Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Wow. Asher’s green eyes never stray from me as I babble. He really is good-looking. Like, ridiculously good-looking. Actually, he’s so good-looking it’s like looking at the sun. “You know what? You’re the hottest groom ever. Nobody has ever looked better in jeans and a Henley. In fact, you don’t need a tux. Wear that.”
He laughs dryly. “Thanks. I am wearing it. And I will.”
But then a thought occurs to me, and I lean in conspiratorially. “Wait, what color is your underwear? Are you wearing monkeys or dragons? Why won’t you tell me? Or do I just have to find out for myself?”
His clever eyes darken for a second. Turning smoldering. Flickering with heat. I like that too. I definitely like that. Like, ridiculously like it. I like it also when he smirks, leaning in close, his breath tickling my ear as he whispers, “Flamingos.”
I like it so much my breath catches. A shiver runs through me. From the closeness of him. From the way that word sounds strangely sultry. Are flamingos sultry? It takes me several seconds—maybe a minute—to process what he just shared because all I want to process is how good he smells after dancing. There’s a faint lingering scent of sweat, but even that smells fresh, mingling with the clean, oaky aftershave he always uses.
My best friend is really hot.
I mean, of course, he’s hot. I’ve always known this. How could you not know when your best friend is a sexy hockey player that women throw themselves at? But then I blink, realizing what he’s just said. “You’re wearing flamingo underwear?”
He shoots me a playful look. “It’s CheekyBeast’s newest style. But don’t tell a soul. That campaign hasn’t rolled out yet.”
“I’ll keep your secret,” I say.
“Good girl,” he says, lighting an unexpected spark in my chest from those two words. Words I wouldn't mind hearing again.
As we pull up to the hotel, which has a chapel inside, I’m struck with the strangest thought—I want to see my best friend’s flamingo underwear.
But you know what? That’s probably totally normal when you’re getting married as part of your annual Big Adventure, fulfilling a marriage pact made for fun one night at your brother’s wedding. A pact we’ll undo when we’re back in San Francisco. On the way over, we briefly talked about getting an annulment when we’re back home. But for tonight? I’m absolutely getting my money’s worth from the date I won.
The car stops at The Extravagant, and we tumble out. Asher holds my elbow, steadying me, and while I don’t feel stumbling-drunk, I do feel like the world is tilted in our favor tonight. We walk into the hotel, under the chandelier, across the casino, through the concourse, past the CheekyBeast ad, and right into the chapel, where we’ve reserved the one-thirty a.m. slot.
As you do when you make marriage pacts.
Once we’re in the foyer, we sign papers with the couple who runs it—a sturdy, bald man named Hitch Malone and his busty wife, Mrs. Matrimony. When she tells me they have a Marilyn Monroe-style dress that would look fabulous on me, and a tuxedo with ruffles that would suit Asher perfectly, I revise my decision on a tux and a dress.
“Pictures,” I tell Asher, breathlessly. “We’re going to need photos for the album. I don’t want to be in a jean skirt. This is like a costume party. We need to do ourselves up in full regalia.”
His smile is a little wicked, a lot pleased. “When in Rome, Maeve.”
I sigh, feeling bubbly and electric, and alive in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. “I could kiss you.”
For a second, his smile fades, replaced by something deeper, more intense, that flickers in his eyes—a look I can’t quite place. Even as the warmth from the Lemonade Affairs starts to fade, that look makes my heart skip a beat. I push the thought aside, focusing on the fun of this. “You’ll look good in ruffles,” I tease.
“No one looks good in ruffles,” he counters, shaking his head.
“No,” I say, stepping closer, insisting, “A man who can pull off flamingo underwear will look good in ruffles.”
Asher laughs, but there’s something tender in his eyes, something that makes me feel invincible, like I’m not teetering on the edge of a career disaster. Like anything is possible tonight.
Thanks to him. He knew I needed this.
He turns to the couple in charge. “I’ll take one tux with ruffles,” he says, his voice steady.
Hitch chuckles and claps him on the back. “Good man. It’s wise to listen to your soon-to-be wife. And I’ve got one just your size.”
Mrs. Matrimony turns to me, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Let me take you to the bridal suite. I can fix your makeup a little bit, sweetheart. You’re going to want the pictures with your new hubs to look fabulous, aren’t you?”