It had started with the appetizers. Vann and I were charged with preparing egg dishes for thirty. That meant making the wasabi scotch eggs and burrata, which was this delicious peasant bread served with a yolky egg and mashed potato spread, accompanied by homemade apple butter.
There had also been alcohol involved.
Lots of alcohol.
A a flirty afternoon of teaching Vann basics in the kitchen was followed by a swoon-worthy practice ceremony where Vann got choked up when his sister walked down the aisle for the first time. And then a night of eating amazing food including, but not limited to our appetizers, plus popcorn chicken served on mini waffles while Vera claimed some kind of redemption I didn’t understand, also oysters on the half shell with a to-die-for green chimichurri sauce. The main course was surf and turf. Scallops with sweet potato and roasted beets; short ribs over the creamiest polenta, fried octopus; shrimp and curried grits with shaved coconut and crushed pistachios; and pork belly sliders with pickled red onions and fried kale. All of it accompanied by crispy brussels sprouts, charred broccoli, and butternut squash hummus.
And don’t get me started on dessert. Individual pots of chocolate pot de crème, apple pie bread pudding, and my favorite thing on the planet right now, affogato—rich, hot espresso poured over creamy caramel ice cream.
It was delicious. And filling. And I probably gained thirty-ish pounds. I drowned that horrible thought by drinking. Don’t ask questions, it made sense at the time.
I drank a lot. Champagne, gin fizzes, Old Fashioneds, and I think at some point there were tequila shots. Probably Wyatt’s doing.
And now I was wrapped naked in a man’s arms, barely remembering how I got here.
PTSD crashed hard all around me. I’d been in situations like this before—waking up with a fuzzy recollection of the night before, sharing a bed with a virtual stranger. And then the last time… that last night when I’d woken up alone with no memory of the night before and no clothes on… God, I felt like puking just thinking about it.
Too chicken shit to turn around and risk waking up the mystery man next to me, I scrunched my eyes closed and tried to remember again what had happened.
The cooking.
The drinking.
The rehearsal.
The drinking.
The eating.
The more drinking.
The dancing.
Oh, god, the dancing.
That’s when the shots had come out.
My gasp of realization burst out of my mouth like a gunshot through the silent room. The man to my left stirred, pulling me tighter against his solid body.
I let my imagination take form while I registered that the man behind me was fit, firm… fabulously muscled. His chest was a toned wall of masculinity, his forearm wrapped around my middle evidence of tanned, perfect skin. His tapered waist, tucked against my bum—we didn’t need to think about how nice that felt right now.
Or ever.
Ahem.
Starting now.
I started back at the beginning of the night once more, hoping the more awake I became, the clearer my memories would become.
Vann and I cooking.
Vann and I drinking while cooking.
Vann and I walking down the aisle together, the first groomsman and bridesmaid of the group.
Vann and I sneaking glasses of champagne while Vera and Killian worked out the kinks of the ceremony.
Vann and I making flirty eyes through the meal, meeting up halfway through to congratulate each other on our excellent appetizers.
