Page 2 of Merry Little Wedding

“Isn’t he?” Liz says smiling. “C’mon, honey, let’s go inside and get you drunk!”

“Do I have to get drunk?” I ask, giggling, trying to be cute about it, but it comes out like the nervous laughter it is. Dang, she is taking thisreallyseriously. I thought it would be fun to fake a bachelorette party but Liz’s almosttoo goodat playing her part of bridesmaid-to-be, I don’t know how in the world I’ll be able to stay in character next to her all night.

“Aurora, hunny-bunny. You’re going to be seeing the same penis every—day, forever. Fooor-ehhh-verrr,” she draws it out, her eyes going bulbous. “Iwould get drunk.” I seal my lips closed to stifle the laugh. She gives a wave to cute stranger truck dude, who’s been observing all of this with great amusement on his face. “You coming or going?” Liz indicates over her shoulder, where there’s already a line snaking around to the back of the nightclub.

He does a humble half-shrug-thing. “I own the club.”

“Soo…what does that mean?” prompts Liz.

There’s that sexy grin again. Again he points it at me, his tongue peeking out to caress the corner of that kissable, quirked mouth, before he says, “I’m coming.”

Two

Boone

Not a great liar, that one. And Iknowa thing or two about great liars. The marketing and advertising business is filled with them. And that’s another thing I know a thing or two about.

Before I moved to Deerfield Beach in sunny South Florida, I lived and breathed Chicago, working around the clock to help grow my family’s ad-PR firm into the multi-million-dollar national success it had become before Dad died. For years, I operated on autopilot, going going going. I admit I enjoyed the fast-paced life. The thrill, the rush, the constant demand. Hadn’t considered an alternative future.

That is, until the accident.

Five years ago I’d decided to rent a truck and take it for a drive around Chestnut Mountain. I was stressed, I knew I needed to decompress. Didn’t want to slow down, but burning the candle at both ends, over and over, had started to take its toll on me.

I was too late to take that respite, half-asleep behind the wheel as the truck slid off the road and tumbled down a steep, rocky ditch, landing upside down in a creek that was normally five-feet deep. A drought was the only reason I hadn’t been washed into the Mississippi River and drowned in it that day.

The accident didn’t kill me. It changed me. I wasn’t going to getthatclose to dying again. Not as long as I could help it. My dad’s taxing career had already takenhislife by way of a heart attack a couple years prior. Waking up in that hospital bed, hurting all over, I knew right then I didn’t need any more lessons to realize I was headed in the same direction.

Now, observing the main floor of the club from behind the bar, I rub a knot of tension from the back of my neck. Still get sore easily from the injuries I sustained. But I manage all right. Running this place isn’t exactly the quiet, lazy beach-bum life my mom and sister are convinced I’m down here living. But the stakes and the stress are lower. By a lot. And the best part—the two squawking hens are far, far away from me in Illinois.

I scope out the holiday decorations. The staff went over the top with lights, wreaths, an upside-down Christmas tree. They even wrapped the tables in gaudy wrapping paper and created a funky holiday drink menu, like theSanta-gria,Naughty or Spice, and theGettin’ Blitzen.

My eyes collide with the curvy beauty from outside. The quote-unquote, “engaged” curvy beauty. Aurora, that was her name. I notice the bartender noticing the two of them walking up, and I dismiss him. “Let me do it.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Ladies,” I greet them.

“Hi again,” Aurora, thebachelorettesays.

“It’s you.” Her friend is more subdued than before, peering up from her phone for only a split-second before she goes back to typing away.

“It’s me,” I reply. “What can I get you?”

The friend scopes the menu and orders a Santa-gria.

“Vodka cranberry,” Aurora says.

I toss a wink to the bachelorette. “Just what I pegged you for.”

“Really?” She wrinkles her face up at me. It’s adorable.

“It’s not a bad thing,” I say.

“No?” She slides into a barstool. “It’s just, if I were to be a drink I’d rather be something exciting. Like, sex on the beach!” Her cheeks enflame, and she covers them with the palms of her hands. “Goodlord. Forget I just said that.” Shaking her head at herself. Also cute as fuck. She isn’t really engaged but she should be. Why isn’t she? What poor fool wouldn’t have already locked that down?

“What drink wouldyoube, Mr. Club Owner?” Aurora says.

“Are you flirting with me, missus bride-to-be?” I joke, glancing over at her friend then back to her. It’s fucking fantastic, the way she looks when she’s caught. I go easy. “Where’s the rest of your party, anyway?”

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