Too bad. Judge away. They got hard. Hard enough to cut glass.
I go for the dip of my life, so low my head nearly touches the floor. I look up and smile––one that matches his expression. “You did it.”
“Wedid it.”
He’s right. “We did.”
Ignoring the group applauding us, Alec pulls me up. I’m a little dizzy from the rush of being pulled up fast. But Alec slings his arm around my shoulder. It hangs over me like we’ve done that a million times before. Like… like we’re together.
Madame DuBois claps her hands. “From the top. Let’s do this again.” She points at me. “You. Go back.” She smiles at Chrissie. “Come along, darling. Don’t give up on him.”
“Fine.” She sighs and moves into her row across from Alec as I return to my spot across from Bobby.
ChapterSeven
Matilda
“Whatthe hellis wrong with him?” Chrissie says snottily. “He looks normal. I mean, he’s fucking hot. Why can’t he dance?” She sips her martini. Setting it down onto the coffee table, she adds, “You know what that means, don’t you, girls?”
I have no idea what she’s referring to, and I can’t say I’m all that interested in her thoughts on the matter, because it’s not going to be nice. I mean, get over it already, woman. It’s been four days since the dance class. I don’t understand the reason for her continual criticism of the poor man, but I’m sort of forced to listen since we’re essentially a captive audience here in Chrissie’s living room as we wait on a limo to pick us up to take us “clubbing.”
Ugh, I hate clubbing. Like the other night, this place is going to be expensive. Plus, the people that go are usually dressed to the nines in short dresses and high heels, present company included. I’m the only one in jeans.
“What?” Victoria asks with real concern on her face. “What does that mean? What’s wrong with Alec?”
“It means—” Dramatic pause. “—that he’d be a terrible fuck.”
The bridal party all giggle in unison, everyone except Vicky. “You really think so?” She looks up like she’s got to give it some thought. “Anthony is really good in bed.”
The scoff that comes out of Chrissie’s mouth is unexpected.
“What are you scoffing about,Chrissie.” Vicky says her name in a way that doesn’t bode well for Chrissie.
“Oh.” Chrissie pats Vicky’s hand, and it’s condescending, if you ask me. “I just meant, sexual prowess isn’t hereditary.” Chrissie smirks. “Just becauseyouthink Anthony is good in bed doesn’t mean his brother has skills.”
The living room is silent because everyone can see Vicky’s face. It morphed from a smile to something more like a glare. Like the rest of the bridal party at this silly post-rehearsal dinner shindig, we know Vicky. Her mouth opens, and I hold my breath—mostly in anticipation because I have a feeling this is gonna be good. Or maybe bad. I guess it depends how you look at things. Since I strive to look on the bright side of things, I’ll say good.
“Why’d you say it that way?”
Chrissie answers quickly. Too quickly. “What way?”
Vicky pauses before saying, “The way you said, ‘Youthink Anthony is good in bed…’ likeyou’dknow what he’s like.”
Uh-oh.
All heads rotate toward Chrissie like this is a professional tennis match.
“Oh.” She titters. “No, I, uh, just meant… based on what you’ve said about Anthony in the sack.”
“I’ve never talked about Anthony in bed.” She glares at Chrissie. “Ever.”
“S-Sure you have. When you’ve had a few glasses of Prosecco in you, you blab.”
“No. I. Don’t.”
“Victoria,” Chrissie sounds exasperated. “Yes, you have before.”
Right at that moment, we hear a horn sound.
