I can't exactly walk up to her and say, "Hey, quick question: want to have sex until I stop obsessing over you?" Yeah, that'd go over great. "PS: I know we're friends and this is probably weird, but I'm pretty sure if we don't hook up soon, I'm going to spontaneously combust."
Tonight's supposed to be therealbachelor party, after the horrible scavenger hunt Kristal organized this morning. This is guys' night. Just poker and whiskey, and whatever other stereotypically masculine bullshit Preston's planned.
Should be great.
If by great, you mean watching a bunch of dudes pretend cigars don't make them want to puke, while talking about stocks, or whatever the fuck rich people discuss.
At leastthere's booze.
The backyard looks like what happens when you skinned a gentleman's club and stretched it over mountain bones. There's a stone fireplace crackling away beside weathered oak barrels repurposed as cocktail tables, and enough vintage leather furniture to make a cattle ranch jealous.
Dad managed one drink before muttering something about "early start tomorrow" and "waste of good whiskey on you boys." Which is weird, because Dad never turns down free whiskey.
Come to think of it, Dad's been weird all night. He showed up with his hair actually combed, and a fresh shave instead of his usual stubble. He kept twisting his wedding ring around his finger like he was nervous about something. Hell, he barely said three words all evening. Instead, he just sat there checking his watch, and glancing toward the house every five minutes.
Not that anyone's complaining about his early exit. Pretty sure even Preston exhaled when Greg finally stomped off. The man can clear a room faster than a gas leak, and with about the same level of toxicity.
Over by the fireplace, Matt's desperately trying to mirror Preston's stance—shoulders back, chin up. He keeps nodding about investment portfolios while throwing around words like "market fluctuation" and "dividend yields" that sound rehearsed. The Matt I grew up with once ate a live worm for five bucks.
"Raise fifty," Carter says, adjusting his Rolex. "So, about that blue-haired hottie you're rooming with . . . Man, the things I'd do to wake up to that view."
My cards crease under my grip.
"I've been watching that ass in sundresses for days." He downs his whiskey, tongue darting out to catch a drop. "Tell me you've at least gotten a peek while she's changing? No way you're that much of a gentleman."
Jefferson snorts, his tan somehow getting darker by the minute under his white button-down. "Did you see her at the pool yesterday? That high-waisted bikini thing? Man, girls like that are always the freakiest. All that modesty's just an act." He elbows Carter. "Plus, you know what they say about the curvy ones."
"Fuck yeah," Carter's eyes glaze over like he's replaying the memory. "Those tits in that retro top? And that ass when she bent over to grab her towel? Built for sin, my friend. Built. For. Sin." He traces an hourglass shape in the air. "The things I'd do to get my hands on all that—"
"Watch it," I growl.
"Come on, Miller. You've had a front-row seat all week. She's got to be gagging for it by now, stuck in that room with no action. Bet she'd be real grateful if someone showed her a good time."
The poker chip in my hand splits clean in half. Dean, looking lost in his pastel polo and boat shoes, shifts uncomfortably.
"She's not like that," I manage through clenched teeth.
"Like what?" Jefferson smirks. "The kind who needs convincing? Because trust me, every girl's just waiting for the right motivation. Even your precious little—"
"Finish that sentence," I say, voice dropping to a growl, "and you'll be drinking dinner through a straw for a month."
"Dude," Dean says, looking between us, "maybe cool it with the—"
"What's wrong, Miller?" Jefferson cuts in. "You getting territorial over yourfriend? Because last I checked, you don't do the relationship thing. What was it you always said? 'Why buy the cow when—'"
"You can get milk for free, yeah, we know," Matt interrupts, shooting me a look that clearly saysdon't kill anyone at my bachelor party.
"Boys,"Preston says as he joins our table, "the Macallan 18 is meant to be sipped, not slugged like cheap beer." He eyes my nearly empty glass with disapproval.
I drain it just to spite him and Matt shakes his head at me.
The night drags on. More poker. More cigars. More listening to Carter make comments about Ivy that have me fantasizing about creative ways to remove his tongue.
"All I'm saying," Carter's still talking,Jesus Christ, "is that a wedding is the perfect place to win Virginia back. A chance to remind her what she's missing." He winks at Jefferson.
"Please," Dean snorts. "She blocked you on everything for a reason. How about you take the hint?"
Jefferson's face darkens. "We're working things out. Had drinks last night—"
