Page 69 of Strictly the Worst

Including his partners.

“Seriously,” I tell her. “I’m good.” Or I will be.

“What about making that dating profile?” she asks me, hope tinging her voice.

“When the renovations are finished,” I tell her. “I promise.” Ange is right. I don’t want to be alone forever.

“Ugh. This is so disappointing.” She grabs her phone and starts typing.

“What have I told you about phones at the table?” I tease. “I don’t let Zoe do it.”

“I’m just checking his Insta to see if he’s posted.” She pauses. “Damn, he’s on private.” She peers over the top of her phone. “Are you friends on there?”

“No.” I hadn’t thought about it. I’d barely used my phone when we were in Exuma, apart from calls the office and Zoe. And before then I wouldn’t have touched any friend request he sent with a ten foot pole.

“Wait. I’ll see if he’s tagged by somebody who isn’t private.” Her eyes light up. “Yes! Yesterday. Let me look.”

And I watch as the smile slowly falls from her face.

“What is it?” I ask her.

“It doesn’t matter.” She goes to put her phone back in her purse.

“Of course it matters,” I say. “What did you just see?” I reach for her phone and she hesitates.

“Okay but don’t get mad,” she says, handing her phone over. The screen has already locked but I know her passcode the same way she knows mine. I tap it in and the screen lights up with her Instagram account.

Linc’s name is in the search bar. And below that are three possible Linc Salingers, followed by a grid of photographs. I press on the first one, and there he is. Looking devastatingly handsome in a tuxedo. Wherever he is, it’s at night and his skin is lamplit and golden. There’s a half smile on his face, but I’m not looking at that.

I’m looking at the woman he’s standing with. His arm is around her and she’s nestling into him, her face against his shoulder. My eyes go to the caption. It’s in French and I have to press the translate button.

Lincoln Salinger and Celine Duchamps attend the gala of the year. Don’t they make a cute couple? The date on it is from last week.

I hand her the phone back, forcing a smile onto my face. “There you go,” I tell her. “It was just a fling.”

“You’re much prettier than her,” Ange grumbles and I shake my head. “And younger,” she adds.

“And we’re both older than him,” I say pointedly, taking a large mouthful of wine. “Now can we change the subject, please?”

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

LINC

“I thought we said no strippers,” Eli says to me as the door to our private room at the casino opens and five women walk in, their dresses barely skimming their upper thighs.

“Where’s the groom?” one of them says, her voice low and sultry as she scans the room.

“Linc?” Holden looks at me, panicked. “You promised no women.”

“I didn’t organize this,” I tell him, staring over at Brooks who shrugs in a “nor did I” kind of way. Liam is talking to Myles about something, and I gotta be honest neither of them would have done this. They’re too scared about their wives cutting their balls off.

“If Mac finds out about this…” Eli trails off, shaking his head. “Linc, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“It wasn’t me,” I say again. But I stand up anyway. Because I’m the organizer of this damn bachelor party and it’s my neck on the line if any of these admittedly beautiful women so much as touch Holden.

The man used to fight to keep his stress under control. God only knows what he’ll do if he has to deal with them.

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