Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
But like always, I’d rather not dwell on shit I can’t change. Once I start, it’ll sock me hard, and I’m not ready to feel that pain.
“It doesn’t really matter,” I say. “There is no opportunity.”
Talking about Ripley is stalling the inevitable. Because I asked Oscar to stop by for a reason. It’s now or never, and never is not a fucking option.
I manage to collapse the stroller.
Oscar peers into the trunk. “We’re about to stay in a million-dollar Key West rental house. Shouldn’t they have some kid stuff already there?”
“They do.”
“So you’re just stuffing your car like a jalapeño popper for shits and giggles?”
I roll my eyes. “Have you met Ripley? He’s more averse to change than Maximoff. Little man likes his shit the way he likes it, and right now, I’m trying to get him on my good side.”
Oscar grins. “You’ve got one of those?”
“Funny.” I slip the stroller into the trunk. Sweat suctions my black shirt to my abs, and I lift my sunglasses to my head and face him. “I have something for you.”
My pulse hammers. I can’t begin to predict his reaction. How upset he’ll be. I just hand him the business card.
Oscar turns it over and reads the words: Be my groomsman?
I scour his face for a reaction, but it’s mostly blank.
“I take it Donnelly’s your best man?” Oscar asks, flipping the card over again like he’s searching for something else. Maybe a just kidding or another question.
“Yeah.”
“And you’re only having one?”
My brows lift. “Yeah, just one.” I cage breath. He still hasn’t looked up at me.
“So you didn’t pick me…” Oscar’s brows furrow, hurt cinching his face.
Shit.
Fuck.
Shit. Shit. I run my tongue over my lip piercing. My pulse skips. “Man, I’m sor—”
He breaks into a smile. “Relax, Redford. I’m fucking with you.” He leans closer and pats my shoulder.
“Fuck,” I curse out a deep breath. “You’re dead to me,” I say casually, brows raised. “I almost thought you were about to cry.”
He laughs harder, humor exploding across his face. “Because I’m not your best man? I’ll survive, bro. I would’ve liked the bragging rights. But let’s be honest, if it wasn’t me, then it should be him.”
I hold out a hand, processing this shit. “So you’ve been fine with being just a groomsman all along? And you never said anything?”
“Yeah, seeing you nervous about this was Christmas come early. And I bet Donnelly it’d take you until after the bachelor party to ask me, so fuck you for making me lose fifty bucks.”
I roll my eyes again, but I’m smiling. He got me. And relief floods my body. I feel a little bit silly for worrying in the first place.
For thinking our friendship could be affected by wedding bullshit.
“I have something else to ask. You may just be a groomsman, but I want you to be a bigger part of the wedding.” I take a breath. “Because you do mean a lot to me.”
Wind picks up and ruffles Oscar’s curly hair. Light breaches his brown eyes. I realize I’m surprising him this time. “What is it?” he asks.
My lips lift into a wider smile.
23
FARROW KEENE
4 weeks until the wedding
I take a drag from a cigarette, popular remixed songs beating throughout a massive Key West club. Neon strobe lights sweep our leather couches and table in a roped-off VIP section. Safely keeping camera-wielding fans at bay.
I don’t blame them for wanting pictures of my bachelor party. All of SFO is here, and we’ve always been the hottest fuckers in security.
“Groom’s turn,” Banks nods to me.
I blow smoke up in the air and pry a Jenga block from the tower. Black marker bleeds into the wooden piece. I read the words, “Maximoff Motherfucking Hale.” I stare blankly at the best man who put this drinking game together. “How many ‘Maximoff’ blocks are there?”
Donnelly smirks. “Coulda put more in there.”
I’ve already picked four out.
“Consider it a gift, Redford. We know you love pulling his wood,” Oscar quips, unfurling a piece of paper. About to ask me a question pertaining to my groom.
I flip him off and stick my cigarette back between my lips. “What do you have for me, boys.” I unpocket my cellphone.
“No cheating.” Thatcher reaches over to take my phone.
I retract and give him a look. “You planning to take the Cobalt name because you sure as hell act like one?”
He almost rolls his eyes, and Banks shoves a bottle of champagne in his twin brother’s chest.
Oscar passes the paper to Akara. Our boss has been switching between his cellphone, the champagne, back to his cellphone all night. He swigs from the bottle Thatcher gives him, then reads a question to me, “Did Maximoff Hale tell a cameraman that he really likes whipped cream and strawberries?”
I tilt my head back and forth. “Fuck.” They picked the most obscure shit that I’d never know. And they have the luxury of Google-searching random facts about my groom. That’s what I get for falling in love with an American prince.