Page 73 of All Signs Point to Malibu

His cell phone chimes with a text—the sound coming from somewhere in the pile of sex blankets. He searches for it, finds it, and I read over his shoulder a text from Liam.

Best man duties start now.

Both of our phones chime simultaneously.

“A ping location for a tuxedo rental shop,” Warren says, sounding about as thrilled as someone who’s been promised a root canal.

My message is a ping location to a bridal shop with a caption from Sonia that reads:

Meet you there in an hour.

Great, looks like they’re calling in the troops—us—to pull a wedding off in a week. Less than a week.

Clutching the bedsheet to my body, I search the room for my clothes. Jeans, sweater, bra... I look around.

Warren reaches under the bed and finds my thong. He holds it up with a sheepish look. “Looking for this?”

I snatch it from him and put it on quickly. I turn away and let the blanket drop as I continue getting dressed. I can feel his gaze on me as I hear him putting on his own clothes.

Should I say something? What? Last night was fun? Last night was the best night of my life? Last night can’t happen again?

He clears his throat and I turn slowly in anticipation.

Which of the three willhechoose?

Our gazes lock and hold.

“Last night was...”

My breath sucks in, in the long silence that follows. He waits as though he wants me to finish the sentence.

I can’t. I won’t.

“We should go,” I say instead, breaking our gaze.

“Yeah,” he says sounding relieved.

And I guess I know which way that sentence would have ended.

Inside a posh, lavish wedding shop on Rodeo Drive an hour later, I comb through a rack of dresses as I sip champagne. It’s the first thing I’ve consumed today, so it’s making me light-headed and slightly enamored by the wedding attire. After the breakup with Liam I never really gave much thought to marriage. If I hadn’t been able to be completely vulnerable with Liam—the one person I’d gone ninety-nine percent of the way with—it was obvious I’d never be able to go all in. So, I put everything into my career, planning to find fulfillment there.

And I certainly never thought much about weddings, but surrounded by all the tulle and lace and intricate beadwork, my mind floods with surrealist fantasies I don’t usually entertain.

Sonia is in the dressing room with a dozen different gowns. I can hear her struggling with the fabric and then a series of “no,” “nope,” “no fucking way” as she gets increasingly annoyed with the choices.

Buying off rack wasn’t in her plans. A famous fashion designer in Paris was creating a one-of-a-kind gown for her, but there’s no time for that now.

I sip my champagne in front of a three-way mirror and notice I’m a hot mess. More mess than hot. Being summoned across town means I haven’t been home yet. Dressed in yesterday’s clothes and unshowered after my night with Warren, my hair is slightly wavy from sweat and there are traces of mascara under my eyes. I quickly wipe them away and run my hands through my hair, then secure it into a high messy bun with the hair elastic I keep on hand for emergencies.

Thank God Sonia’s been too obsessed with this dress-finding mission to notice my disheveled appearance because I have “one-night stand” written all over me.

I sniff my arm and sure enough, the scent of Warren’s cologne lingers on my flesh. I breathe it in again and memories of our night of impulsive passion flood my mind.

It had been unexpected...or rather overdue, but still wrong. His reaction this morning hadn’t given me any reason to believe otherwise. Which was good. If he actually wanted more from this thing between us, it would be harder for me to resist. Which I have to. However disappointing.

Sonia finally exits the dressing room, wearing a breathtaking simple silk A-line gown that hugs her figure perfectly. She looks incredible and someday when she’s about to marry therightman, I hope she gets a chance to wear a dress this perfect.

But right now, I need to focus on making surethatday isn’t this Saturday.

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