Page 3 of Stuck With the Best Man

I’m pretty sure I’ve already seen at least one Hadid sister and a famous Hollywood heartthrob, and I’ve barely been here for two minutes.

I take a deep breath and push farther into the space, hunting for the shiny black hair and flawless golden skin of my wildly successful friend.

Just when I think I’ve spotted her, holding court by the entrance to the chandelier-laden dining room, another figure blocks my path.

I halt immediately, staring at the man with blatant shock that I’m unable to disguise quickly enough. His gaze locks with mine, causing him to pause.

I recognize him. How could I not? Tall and toned, with a confidently relaxed posture. Thick, slightly wavy hair somewhere between auburn and chestnut brown. Dark eyes that, even from this distance, I know are flecked with gold.

Unbearably handsome, of course. Almost ostentatious. The kind of person who earns double-takes and appreciative glances even on the star-studded streets of New York City.

He’s ridiculous. Utterly, completely ridiculous.

I know who he is. I know that he has strong opinions about modernist literature, and that he absolutely despises Hemingway in particular. I know that he doesn’t drink his coffee black, like most manly men claim to, but rather with way too much milk and sugar. I know that he comes from a horrifyingly important family—Manhattan royalty, frankly—but that he’s never really cared about that at all.

I know that he is absolutely off limits, and that I should turn right around this very second and walk away. I should pretend I never saw him and carry on with the night, or I could wave to someone over his shoulder and pretend that I was never looking at him in the first place.

What I should definitelynotdo is march up to him and say, “Hi. I wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight.”

Yet, that’s exactly what I do.

The obtrusively beautiful man raises his eyebrows at me. The corner of his lips curve upwards like a comma—like the promise of more to be said.

Then he lifts his hand between us for a handshake and says, “Hello. I’m Ben. Ben Hawthorne. I’m the best man.”

Just like that, I want to jam the heel of my shoe into the arch of his foot.

I should’ve known better. I really should have.

Becauseof course,Ben Hawthorne doesn’t remember me.

Chapter Two: Ben

There’sabeautifulwomanstaring at me.

Or rather, glaring at me. At my hand, specifically, which is awkwardly hovering between our bodies while I wait for her to introduce herself. She marched up to me with such purpose that it was all I could think to do. Now, however, I’m starting to think I look a bit stupid.

“Ben Hawthorne,” she says, my name tumbling off her lips like a curse.

Maybe I’m wrong, but I swear there’s a note of familiarity in her tone. Then again, my family is well-known, even this far north of the city. She probably knows of my father, Irving Hawthorne II, who has his name engraved on plaques all over the greatest art institutions in New York. The Met, the Whitney, Carnegie Hall…

Et cetera, et cetera…

Then again, we’re not in New York. Maybe this stunning creature doesn’t know me or my family at all. Maybe she just likes to be angry at strangers.

I shift on my feet. It’s not often that a person can make me feel uncomfortable with one look, but she has a way of looking down her nose at me despite the several inches of height I have on her.

Still, she’s rather tall. Slender too. She has the sort of willowy, graceful frame of someone who has spent their entire life toning it into submission. Athletic, yes, though the muscles of her bare arms and shoulders are slim in a purposeful way.

Lithe. That’s the sort of word I’d use to describe her if I was writing some sort of romantic ode to her flawless figure.

Not that I do things like that.

But still. IfI’mnot writing odes to her, someone should. Because, wow, she really is exquisite.

She’s also looking at my hand like it’s something she found floating in a mysterious puddle on the city sidewalk. I clench it into a fist and let it drop to my side.

The mysterious woman’s lips, painted a rosy pink, part as if she’s going to say something—or maybe snarl at me—but then she’s interrupted by the arrival of a sleek-haired hellion and a snobby French brute… the latter of which happens to be one of my closest friends.

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