Enemies With Benefits (Loveless Brothers 1)

* * *Once the bride and groom retire with Violet and Kevin to the other side of the lounge to talk logistics, I’m left with the bridesmaids.

Things go dramatically downhill.

Six of the seven bridesmaids are sipping on drinks, standing around, casually chatting. They seem like they’re having a lovely time getting ready for their friend’s wedding.

The maid of honor — Susan — has had another gin and tonic, and she’s sitting on a stool, half an arancini between her fingers, leaning on the bar, telling me about her life.

I have work to do. I’d love to get out of here, but I’m new at this whole create a good guest experience thing. Does ditching a drunk girl create a poor guest experience? Will it cost me twenty grand?

Hell if I know.

“So anyway,” she says, the eyelashes dipping and bobbing dramatically. “I’m a free woman now, just in time for my little sister’s wedding. Cheers!”

She holds up her glass, then takes a long pull from it.

“I think I should go to Paris,” she says. “That’s exciting, right? Paris?”

She takes another sip.

“Or Bangkok. Or Abu Dhabi. Or Moscow. Those all sound like places someone exciting and adventurous would go, right?”

“I hear Moscow is nice in the summer,” I say, staying as neutral as possible. “I wouldn’t go in the winter.”

Susan laughs. She laughs way too hard.

“You’re funny,” she says, putting a hand on mine.

Shit.

“Or maybe I should go to Sicily and get some more of these tasty balls,” she says, finally picking up the last one and holding it in front of her face like she’s divining her future in it. “I’ll just get as many tasty balls as I can handle, I bet that’s fun and exciting.”

Then she pushes the whole thing into her mouth, chews, swallows. When she finishes she licks the crumbs from her top lip, making eye contact with me the whole time.

I have a vague sense of foreboding.

Maybe she’ll just leave, I think.

“Got anything else for me?” she asks, reaching for her glass and missing. Her hand bangs against the bar, and she sighs and frowns at it like it’s a misbehaving pet.

“That’s all I made tonight,” I say, clearing away the platter.

This is your chance. Deposit her with the other girls and get out of here.

“Boo,” she says. “Does that mean — um, so, you know, are you off now? Like, are you doing anything?”

She tries to lean her chin on her hand, but misses and goes off-balance, nearly careening off her bar stool.

Shit. This girl is about five minutes from full-blown drunk disaster, something that would almost certainly create a poor guest experience for everyone else in this room.

Trust me, I bartended near the oil fields in North Dakota for a while. I know from drunk disasters, though those disasters were usually much burlier than Susan. Compared to them, she’ll be a walk in the park.

“Sorry,” she breathes, her hand in mine as she finds the floor with one foot, then the other. “Sometimes your hand’s not where it’s supposed to be, you know?”

She tries to shake her hair over her shoulder again, but it sends her off-balance, stumbling into me. I steady her with a hand on her back, her hand still gripping mine for stability.

“Thanks,” she says, closing her eyes for a moment, fully leaning on me. “You know, you didn’t answer me.”

“Let me help you to your room,” I say, still holding her up.

This girl needs to be in bed before she can cause any damage, preferably with a trash can next to her and a glass of water on her night stand. If I had Gatorade and Advil, I’d leave that too. How’s that for guest experience?

“You’re coming to my room?” she says, her words getting blurry, still leaning against me.

I don’t answer her, just walk her through the lounge and to the elevators opposite the door. I feel bad for her. She seems like a nice girl who’s having a rough time right now, and to top it all off, has to stand up at her little sister’s wedding, probably while half her family wonders why it’s not her up there.

“You’re nice,” Susan says, leaning her head against my shoulder, sliding an arm around my waist. “So nice.”

She sways again, and I prop her up with an arm around her shoulder. She’s too warm, and I’m trying to hold her up while I touch her as little as possible. I’ve always felt bad for girls when they drink, just because it seems like they go from “slightly tipsy” to “puking in the gutter” so fast.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. I carefully guide Susan across the threshold, because in her current state, even that seems like it could present a problem.

Just as I face forward and hit the button for the third floor, the door to the lounge opens, right across from us.