I can tell he wants to roll his eyes so badly.
I’m nervous, but I also know that the last thing I should be doing right now is downing a drink.
What happened to personal responsibility?
She can’t come to the fucking phone.
The second Joanna and Dylan release us from their little spells, the men circle Cooper, pressing into me as they go to slap him on the back and tell him how well he’s done for their fantasy team in past years.
Last year, Isla was showing me her fantasy league when a trade request came in. Briar wanted Leo and was offering her Cooper.
I had reached over and hit “reject.” Best feeling in the whole world.
But one of the worst feelings in the world is being crushed by a million dudes trying to compliment your fake husband for the way he throws a ball.
Or, wait, does he catch it? I’m not sure. Maybe throwing is Leo’s job.
“I’m going to head over there,” I say to no one in particular, squeezing out of the mass of sweat and spray on deodorant that I justknowhas something like a tiger or shark on the label.
Coughing, I gather myself and head for another drink. I’m going to need a lot tonight.
“Hi!”
I whip around, finding a brunette behind me, her large blue eyes shiny in the fairy lights.
“Hi,” I respond, holding up my wine.
“A little birdie told me that you used my mom’s song to walk down the aisle to,” she says with a dazzling smile.
And I nearly drop my drink.
“Holy shit, are you Iris May?” I sputter in disbelief.
Her smile grows wider. “Yes!”
Lucy May was my favorite artist growing up, and the only thing I ever really knew about my wedding as a kid was that I would be walking down the aisle to her song.
Her voice is what got me to sleep as a kid, when Lucy had her daughter, Iris, when I was around seven years old.
Lucy had quite a few husbands, which only added to hercharm. She hated men more than anything, and you could hear it in her songwriting. But Riot May, well, he was the real deal. You could tell.
“How the fuck did they get you on this show?” I ask, looking around, feeling a little loosey-goosey.
Iris laughs, which, if I’m honest, is the better reaction than what I’d have done if someone said that to me. “Why not! They paired me with that guy over there, though,” she points to a man across the room who looks like he could be a bodybuilder.
I rear back. “He’s bald,” I whisper.
“And he has the smallest penis known to man,” she whispers back.
I frown. “Does he go down on you?”
She shakes her head.
“Jesus. Does he use toys while he fucks you, too?”
Where am I even finding these words?
She shakes her head again, sinking into herself with a grimace.
