“That might bepartof the reason you want to throw the perfect bachelorette. But it’s not the only reason.”
I shrug. “So sue me for wanting people to see I’ve grown up.”
“Your mom’s going to be there?”
I nod. “Just for the dinner on Saturday. She’s not staying over. Same for my aunt and her two daughters.” Charlotte wrinkles her nose. She met my cousins years ago, but they haven’t changed. They’re terrible snobs, ready and willing to look down their noses at whoever they don’t think is good enough. “The only people staying in the house are Katherine and Ed, three of Katherine’s friends from college with their boyfriends, me, the best man, and two more of Ed’s friends.”
“That’s a lot of people.”
“I know. And we still don’t have anywhere to stay. The best man is supposed to have come up with something. I gave him a deadline oflunchtime today, but I’ve heard absolutely nothing from him, despite me texting him at least nineteen times.”
Charlotte laughs. Even though I’m furious with Hunter for not returning any of my texts, I smile. I probably did go a little overboard on the text assault.
“What about glamping?” Charlotte suggests. “Do you think she’d go for it?”
The bachelorette party is so front and center in my mind that when I glance across the bar, I swear I see Hunter. I look back to Charlotte.
“I’m not sure Katherine would love it, but she’d go along with it,” I say. “But I don’t want Katherine to have toendureher bachelorette. She should get what she wants.”
“But if it’s impossible, it’s impossible,” Charlotte says, just as the guy I thought was Hunter turns in my direction and we lock eyes.
ItisHunter.
Hunter, who blew through my deadline of finding a beach house by today, then ignored each one of my nineteen requests for an update.
He was too busy planning his night out at the bar, by the looks of it.
“I can’t believe it,” I seethe.
“What?” Charlotte asks.
“It’s the drunk best man who’s supposed to be finding me a beach house.”
“Where?” she asks. “The hot one?”
“He’s not hot.” That’s a lie, but at this precise moment, he could look like Colin Firth had a baby with Matthew Macfadyen and I’d want to rip his face from his body.
I stand. Charlotte pulls at my hand.
“No, Lucy. Sit down. Don’t go over there.”
“Of course I’m going over there,” I say, fisting my hands and looking around for an appropriate weapon. “I can’t just sit here and let him get away with ... with ... not finding me a beach house.” I sigh, trying to tamp down the anger that’s started to boil in my veins. “‘There’s no one so capable as me.’” It’s an affliction.
“Are you quotingPersuasion? Be reasonable,” Charlotte says. “You said yourself finding a beach house was impossible.”
My heart is thumping in my chest, and I’m ready for war. How dare he be out socializing when he hasn’t fulfilled his basic obligations as best man? As far as I can tell, he hasn’t even put in the minimum effort to do his part. “I have no notion of treating him with such respect. That is the way to spoil them.”
Charlotte groans and grabs my hand. She knows that if I’m bastardizing quotes fromNorthanger Abbey, it’s serious. I pull my hand from her grip and stomp over to where Hunter is happily chatting to his buddies.
“Sir, you are simply being disagreeable, socializing like this!” I blurt out as I approach the table. It’s like the cork from the champagne has popped and I’ve bubbled over, but I have no idea why I’m talking like I’m in a Jane Austen adaptation, just like my mother has the habit of doing when she’s trying to impress someone.
Hunter turns to me, his expression thoroughly confused. All at once, the fight leaves my body. I realize his entire group is looking at me. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious. These men are older than Hunter, and it doesn’t look like they’re out to party. The atmosphere is more formal.
I’m an idiot. This is a business thing.
I want to skip back ten seconds and go back to the bit where Charlotte is tugging at my hand.
Then Hunter laughs. “This is Ed’s soon-to-be sister-in-law. Very nice to see you here, Lucy.” He’s all formality—although he doesn’t launch into a Darcy impression—and professionalism. He turns back to the group of five men. “We’re organizing the joint bachelorette/bachelor party together.” He turns back to me, his eyes wide, urging me to comply. “Perhaps I can call you tomorrow morning?”
