I don't even look up as she throws, and only notice the bouquet when it hits me square in the nose.
"Ow," I say stupidly, as the bouquet bounces off me.
And then—because apparently my reflexes are faster than my common sense—I catch it. I catch the damn bouquet.
The crowd is looking at me and cheering with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for lottery winners or surprise pregnancy announcements. Filming phones appear from every direction as I'm standing there holding Emma's bouquet.
"Oh my God, Liv!" Emma squeals from her table-top throne. "You caught it! You're next!"
Next for what?I want to scream.Next to have my heart shattered by someone I trust? Next to stand in a wedding dress while my fiancée declares her love for someone else? No thank you.
But everyone is still clapping and taking pictures, and I can't exactly throw the bouquet back at my sister on her wedding day.
So I do what I do best: I fake it. I plaster on my most convincing smile—the one I use for difficult clients who want to change their color scheme three days before their wedding—and raise the bouquet in acknowledgment of the crowd's enthusiasm.
I make my way toward Blair, who has returned to the table and is watching this spectacle with an infuriatingly amused expression. Her eyes are dancing with laughter, and her mouth is curved in that teasing grin that makes me want to either kiss her or throw something at her. Maybe both.
"Don't," I warn her as I approach, still holding the bouquet away from me like evidence in a crime scene. "Don't say a word."
Her grin widens. "I have to admit, your bouquet-catching technique needs work. Most people use their hands, not their face."
"Fuck off," I mutter quietly. I glare at her, but it's hard not to laugh when she's looking at me like that.
Around us, the excitement of the bouquet toss is starting to die down. Emma has climbed down from her table and is being swept back onto the dance floor by David for another dance.
I kick off my heels for the second night in a row and sit next to Blair. Walking in stilettos on farmland is a lot more challenging than wearing them in a five-star venue, and I groan with relief. "God, I can barely take another step."
Blair lifts my feet onto her lap, and I shake my head.
"Don't. My feet are gross. They're probably swollen and?—"
"I love your gross feet," she interrupts, her hands working gentle circles into my arches.
I narrow my eyes at her suspiciously. "You're not one of those people with a foot fetish, are you? Because I'm not into toe-licking or whatever stuff foot people do."
She chuckles. "No foot fetish, I promise. But I'm curious—is toe-licking really the first place your dirty mind went?"
I snort with laughter. "Shut up and just... keep doing that. It’s actually really nice." I close my eyes. After the day I've had—the hangover, the crisis management, the running around, the emotional roller coaster—having someone take care of me feels foreign but wonderful.
Her hands are strong and sure, and I let out an involuntary moan of pleasure. When her hands slide higher, past my ankle to massage my calf, I shiver.
Heat shoots straight up my leg, and I'm suddenly very aware of how close we're sitting, how her touch becomes more exploratory.
"If you're this tired," she says, "how about we head to bed? You know, before your parents head up."
My lips part at her suggestive tone. "You want to lure me to bed for a toe-licking session?"
"As I said, that's not really what I'm into."
"Then what are you into?" I shoot her a flirty smile. Knowing the physical attraction is mutual makes me feel reckless.
"I like to be in charge," she says. There's something dangerous in her gaze, something that makes my pulse quicken.
"But everyone knows," I say, leaning forward, "thatI'mThe Boss."
Her hands slide slowly up my leg, past my calf to rest just above my knees. She squeezes my thighs, and I have to bite back a gasp. The touch is possessive, claiming, and sends fire racing through my veins. She locks her eyes with mine and whispers, "Not in my bed, you're not."
26
