Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(26)

I start to reach for it, but Ian shakes his head and drops into the chair opposite me. “Actually no, not yet. Have to wait for Kennedy.”

“Dude. Why are you being weird?” I ask, noticing he has another matching gift in his hand. Had I not been so distracted with my mother’s call about Sabrina, I’d have noticed them before. In my defense, the packages are small.

“For the record, none of this was my idea,” he mutters, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed.

A moment later, Kennedy ambles in, most of his attention on his cell phone. He sets it aside as he sits next to Ian. “What’s up?”

“Ian brought us presents,” I say.

“It’s not my birthday,” Kennedy says. “Nor is it yours.”

“Thank God we waited for him,” I say to Ian. “How else would we ever keep track of everyone’s birthdays?”

Kennedy reaches out and pulls the gift from Ian’s hand. Sniffs it.

Ian rubs his forehead. “Oh my God, what are you doing?”

“I was just making sure it wasn’t incense,” Kennedy says.

Ian gives him an incredulous look. “Why would I be buying you incense?”

“Last gift I got was sandalwood incense.”

“You need new friends,” I tell him.

“It was a housewarming gift from my mother.”

“You ever use it?” Ian asks curiously.

“Sure. It’s right next to my collection of scented candles and face creams.” Kennedy holds up the sleek gift. “Now stop stalling.”

Ian sighs. “Okay, well, it’s like I told Matt—this wasn’t my idea, and . . . Shit. You know what, just open them. Get it over with.”

Kennedy and I exchange curious glances as we untie the silver ribbon and tear open the black paper.

“Now, see, this is already much better than incense,” Kennedy says, sounding a bit more cheerful than before as he opens the box.

“Agreed,” I say, pulling the metal hip flask out of my box. “Dude, did you fill it?”

Ian nods. “Vodka for you, scotch for Kennedy. That much, at least, was my idea.”

“Explain.”

Ian blows out a breath. He scratches his ear.

I narrow my eyes. “You’re stalling again.”

“Yeah, well, give me a break; I’ve never done this before,” he mutters, shifting in his chair.

Kennedy unscrews the top of his flask and extends it to Ian. “Here. This’ll help.”

Ian laughs. “I’m more of a gin guy, but . . . sure, what the hell.”

He takes a sip, then hands the flask back to Kennedy. Meanwhile, I’m turning my own flask over, trying to figure out what sort of metal it’s made out of, when I notice the inscription.

It’s dated for February of next year.

I look up. “Dude. Isn’t that your—”

“Wedding date. Yeah,” Ian says. “I need a best man. Well, men. You guys are it.”

Ah, shit. I don’t think of myself as a sappy kind of guy, but the request means a lot. Well . . . it was more of a demand, but still.

“I sort of thought this was unnecessary,” Ian continues. “I mean, I figured you guys would just know, like, the moment we got engaged. But Lara said I had to make it official . . .”

Grinning, I stand and go to give my friend a hug. “Hell yes, man. I’m going to look so much better in a pink dress than Kennedy.”

“You jest, but Lara is thinking pink and red for our colors. It’s Valentine’s Day weekend, blah blah blah.”

“I’m not wearing a pink tie,” Kennedy says, giving Ian a hug of his own. “Red, we can talk about.”

“I’ll pass on the message.”

“You know, you didn’t have to bribe us,” I say, nodding toward the flask.

“Lara’s idea. Apparently, you can’t just ask your wedding party to stand up beside you anymore. It has to be a thing. Can someone please change the subject?”

He sounds desperate, so Kennedy takes pity on him and turns to me. “How’d it go when you ambushed Sabrina on Saturday? Was she pissed?”

I groan. “It backfired. The infernal woman knew I was coming, flipped the tables, controlled the entire day.”

Well, not the entire day. There’d been a moment in the dressing room when she’d been dangerously, wonderfully close to being out of control.

“She’s good at that,” Ian says in acknowledgment before looking at his watch. “Damn it. I’ve got to run. Drinks later on me as a thank-you for not giving me shit about the dippy best-man gesture?”

“Oh, there will be shit-giving,” Kennedy says. “We just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“Fantastic. Can’t wait,” Ian says. “But just keep in mind that I have an excellent memory. And I’ll remember each and every bit of shit-giving you dish out when it’s your turn to walk down the aisle and your fiancées make you beg me to be your best man with a cupcake or a poem.”

Kennedy winces. “Noted. I’d like to think it won’t go down that way, but if a woman ever winds me around her finger to propose, she can probably convince me to do just about anything.”

“It’ll happen,” Ian says, clamping Kennedy on the shoulder as they head out the door. “You too, Cannon.”