Page 8 of The Best Man Wins

He’s charming, I decide. Not really a take-home-to-mama kind of guy, but I’d let him tie me to his bed and have his way with me for days on end if he asked. I’m on cloud nine, my limbs feel like jelly, and I lounge out on his couch. I’m feeling luxurious. I can’t remember the last time I really treated myself like this. I can’t remember the last time I treated myself period. I’m in the most expensive room in the Ritz-Carlton, I’ve already come hard with promise of a second round, and an incredibly handsome man is plying me with what is assured to be an incredible glass of wine. I’m dreaming about a bubble bath, room service, maybe those fancy little platters of strawberries with chocolate on the tips.

“So what’re you doing in New York?” I call out. My fingers tiptoe across the mahogany side table, upon which sits a lamp and a landline.

His voice travels through the room. “I’m here for my sister. It’s an intervention of sorts. I have to stop her from making the biggest mistake of her life.”

That shocks me. He sounds so blasé about the whole thing. “Sounds…intense.”

“My family usually is.”

My fingers finally catch on what I’m looking for, and I lift what I assume is a room service menu. Instead, I find myself holding a frill-laced, off-white letter. The name BRAXTON WEST is engraved on the folded-over edge.

I snort. How obnoxious. The letter falls open.

Inside, in wide calligraphy print:

You are cordially invited to the wedding of Cora and Ray—

Oh. No.

No, no, no, no.

West. Braxton West. As in the relative of Cora West, as in Cora soon-to-be-Cora Dalton, née West. As in Cora, bride-to-be in my current project, West.

I drop the letter, leap to my feet (nearly overturning the lamp in the process), and snatch up my clothes. I can’t find my panties in time, so I hike my pants up my legs, shove my arms through my shirt, and hop from one foot to the other as I pop into my heels.

“Hey, so, I’ve got to run!” I call out. “But thanks for…you know. Everything.”

I stumble toward the door and nearly run straight into Braxton. Christ, his muscles are a problem. He looks like a Greek god in nothing but fitted black pants. It’s enough to make me cry with frustration to know I got this close to unzipping those pants to get to the package underneath. When he sees me caught in a tornado of my own clothes, his eyebrows hike up his forehead. “But I just opened the bottle,” he says, a glass of wine in hand.

“Ah, great.” It’s just what I need, to be honest. I take the glass of wine from him, tilt it to my lips, and drain it. It’s smooth, probably expensive, but I barely taste it. When I hand the empty glass back to him, Braxton looks a mix of worried and impressed.

“Well.” I’m not quite sure where to go from here. The standard response would be to go in for a goodbye kiss, one of those lingering see-you-never Hollywood acts. Seeing as he did me the courtesy of putting his lips everywhere, I take a shot at it, but I chicken out at the last second, my newfound knowledge putting a cork in any further attempts at intimacy. I pucker up, miss his lips, and press an awkward kiss to the tip of his nose instead.

“Thanks again,” I stammer. “For the wine and…that thing you do with your tongue…you’ve got great abs…keep up the good work.”

Braxton looks, if possible, even more confused. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, totally. See you around.” His eyes flicker over mine with genuine concern. I don’t have the fortitude to try to explain our twisted situation to him, so I take the coward’s way out.

I bolt. I grab my bag and fly out the door, down the hall, and don’t stop until I’m in the elevator and the twin metal doors slide closed.

The fluorescent light flickers, and I see my own shame reflected back at me in the mirrored walls. I’m in complete disarray, my makeup smudged, my hair insane, and my clothes crookedly buttoned. My eyes are Scream Queen wide and I’m panting like I’ve just outrun the nightmare king himself.

“Okay.” I catch my breath, close my eyes, and find a quiet place inside my head. “Pull yourself together, Susie.”

After all, my mind reminds me, you just had dirty, filthy sex with the bride’s brother right before the most important wedding of your career. I mean, really.

What can go wrong?

4

Braxton

I’m not a bad fuck.

I’m a lot of things. A control freak. Possessive. Stubborn. Narcissistic.

But I’m not a bad fuck. So when my Ritz-Carlton mystery girl pulls a vanishing act on me, questions ping-pong through my mind the next the day. Did I hurt her? Did I scare her off? Did I come on too strong? I’m a wolf in the woods—I’m aware of that—all long teeth and carnal fantasies, and I should know better than to get close to pretty, sweet butterflies like her. The possibilities brew darkly inside my skull and distract me. Which is irritating because I’m supposed to have hawk-eyed focus on…

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