The Dirty Truth

When her mother said the rehearsal dinner was for the wedding party and “close family” only, I wasn’t expecting that to mean their entire family. Still, they seem like good people, and I’m living for the light in Elle’s eyes and the smile that hasn’t left her lips since we walked in tonight.

The clinking of silverware against stemware silences the space, and all eyes divert toward the head of the mile-long table, where Mona Napier has assumed her position. “If everyone could please have a seat, that’d be wonderful. I know normally rehearsal dinners follow the actual rehearsal, but in this family we’re all a little nicer when our bellies are full.”

Laughter drones through the room.

“Anyway, let’s eat, drink, and be merry,” she says. “And then we’ll reconvene at Saint Mary’s Church of Hope at seven o’clock sharp!”

I pull a chair out for Elle and another for Scarlett before taking the one between them. The room is filled with love and merriment, and I kick myself at the thought of missing out on this all because I’m not a wedding guy.

Three servers uncork champagne bottles at the foot of the table before filling flutes halfway and passing them out in quick order. In their haste, they place one in front of Scarlett, but I swipe it away before she notices.

“Elle, hi,” a velvet voice coos from my left.

Turning, I find Elijah Green Eyes taking the empty seat next to my girlfriend.

“My God, it’s been so long,” he says, flashing his Day-Glo smile. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you, so do you,” she says, though I know her, and she’s just being polite. No one with teeth so white you need sunglasses looks good except for news anchors and aging celebrities with Hollywood veneers.

“Your mom said you’re in New York?” he asks, though he’s clearly playing dumb. He’s had to have googled her over the years, and any cursory search leads to her bio on my website—which I’ve yet to have IT remove because it makes me sentimental and I’m hopeful she’ll write for me again someday.

“I am,” she says.

“I’m actually speaking at a conference there next month. I should look you up when I’m in town,” he says.

I roll my eyes at the fact that the idiot referred to Manhattan as a “town.”

“Elijah, this is my boyfriend, West.” Elle leans back, and I lean forward.

“Pleasure to meet you, Elijah.” I extend a hand, which he meets with hesitancy. I give it a squeeze, though not too tight. I’d hate to destroy his ability to fill cavities.

He squints, smiling like an idiot as he studies my face. “You look familiar. Did you go to school here?”

“No,” I say.

“Huh.” He runs his hand along his lower lip, scrutinizing me harder. “I swear I’ve seen you before.”

“Probably on the cover of Forbes magazine.” I can’t help myself. “Or Made Man.”

Elle presses an elbow into my ribs.

Elijah’s curious expression morphs into swallowed pride. “Wow. Yeah. Okay.”

“All right, everyone, let’s raise a toast to the bride and groom,” Mona calls from the head of the table.

Elle lifts her glass, I lift mine, and Mona prattles on with some sappy story about the happy couple that leaves everyone teary eyed and grinning ear to ear. Elijah steals a glance our way, and I slip my arm around Elle.

For the rest of tonight and for the entirety of the wedding weekend, I’m not letting her out of my sight. I’ll be that guy for her. I’ll hold her purse while she does the bridesmaid thing, I’ll chat up all her cousins, and I’ll dance the macarena with her nieces and nephews like a drunken fool.

I’ll show her that if she only gets one shot at this life, she should spend it with me.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

ELLE

“How cute were you last night?” I say Sunday morning, cozying up to West in our hotel room bed, my sex pulsing from the tongued orgasm he just gifted me.

Evie’s wedding ran until 2:00 a.m. last night, but we soaked up every minute of it. When West first declared that he wanted to come with me last week, I was secretly worried he’d be one of those dates who spends the whole night sulking in the corner and checking their watch every five minutes. But I’m thrilled to have been wrong.

“Cute wasn’t exactly what I was going for,” he says, pulling me on top of him. “But I’ll take it.”

He drags his hands along the outsides of my thighs, sending a tingling thrill along my bare flesh.

“My parents adore you, by the way,” I say. “My dad said he loves that you don’t talk too much.” My father has always said people who talk for the sake of talking are the worst kind of people. They’re trying to distract you from their ineptitudes. “And my mom is smitten with you. She loved that you danced the Electric Slide with her grandbabies.” I pat his chest. “How did you know how to dance that, anyway?”