Page 56 of Champagne Fizz

Look at me.

I’m a mess.

I’m so dang overwrought my entire body is on fire, and I’m this close to passing out again because—I want him. That’s not healthy. I either need to quit this wedding and never see Simon again, or—

The alternative causes my heart to race and my skin to blotch fiercely across my shoulders.

I could ask Simon to take my virginity. That’s a thing. People do that. They ask a person they trust to take their virginity for them—like as a favor or for fun. Simon has a point; I haven’t been to a doctor and chances are this is completely psychological.

If I just had S-E-X, I’d probably stop reacting so insanely to everything.

I look at the closed door where Simon was standing only moments ago. He was excited too. Interested. I mean, if he doesn’t think I’m too much of a freak show, I bet he’d consider the proposition.

I dunk the towel under the faucet again and slap the cold cloth against my face. I’m not really thinking about this, am I? I’m not actually going to ask Simon to take my virginity.

And even if I was, I couldn’t do it before the wedding.

After.

That’s what Conner said the other day.

After.

Only, I’m going to have to figure out how I will even survive the wedding in the first place. After that kiss, every time Simon bats an eye in my direction I’m bound to turn into a puddle of horn-dog syrup.

Maybe this has to happen before the wedding.

This …

Losing my virginity.

Maybe it needs to happen, as soon as possible.

15

SIMON

Walking into the dining room semi-hard is not my idea of fun. And I know Arie will skewer me if she catches wind that anything is going on between me and Kendall. Top that off with the fact that I can’t stop thinking about Kendall in my arms, shivering wickedly against my lips—yeah, that’s not going to help me get less excited anytime soon.

I grab several handfuls of discarded greenery from one of Kendall’s boxes to make it look like I’ve been helping. Then, I strategically hold the dangling stems over my abdomen so the greenery hides everything below my belt. Not brilliant, but it’s the best I’ve got.

“You’re back,” I say, feigning innocence as I walk into the dining room. All four of them have arrived, and Arie is standing at the center of the room under the chandelier with her arms folded over her chest trying her best to look unimpressed.

Arie’s eyes flick to me with a panther’s suspiciousness,where’s canary girl?

“Ms. Hart is in the restroom,” I say to assuage Arie’s glare, fumbling with the greenery in my hands (which Arie doesn’t miss). I look away from her suspicious you-also-came-from-that-back-hallway frown and turn toward Olivia.

Olivia leans over one of the tables, squeezing Ned’s arm and inspecting the place setting: charger, entrée plate, salad plate, napkin, name tag, decorative flower. Sometimes I think wedding designs are all about selling magazines and silverware instead of celebrating.

“It’s so beautiful!” Olivia gushes, reaching out to touch one of the luminaries hanging from the branch of a centerpiece. “They’re all so luscious and amazing. I don’t know which one to pick. Ned, what do you think?”

Ned shrugs like the last thing he wants to do is weigh in on table cloth colors and centerpieces.

“It’s your wedding, too,” Olivia insists. “How do you imagine it?” She points at the tables one-by-one. “Would you pick Gothic fairy lights, or dark decadence, or classy black-tie Flambé style?”

“I pick you,” Ned says, wrapping his arms around her mid-section and kissing her hair. “I want what you want.”

“But I don’t know what I want!” Olivia complains.

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