Page 1 of The Roommate Remodel

ONE

Jaz

“Don’t turn around now, but my brother’s coming over,” Mia says with a look that tells me she does not approve. I can already see the warning in her eyes: you willabsolutelynot dance with Brax MacPherson at my wedding.

“Who?” I ask, pretending I don’t have a clue that Brax is headed this way even though I couldn’t miss the charismatic hockey player if I tried. He’s like an eclipse that I have to shield my eyes from—so untouchable, it’s best not to take him in too long or else you’ll scald your eyes.

Tonight, he’s not dressed in his usual hockey uniform of bulky padding that hides his best features—the chiseled muscles of his arms and shoulders, narrowing to a V-shaped waistline. Instead, he’s wearing a tuxedo that looks like it was stitched around every angle of his body. Well over six feet tall, incredibly fit with blazing hazel-green eyes and just the right amount of stubble peppering his jawline, it’s no wonder all the women here are blatantly staring at him.

Did I mention I’ve got a soft spot for men in tuxes? The only problem is that his sister is the bride... and also my best friend. Conveniently off-limits. And devastatingly handsome.

My stomach rumbles, and I pluck a chicken satay from awaiter walking by. I was too busy to eat anything before the wedding, and my stomach is angrily protesting now.

“My brother, thecommitment-phobe.” Mia leans closer to me. “Don’t bother trying to impress him. Hockey will always be his first love.”

The song changes to an upbeat Bruno Mars tune, and Mia’s new husband, Jace, grabs her hand to pull her onto the dance floor.

“Stay strong,” she calls over her shoulder. “And remember that your BFF knows best.” She winks at me as Jace twirls her into his arms.

They make love looksoeasy.

Why is it so hard for me?

I glance over my shoulder to confirm that Mia’s brother is still headed my way with his gaze laser-targeted on me, like I’m an enemy submarine he’s here to destroy. I can’t possibly hold up against those gleaming green eyes or that perfectly fitted tux.

So I do what any sane woman does who wants to avoid a conversation. I shove an entire peanut chicken kebab in my mouth.

With a full mouth, I spin around and realize what a terrible idea that was.

Brax is smirking at me, dangling another kebab in my face. “I noticed you liked the kebabs. Have you tried the steak?”

Well,thattotally backfired. Not only is he being totally charming, he’s not leaving until I take his offer of food. I wave my hands in a franticno thankssignal, but he only stands there patiently and waits for me to finish.

I cover my mouth and swallow the appetizer, along with my embarrassment.

“Likeisn’t strong enough of a word for how I feel about these heavenly-tasting kebabs,” I reply, taking his offer of food. “Don’t judge. I didn’t have time to eat before the wedding, with that marathon pre-wedding photography session.”

Brax puts up his hands. “No judgment here. But I haven’tseen someone put down food like that in a long time. And I’ve seen some hockey players put down food.”

This is not the kind of compliment that makes a girl feel better about having a hearty appetite. But at this point, I’m too hungry to care.

“I’m exceptional that way,” I reply, biting into the steak kebab that’s coated in a fragrant chimichurri sauce. I’m pretty sure I hear myself moan in pleasure when the flavors explode on my tongue. I point to the skewer. “That’s like heaven on a stick.”

Brax smirks and lifts an eyebrow, enjoying my reaction. “What’s your verdict—steak or chicken?”

“When you’re a hangry bridesmaid, the question isnotsteak or chicken. The question is how to avoid the rather pointed comments about catching the bouquet.” I take another bite and notice Brax is looking at me, amused. “I’m sure you don’t get those questions as a single man.”

“About the bouquet? No,” he says. “But I’ll trade you the bouquet toss for the epic flinging of the garter. Especially since the bride is my sister.”

I laugh. “Okay, you win. That is worse.”

Brax glances over his shoulder and lowers his voice. “I have a plan to hide in a storage closet when the time comes. They can’t force me to take part if I’m conveniently missing.”

Is it possible that the hot and untouchable “Big Mac” MacPherson hates being singled out at weddings as much as I do?

“You’re hiding during your sister’s reception?”

“Only for that part,” he says. “Care to join me?” His eyes have a mischievous glint in them, and I suddenly realize he’s not kidding. He’s inviting me into his devious escape plan.

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