Page 35 of Bridesmaid to Bride

“Everything okay?” Paige’s voice slices through my panic.

“Perfect! Just remembered—the flowers!” I say too quickly, mentally face-palming. “Gotta check on them, you know, florists. One minute everything’s roses, next thing you know—bam! Daisies.”

“Uh, huh.” Paige nods like she doesn’t care, and I’m glad she’s buzzed.

I grab Brielle and ask her if she can give me fifteen minutes, then bring this party to the cigar bar where the guys are. She happily agrees, so I’m already out the door, heart hammering.

“Stripper my ass,” I grumble, racing toward the Uber, my mind on fire with worst-case scenarios and how to strangle Zach with a garter belt.

Tyson’s following me, and I shoot him a look. “This can’t make it on air. I’m serious—it’ll ruin the whole franchise if this marriage goes to shit.”

“I know, Eva, I got you.” Tyson nods, the camera on his arm. “But you know I have to film everything.”

When the Uber arrives, Tyson gets in with me. Of course he does—he’s a drama bloodhound.

After a five-minute ride, the nondescript door where the underground cigar bar where the guys are comes into view, and I take a deep breath. Time to channel my inner badass. Zach has about thirty seconds before he meets Hurricane Eva, and hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorned twin.

“Watch out, boys.” I enter like I’m there to kick some ass. And honestly, I just might.

Everything is a maze of shadows and sin, the kind that whispers, “What happens here gets bragged about in locker rooms for years.”

Zach’s there, plastered, getting another lap dance. His grin is wide enough to serve as a billboard for “Regrettable Choices.”

“Hey, Casanova!” I bark.

His head swivels toward me, eyes glazed over like donuts. The stripper gyrates with professional indifference, her hips spelling out Morse code for “paycheck.”

“Hey, baby!” Zach calls out, slinking around the stripper and jumping up. “You’re the best fiancé ever. I love you so much. He comes in for a kiss, and I put my hand over his mouth.

“Nope, Zach—It’s Eva.”

“Oh, shit.” He takes a big step back. “I didn’t recognize you with the hair. You look like you just got laid by an octopus.”

“Thanks. Truly.” I grab his arm, steering him away from his fleshy eclipse. “Paige didn’t send the all-clear on this skin parade. You’ve been punk’d.”

The realization crashes into him, sobriety slapping him across the face like a scorned lover. “Oh fuck,” he groans, “I gotta talk to Paige.”

“Don’t worry. She’s on her way.” I check my phone to see that Brielle is waiting for an oversized Uber car for the women right now.

West throws a thumb toward the stripper, who’s now getting a drink at the bar. “I’ll get rid of her.”

“Good man.” I nod, slinging an arm around Zach just as his knees decide to go on strike. West jumps to Zach’s other side, and we get him settled back on the couch. I say, “When Paige gets here, have her listen to the voicemail, so she knows the truth before she finds out from someone else.”

With Zach drinking water and planning his route to forgiveness, I turn back to the party. Time to salvage what’s left of this.

“Pour ‘em.” I sidle up to West, ready to make him look desirable for the cameras tonight. At least, that’s the reason I’m telling myself. He grins, mischief dancing in those beautiful eyes.

“Come here often?” he says as the server pours an amber liquid that smells like charred oak and courage.

I laugh, knocking back my shot.

“Damn,” West murmurs, watching me with newfound respect—or is it fear?

“Your turn.” I nudge the bottle his way.

“Careful, I might start thinking you’re way too hot again.” He throws back his own shot. “And with that hair and outfit, I might not be able to hold back.”

“Well, hold away because I’m off limits,” I say, wishing like hell I meant it. I grab the bottle for round two. “We’ve got to make sure everyone still has a good time.”

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