“IsPaige here?” I take a quick look around. “When we spoke she said she was running late.”
“She’s on her way.” He gives me another single, hard pat on the shoulder before he starts to walk away. “Find a seat where you can—we’ll start as soon as she gets here.”
“Yes, sir.” Giving him a flat smile, I make my way deeper into the church to stand at the base of the long aisle that leads to the altar. Scanning the pews for a seat, I spot Paige’s mother. When she sees me, her gaze narrows into a disgusted glare before she looks away from me, dismissing me completely. Well, I guess I know who to thank for having me taken off the guest list.
Whatever.
Squeezing myself into an end seat at the back of the sanctuary, I mutter my apologies and sit, just as my phone buzzes in my pocket again. Sure it’s another text from Paige, the type of which I shouldn’t be reading in a church, I pull my phone out of my pocket to turn it off altogether. Instead of shutting it off, I find myself reopening Paige’s Instagram story.
My bestie is getting married today! I love you Millie, you’re going to be a beautiful bride!
Shit.
Backing out of IG, I pull up her number.
Not Paige’s.
Millie’s.
Me: You okay?
What the fuck are you doing, Mercer. Princess Millie made her bed. Let her cry in it.
Millie: I’m fine.
Me: You sure? Because you look like shit on Insta.
Millie: You’re a true gentleman, Dean—just what every woman wants to hear on her wedding day. Thank you.
Shit.
Me: You know what I mean.
Millie: That you’re a couthless asshole?
Me: Couthless? Is that even a word? If we were playing Scrabble, I’d definitely challenge.
Millie: Please—we both know you’re not smart enough to play Scrabble.
Stung for some stupid reason, I don’t answer her because what I said to Paige earlier is the truth—Millie and I can’t be in the same room together without fighting. Hell, we can’t even exchange text messages without hurling insults at each other. Moving to turn off my phone before I say something that’ll get me dragged out by my hair, it buzzes in my hand again.
Millie: I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. You were just being honest.
Me: It’s okay. We both know I deserved it.
Millie: No, you didn’t. You’ve been uncharacteristically decent to me throughoutthis whole thing.
Okay—so we’re just going to pretend that yesterday’s Facetime session didn’t end with me calling her uptight and her telling me what a rude, insufferable asshole I am. Or that I basically called her a slut Friday night after which she slapped me so hard my ears were ringing.
That’s not a dress, Mills. That’s a goddamn pocket square with straps. And you don’t look nice. Matter of fact, you look about as far from nice as you can possibly get…
It’s the truth.
She didn’t look nice.
She looked completely and utterly fuckable.
So fuckable that it made me angry.
