Page 4 of Stuck With the Best Man

“Oh mygoodness, Ruby!” squeals Eva Ivanova—soon to be Mrs. Eva Linworth—as she engulfs my pretty adversary in a tight hug. “Look at you! Holy mackerel, girl, you are a vision! See, Iknewthat dress would look better on you than it does on me. I’m a genius, honestly. You should let me redo your entire wardrobe. I have this sweet little Saint Laurent number that would—”

“Absolutely not,” the woman named Ruby interrupts, a soft smile on her face despite her stern tone. “Nice try, though.”

Eva sighs loudly as if this is an argument they regularly have, then turns to smile brilliantly at me. “Ben! I’m so glad you’ve met Ruby! She’s my maid of honor. Honestly, I’m shocked that it’s taken this long for you two to meet!”

“Oh, that’s… nice,” I find myself saying. Like an idiot. “Are you a model too?”

Ruby narrows her eyes at me like I just asked her if she single-handedly endeavors to worsen the effects of global warming.

“No,” she answers.

Eva’s smile falters for the barest of seconds at the palpable tension in the air.

“Ruby, this is Ben. Bastien’s best man.”

Ruby says nothing. Beside me, Sebastien clears his throat quietly and then claps me on the shoulder.

“Shall we go intola salle à mangernow?” he asks, his French accent as thick and annoyingly charming as ever.

That accent is the entire reason Eva gave him the time of day in the first place. Now look at him! About to marry a model! Linguistic quirks can get you far if you know how to work them in your favor.

I’m more than happy to leave the lovely, vicious creature in the blue dress behind, if only because I’m starting to vaguely fear for my life in her presence. I follow Sebastien into the dining room, where a massive table has been set with porcelain finery at the head of the room as well as a dozen other smaller tables to accommodate the fashionable crowd.

My seat is at the main table, right between two other groomsmen. One is a college friend that the groom has known since his time at Parsons Paris, and the other is an up-and-coming fashion designer from Milan. As the youngest son of a billionaire patron of the arts, I suppose I do somewhat belong between them, but I still feel out of place.

The thing is, I haven’t done anything to earn my prestige other than be born into the Hawthorne family. I did some modeling a couple of years ago, which is how I met Sebastien and Eva in the first place, but I have done little else to impress since then. In fact, the most substantial thing on my résumé is the fact that my father recently deemed me worthy of taking over our family’s philanthropical legacy at the NYC Ballet.

Which really isn’t saying much. It’s just a license to spend money. It doesn’t require much in the way of merit or skill.

Still, I’ve been doing my best to prove I’m worthy of the role.

The dinner begins shortly. Even though the groomsman on my right, Pierre, immediately traps me into conversation about how overrated Monet is, or something like that, I can’t help noticing that Ruby has been seated fairly close by. She’s seated diagonally across from me, facing the bride in a place of honor.

She’s also doing an impressive job of pretending that this entire side of the table doesn’t exist.

Yet, I can’t take my eyes off her. While Pierre mumbles about how deeply he detests impressionism, I observe the woman as casually as I can. She has long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, but the features don’t look cliché on her. In fact, she looks like the living embodiment of this small seaside town. Hair as golden as the sand and eyes as cold and blue as the ocean.

I wonder why she hates me, because it’s obvious that she does. It’s a little odd that the best man and the maid of honor haven’t met yet, though it certainly seems like she already knows exactly who I am. I’m usually good with people. I’m used to them liking me, usually because they know who my family is, because they think I’m attractive, or both.

The most obvious thing that I notice about Ruby is her impeccable posture. She holds her fine-boned wrists aloft when she uses her knife and fork, as if being graceful is second nature to her. There’s something about her face too. The full lips and somewhat too-large eyes. There’s a Bambi-like innocence in her features that isn’t reflected in her steel spine and sharp gaze.

That’s when it hits me.

Of course.Of course.

Ruby Sullivan. She’s a dancer. A ballerina. Just this past spring, I watched her perform inSleeping Beautyas the Lilac Fairy at least a dozen times. It was my first season in the new leadership role, and I wanted to become personally acquainted with the talent and potential of the company.

Most men maybe wouldn’t consider attending the ballet a particularly masculine hobby, but my ego isn’t fragile like that. In fact, I think it takes a true gentleman to appreciate the beauty of the performing arts. Also, there’s something kind of brutally macabre about ballet that has always fascinated me. Underneath all that glitter and chiffon are bruises and blisters, shredded satin, and tangled ribbons. The dancers throw themselves across the studio with inhuman courage and bend their bodies into almost grotesque shapes to achieve perfection.

In my opinion, they’re ten times tougher than the average athlete.

Now that I know who she is, I want nothing more than to get her attention again.

“Actually, Pierre,” I interrupt sharply, just loud enough to be heard across the table over the din of chatter. “I quite like the impressionists.”

He wrinkles his nose at me unapologetically. “Oh,mon ami. Say it isn’t so.”

“No, it’s true. My favorite painter is Degas.”

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