Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
It’s dated for February of next year.
I look up. “Dude. Isn’t that your—”
“Wedding date. Yeah,” Ian says. “I need a best man. Well, men. You guys are it.”
Ah, shit. I don’t think of myself as a sappy kind of guy, but the request means a lot. Well . . . it was more of a demand, but still.
“I sort of thought this was unnecessary,” Ian continues. “I mean, I figured you guys would just know, like, the moment we got engaged. But Lara said I had to make it official . . .”
Grinning, I stand and go to give my friend a hug. “Hell yes, man. I’m going to look so much better in a pink dress than Kennedy.”
“You jest, but Lara is thinking pink and red for our colors. It’s Valentine’s Day weekend, blah blah blah.”
“I’m not wearing a pink tie,” Kennedy says, giving Ian a hug of his own. “Red, we can talk about.”
“I’ll pass on the message.”
“You know, you didn’t have to bribe us,” I say, nodding toward the flask.
“Lara’s idea. Apparently, you can’t just ask your wedding party to stand up beside you anymore. It has to be a thing. Can someone please change the subject?”
He sounds desperate, so Kennedy takes pity on him and turns to me. “How’d it go when you ambushed Sabrina on Saturday? Was she pissed?”
I groan. “It backfired. The infernal woman knew I was coming, flipped the tables, controlled the entire day.”
Well, not the entire day. There’d been a moment in the dressing room when she’d been dangerously, wonderfully close to being out of control.
“She’s good at that,” Ian says in acknowledgment before looking at his watch. “Damn it. I’ve got to run. Drinks later on me as a thank-you for not giving me shit about the dippy best-man gesture?”
“Oh, there will be shit-giving,” Kennedy says. “We just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“Fantastic. Can’t wait,” Ian says. “But just keep in mind that I have an excellent memory. And I’ll remember each and every bit of shit-giving you dish out when it’s your turn to walk down the aisle and your fiancées make you beg me to be your best man with a cupcake or a poem.”
Kennedy winces. “Noted. I’d like to think it won’t go down that way, but if a woman ever winds me around her finger to propose, she can probably convince me to do just about anything.”
“It’ll happen,” Ian says, clamping Kennedy on the shoulder as they head out the door. “You too, Cannon.”
I smile confidently as I sit back at my desk, because no matter how determined Ian is to bring me down into his lovestruck world, I know I’ll never join him there.
I don’t do love. I don’t do relationships.
And I sure as hell never plan to do marriage. Not the drippy, delusional love version.
And not Sabrina’s way, either.
12
SABRINA
Monday Dinner, September 25
I blink in surprise. “Are you wearing an apron?”
Lara McKenzie points a wooden spoon at me in warning. “Definitely. Wouldn’t you if you were attempting to make dinner wearing a white shirt?”
“Well, see, that’s the difference between us,” I say, stepping into her apartment and shutting the door. “I wouldn’t be making dinner.”
“Yeah, I’m not so good at it myself, but I’m trying. Ooh, but you made dessert!” Lara says, looking down at the apple tart in my hand.
“Nope. Bought it. It’s better this way, trust me.”
“Are you one of those women who keeps shoes in her oven?” Lara asks as I follow her into the kitchen.
“Not anymore. But when I first moved to the city and was living in a four-hundred-square-foot shoebox while trying to get my business off the ground? Damn straight.”
“Now that’s something I’d kill to see,” Lara says, giving the sautéing mushrooms a quick shove with her spoon. “Baby Sabrina.”
“I was nineteen.”
Lara shoots me a smile over her shoulder. “Like I said. Baby.”
I smile back, though I don’t know that I agree. I suppose for some people, nineteen is just another shade of youth. For people like Lara, even Ian, whose paths had involved a four-year university, theirs had held youthful experiences like dorm rooms, study groups, frat parties.
At nineteen, I’d already been putting food on my own table for a decade. I’d learned way more than I should have about the masochistic nature of men, and I sure as hell knew that the only person you could count on—really count on—was yourself.
Even Ian, who’d been my friend and protector since we were kids, had left. I didn’t resent him for following his dreams to Yale. I’d been his biggest cheerleader. But my happiness for him didn’t take away the fact that I’d really, truly been on my own, all before my twentieth birthday.
Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t feel sorry for me. The tough knocks early on gave me my independence, and I’m grateful. Really.