Page 14 of Any Cowboy of Mine
Brad ran his hands through his hair, pulling on the fistfuls of dirty-blond tendrils like he wanted to tear them out.What the hell had he been thinking, coming to this freaking wedding?
“Chill out, dude. You know I’ve got you covered.” Brad looked up. Steve was smiling, a steel flask in each hand. “One for each of us. I figure I’m gonna have to keep up with you to be able to wrangle you in if I need to.”
“Thanks, man. You really did think of everything.”
“That’s a wingman’s job. I have so much to teach you, young Padawan.”
Brad laughed, taking the flask from Steve. He had no idea how to hide it, or open it for that matter, so he watched Steve open his, raise it in a toast, take a two-second swig, put the cap back on, and slide it in his breast pocket. Seemed easy enough. Brad opened his, followed suit with a wordless toast, took a long gulp and tried like hell not to spit it back up.
When he managed to swallow it, he coughed uncontrollably. His throat burned, and he’d have sworn his lungs were on fire. His eyes watered, making his vision blurry.
“Christ. Whatisthat?” he sputtered. It was a far cry from the beer Brad typically favored. It could probably do more damage, too.
Steve patted him roughly on the back, causing Brad to cough again.
“Stuff that’ll guarantee you don’t sit through this wedding sober. That’s all you need to know. You’ll get used to it,” Steve said.
“I doubt it. Hey, what time is it?” Brad asked, his head already spinning. He hid the flask in his jacket pocket, not sure drinking more of it would be a good idea.
“Time to head out. I think we should stop at the bar for a drink first, kill some time.”
“I’m picking the poison this time,” Brad teased.
“Got it, boss. But I’m not letting you drink fufu crap either. We’ve got an image to uphold.”
“Do we, now? How about we compromise with beers? My treat.”
“Fair enough. And hey—don’t forget the wedding gift. It’s on the bed.”
Steve smiled like he was up to something.
“What did you do, Steve?”
Steve put his hands up like he was trying to prove his innocence, but his shit-eating grin flashed like warning lights.
“Nothing. Nothing, I promise,” he repeated when Brad wouldn’t stop glaring at him.
“What are we giving them?”
Steve had offered to get the gift if Brad would spring for the hotel. It seemed like a fair trade at the time, but Brad sorely regretted it right then.
“Um. A fondue set. From 2008. But it’s still in the box and hasn’t been used, I promise. I also threw in a fondue cookbook that’s new for good measure. I got the receipt and everything.”
Brad stifled a laugh. “Would this happen to be a fondue set you got for your wedding?”
Steve shrugged, guilt and mischief still plastered on his face. Brad shook his head.
“You’re impossible, man. Impossible.”
“Just remember that when I set the pick for you at the wedding so you don’t have to talk to Julia or Chris. Or when I feed you drinks all night. I’ll make myself useful, you’ll see.”
“Good point. Let’s go have that beer,” Brad said, grabbing a hold of the large, seemingly elegant box and heading out the door Steve held for him.
They dropped the gift off at the reception hall before bee-lining it for the hotel bar.
When they got there, they found it littered with other wedding guests, distinguishable because of their dressy clothes—too nice for anything else that would have been going on in town, even on Christmas Eve. Brad groaned. It would be bad enough to run into all these people in a few hours, but now, when he was trying to relax and calm his nerves, he would have to field questions, or at the least, combat stares and hushed whispers in his direction. He’d also conveniently forgotten it was Christmas Eve.
He took in their surroundings as they walked. The hotel was tastefully decorated for the holiday with a red-and-gold-decorated tree in the corner, lights bordering the walls, and red and gold napkins at the bar. Even the patrons were showing their Christmas spirit with red and green dresses and shirts, Christmas tree pins placed on lapels, even Santa hats on a few scantily clad women. The speakers blasted what sounded like Mariah Carey’s Greatest Christmas Hits a few notches too loud, making it scratchy.
