’t women want to be independent?
Guilt niggles at me the smallest bit, the manners Mom instilled in us kids echoing through my head, rules about opening doors for women and ‘ladies first’ and showing respect and helping old people across the street.
It’s not disrespectful to let a chick open her own truck door—don’t be stupid, I tell myself. You don’t even know her.
I can’t think any more of it, because Chandler Westbrooke is gone, hightailing it across the parking lot like a rabbit afraid of its shadow.
Six
Chandler
The ride to the rehearsal dinner with Tripp Wallace was torture.
Absolutely the most awkward twenty minutes of my life. The guy couldn’t be more socially inept if he tried. Barely spoke, did not help me up into the truck, or down out of it, for that matter.
Not that I expected him to.
Okay fine—a very small part of me kind of did.
I let myself out and beeline for the door, beating him by at least twenty yards, leaving him sitting in the parking lot. It feels rude; I wasn’t brought up to leave anyone behind—but I get the feeling he purposely lingered so he wouldn’t have to walk with me.
And can we just talk about his wardrobe for a second? I know he came from work—I think Hollis said something about him having to practice earlier today—but couldn’t he have packed a more appropriate outfit to change into than shorts and a t-shirt? It’s as if he didn’t even try.
Not that I’m judging him.
But come on, we were in a church, and now we’re about to stroll into a nice restaurant for a lovely meal, and he’s wearing freaking shorts for crying out loud.
Unbelievable.
Put some effort into it—your BROTHER is getting married!
Can’t lie though…he smelled incredible.
I give my head a shake as I pull the door open, greeted by the hostess, who asks if I’m with the wedding party and leads me to the back room. Walking through, it has the same feeling as walking into the church—potted trees with glowing lights frame the doorway, Hollis following the theme throughout all her pre-wedding celebrations.