Page 6 of Stuck With the Best Man

A light flush colors Ruby’s cheeks at the onslaught of attention. “Yes. Well, I’m her twin, actually.”

Appreciative conversation erupts, thick with praise for the immensely talented duo.

Atwin. Gosh, there are two of them.

That’s why she’s so familiar. I know exactly who Amy Sullivan is. There’s no way I couldn’t, given that my family is obsessed with sniffing out young artists with extreme potential.

Pierre’s voice rises above the rest for a moment. “Amy is a true visionary! Her work istrèsprofound!”

I snort loudly. “Pierre, you do realize that Miss Sullivan is heavily influenced by the impressionists, right?”

Ruby’s attention swings back to me, as jagged and fatal as a serrated knife.

“What doyouknow about my sister’s paintings?” she snaps.

Despite the challenge in her voice, I find myself smiling.

“Don’t you know, Ruby? I’m a bigfan. I have one of her pieces hanging in my townhouse on the Upper West Side.”

She narrows her eyes again, then sniffs as though an unpleasant stench has just assaulted her dainty nose. “Good for you.”

And that’s the end of that.

Erik laughs again. “Another swing and a miss.”

“Shut up, man.”

Chapter Three: Ruby

Idiot.Pompous,preening,snobbyidiot.

I don’t know what I ever saw in him. I don’t know why I didn’t forget him as easily as he clearly forgot me.

Approximately eleven months ago—not that I’m counting—it was a sunny late-spring day in Manhattan, and I had just gotten the news that I would reprise my soloist role for an upcoming production ofDon Quixote. The average person might have been grateful for that. Being a soloist in the NYC Ballet is no small accomplishment.

However, it wasn’t good enough for me. I had hoped I’d be promoted to principal dancer that year—had thought for sure that I’d done what I needed to do in order to prove myself worthy. Apparently not.

I needed to clear my head, so I went to the Strand. I’m not usually much of a bookworm, but there’s something about the massive bookstore on the corner of Broadway and East 12th Street that speaks to me. Maybe it’s the slightly disorganized rows upon rows of books, or maybe it’s just that being surrounded by thousands of other stories makes mine feel less tragic and insignificant.

The point is, I had developed a habit of going to the Strand whenever I felt overwhelmed.

That day in May, I was deep in the back corner of the stacks, pretending to read the back cover of a mystery novel, when a smooth, masculine voice said, “That’s a good one.”

I looked up to find a stranger dressed in stylishly rumpled Ralph Lauren smiling at me.

“Oh?” I responded, trying to play it cool even as I found myself struggling not to tremble at how gorgeous he was. “I actually don’t… read.”

The stranger cocked his head to the side. “You don’t read?”

I remember I blushed like crazy and started babbling, which is not something I have a habit of doing.

“Idoread. I can read, I mean. I just don’t… read… um, mysteries. Or, like, for pleasure. I don’t have much time, you see. To read. Books.”

I expected him to laugh in my face, dismiss me as a bumbling idiot, and carry on with his day.

Instead, he smiled wider and said, “This is a strange place for a book-hater to be.”

“I’m not a book-hater. I love books.”

---