And when Xander smiles, the edge I felt about the line I’m dancing on, about liking him, melts into goo. I start to relax, and I wish I could blame something else, anything else, but I know it’s the effect of his smile.
His sweet, sexy smile.
Em’s words echo in my head like a goddamn yogi mantra.You want to love him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Dad is not fucking around with this wedding. It’s at an estate, in the middle of nowhere, with a marquee, and a wedding planner. Nothing like an expensive-ass wedding to try and prove to everyone that your second marriage is “The One.” We get it. You believe in love. Again. And she’s worth it.
After pulling up in the mammoth driveway with manicured hedges, being escorted through the marble hallway of the estate and out the back to the sprawling white marquee set against tall green trees, and doing a quick scan for Mom, who isn’t here, we skip the waitstaff who’re delivering bubbles and make our way to the bar to order something a little stronger.
There’s a lot of shit I could say about my dad. The lying. The cheating. The not making an effort with me. I mean, I could go on for days about the decisions that have led him to this moment and the kind of surface-level relationship he decided was okay to have with his one and only daughter—but I won’t. Not today, at least. Because the bar at his wedding is off the hook.
For something that’s basically a tent, it’s six-star luxury. The twinkle lights turn the entire wall of every single type of alcohol and liquor you could imagine into a sparkling invitation. Leaning in to get a look, there’s nothing that’s “house” about the choices. They’re all top shelf. The glassware is French and crystal clear. The bartender spins a cocktail shaker in his hands, inviting us to ask for anything we want. Anything at all.
“I bet his margarita would blow our heads off,” I say to Xander, without realizing the trip down memory lane that’s imminent on the other end of this drink.
I look over at him. I have to admit, he’s the picture-perfect wedding date with his three-piece suit perfectly tailored to show off his broad shoulders. He even bought me a matching corsage. All reds and oranges. And he’s got the same flowers peeking out of his pocket. I mean, he went all out. He pulled out all the stops to be here with me.
“I’m down,” he says, his lips tipping up at the ends.
“Two margaritas,” I say to the bartender before I turn to take in the scene around us. On top of the real trees, there’s garland everywhere—hanging from the tent, wrapped around the chairs, on top of tables. So my new stepmom is apparently a plant lady? Got it. It does look beautiful. And the afternoon sun streaming through the real trees makes everything look golden.
“Okay, give me the rundown. Who’s the annoying uncle we need to avoid? What’s the family gossip? Who are wenottalking to?” Xander asks, and I can’t help but laugh.
“They’re all irrelevant. Except my mother.” I reach for my freshly made margarita and study it. Perfection. The perfect green-yellow that not even Pantone can identify. “She’s going to eat you alive. Bottom’s up,” I say, taking my first sip. Xander joins me.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he says, in a low groan that’s borderline inappropriate. I take three more big gulps, giving the bite of tequila and freshness of the limes a chance to wash away the memory threatening to flutter behind my eyelids. “I’m not worried about your mother.”
This earns Xander another laugh from me. I admire his cockiness. We’ll see …
A moment later I look down at my glass and besides the melting ice, it’s empty. Well, damn. That went down too smoothly. I’m going to have to keep track. One down. I lift one foot off the floor to test myself out. In my block heels, an absolute essential for a garden wedding, I’m sturdy. I look over at Xander, whose glass has paused at his mouth. I watch as he takes a sip and swallows. Drinking from a glass has no business being this sexy. And yet all evidence points to sexy. My gaze travels up the thick column of his throat, tracing the lines my tongue has licked in the past up to his lips.
It’s my turn to gulp.
I order two more margaritas and wait for Xander to take another sip of his first one before reaching over and lifting the bottom of the glass, tilting it so he finishes it in one go. Then I grab his now empty glass, put it on the bar, and pick up the freshly made ones.
“Here,” I say, handing him one. “Let’s go explore.” And just like that, Xander reaches for my hand and guides me toward the estate.
As we walk, I watch Xander take a sip of his margarita and not spill any down his shirt. Meanwhile, every time I want a sip, I take a quick pause and sip. I know what my strengths are, and they do not include walking and drinking without spilling. And you know what? Xander stops with me. Never letting go of my hand.
“I haven’t had one of these in ages,” Xander says, taking another effortless sip as we continue to walk across the perfectly manicured lawn. “It’s really everything you’d want in a drink.”
“Is it?” I muse. I stop to take another much-needed sip. Silently I add,And they taste like you.
“Yeah, I mean it’s got just the right amount of kick.” He steals a glance my way, and there’s a smirk resting on his lips. Like he’s not talking about the margarita anymore. I snap my head straight to avoid further eye contact.
“There’s a little sweetness.” His voice softens at this. Like he’s in a memory that I have no business knowing. Do not look at him.
“And a touch of salt to keep thingsinteresting.” I cave on this last line, looking at Xander, whose glass is paused at his mouth. The glass itself is sparkling clean, and yet as he winks and takes a sip, my mind is filth.
“You just don’t come across that kind of perfect every day,” he says so casually he should be lying down.
“So you’re saying a margarita is strong but refreshing, classic but versatile, and always a good time?” I say like I’m the Patron Saint of Tequila. Like I’m definitely talking about the margarita only. And not Xander.
“The best time,” he replies.
“Mental note: Xander likes margaritas,” I say. It’s all I can manage at the realization that this is it. The end is approaching. And I should be excited. Jumping for joy. In twenty-four hours, our sleep study will be wrapped up too. Rent will be paid. And I’ll have the rest of summer to spend with Emily on the tennis court. Happy days.
