Page 17 of Bridesmaid to Bride

When I realize I missed what Foster just said, I blurt, “Expectations are a bitch,” hoping that fits.

“Biggest bitch of them all.” We clink glasses in solidarity.

Maybe it’s just nerves—after all, Dad’s already mentally planning the marriage. Because I am liking that I can relate to someone else with a family agenda breathing down his neck.

But I need to shake things up, so I decide to pull out a trick West and I do with each other all the time when we’re bored. One of us says, “Tell me something real,” and the other has to answer with a secret or something vulnerable they don’t talk about often. We always end up learning something cool about one another, and at a deeper level. I flash Foster a serious face. “So, Foster. Tell me something about yourself that you don’t usually share.”

He studies me for a moment, and I brace for impact. But instead of a confession or a wild tale, he simply says, “I hate wearing argyle socks.”

I smile. “Okay, that’s a start.” It bothers me a bit that his answer lacked substance, but maybe he keeps things close to the chest, and he’s just someone with layers to peel.

He gets pulled away, and Paige materializes, dressed in white and looking like a flowing Goddess. “So,” she says, “Olivia is starting to piss me off.”

A human bridesmaid, Olivia’s been Paige’s friend since college, but I’ve only met her a couple of times.

Paige scowls. “Look at her. She’s all over Zach while the camera’s on him. I mean, why is Tyson filming that? Gross!”

“You know the show’s gonna be digging for drama, Paige.” I shake my head. “Don’t worry—Zach is head over heels for you.”

“I know, right?” She looks at her nails. “So, what do you think of Foster? Like a Jewish Ken doll with a law degree and a trust fund.”

“He’s great,” I say, thinking about the way he laughed at my jokes. “Charming and definitely easy on the eyes.”

“See? Dad might be flunking Romance 101 for himself, but he’s acing Matchmaking.” Paige grins. As if the universe hears her comment, an human question mark sashays in.

She’s a walking, talking Vogue cover—low cut, clingy dress hugging curves that defy basic laws of physics. Strutting straight toward my father, she doesn’t walk; she glides. With the confidence of someone who’s used to turning heads, she wraps Neil in a kind of kiss that should come with an age restriction.

I gasp, my eyebrows launching into orbit. “Whoa. You sure about that flunking Romance 101 comment?”

Paige chokes on her drink. “What the hell? Did Dad seriously bring a plus one without telling us? And not just any plus one—Ms. Thang?”

“Looks like it.” I’m unable to peel my gaze away.

“I swear to God, Eva! How dare he? She’s half his age. She’s probably a total gold digger!”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions.” I try to sound reassuring, but the woman is Saran-wrapped around our father.

“Conclusions? She’s wearing less fabric than my honeymoon outfit. And that kiss... I mean, you don’t just eat someone’s face like that unless—”

“Paige!” I cut her off with a laugh. “Eww.”

“Am I wrong?” She raises an eyebrow.

I sigh. What a mess. “No. You’re not wrong.”

“Something’s fishy here. And not just because we’re by the ocean.” Paige takes a determined sip of her drink, eyes narrowing.

“Let’s just play it cool,” I say, but who am I kidding? Paige playing it cool about this would be a Christmas miracle in July.

“Eva, he’s playing tongue twister with a woman we’ve never met who’s probably younger than us. This is not a ‘play it cool’ situation.”

“Fine, but let’s not make a scene.” Right. Paige has never met a scene she didn’t dominate.

She scoffs.

“Paige—” But she’s already marching toward them, determination in every step. I take a deep breath, grab a cocktail then follow, bracing myself.

And Tyson’s right on my heels to capture every moment.

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