No Weddings (No Weddings #1)(2)

“Anytime, Amber. I’m a full-service host.”

With care not to topple the girl who already teetered on four-inch heels, I untangled us and propped her against the bar. She stretched her talented fingers out for an untouched Champagne glass, but I quickly lifted it out of her way. She’d had plenty of fun for the night.

“Ben, grab her a cab ride home?” He had agreed to help with my family’s party tonight which was held in a converted backyard barn.

He shook his head. “Nah, I’ll take her.”

“Thanks, man.” We bumped knuckles before he grasped her elbow and led her out.

Did it seem cold not to take the girl home? Maybe. But she knew the score with me. Not that I knew what the hell was up with me, but I needed no-strings-attached therapy to be able to deal.

Shoving my fingers into my hair, I rubbed my scalp and turned around—then grimaced. Three blue-eyed brunettes stood across the room, glaring at me, as my sisters often did.

How long have they been watching?

Long enough, I decided on a heavy sigh as the magnified strength of their glares tried to strip the skin off my hide. I grinned wide, pissing them off even further.

Glitter and confetti covered the maple floor. Blue and silver balloons floated around, dragging their ribbons. Someone at the main control panel silenced the music and turned off the giant flat-screen TV which had been streaming post-ball-drop Times Square footage. The lights went off seconds before amber security lights came on. My oldest sister, Kristen, had done a great job renovating the abandoned space on her country estate, and tonight’s party had made excellent use of it.

As I made my way toward my judge, jury, and executioner, they turned in unison, shaking their heads and muttering while they opened the door that led up to the house. I quickened my stride, weaving through two clean-up crew workers who’d begun sweeping up. I heard a distinct “f*ck” from one of my sisters as I caught the edge of the door before it slammed shut.

I chuckled.

Riling them into swearing amused me to no end.

The bitter cold of the first few hours of January bit into the skin under my black dress shirt. Its rolled-up sleeves and untucked hem over dark jeans had earned a couple of rolled-eyed sighs from the sisterhood. Hey, the shirt had a collar. Which was as close to dressed up as I was willing to get on New Year’s Eve.

By the time I opened the French doors and stepped into Kristen’s living room, the three had commandeered the best seats: the overstuffed suede chair and the dark, broken-in leather couch.

All taken.

I ignored their judgy looks, angling toward the fridge.

“Cade!”

I smiled, taking my time in silent defiance to “decide” on what to confiscate. Of course, the Fat Tires in a neat row on the second shelf had been stocked specifically for me. Spreading three fingers, I lifted two of the bottles and popped the door shut.

“Kincade Joseph Michaelson! Get your ass in here now!”

Feeling more than a little devious, I pretend-snuck up behind Kendall—the one with the lungful of attitude—and gave her an open-mouthed ear kiss, finishing with a slobbering lick. “Really?” I rounded the chair, arching a brow at her. “We’re using full legal names now?”

“Uckkk.” The half word lodged in her throat, like a stuck cat hair ball.

Kristen narrowed her eyes at me, growling. “You get full, middle, and last name with plenty of attitude when you f*ck a guest while we’re doing a trial-run party.”

I gave her a tired look. “Please. The party was over. I’d put out half a dozen fires, more than all of you put together. At twenty minutes till midnight, with Champagne pouring and guests dancing, if the party wasn’t already a success, my eleventh-hour absence didn’t make a bit of difference.”

With raised brows I met her calculating eyes and waited for the rebuttal. None came.

I knew they had more important things to pick apart, like tonight’s inaugural Michaelson-planned event, which I thought we’d successfully hosted. I moved with purpose toward the seat I wanted, regardless of the impertinent ass currently warming it.

Kiki’s big blue eyes widened, locking on to mine as I stalked my spot on the most worn corner of the couch. Those eyes narrowed in challenge, and her arms and legs spread out. She gripped the arm and back cushion, as if her slight mass would make a difference in my tossing her aside without a strained breath.

“No.” Kiki braced her legs, defending her stolen territory.

I tilted my head and placed my beers out of harm’s way on a safe corner of the side table. Their clinks on the glass surface were the last sounds heard before her earsplitting squeals. In a fluid movement, honed from years of practice, I yanked her up by the waist, swung her around, and threw my weight back, landing on the couch.

Kicking and screaming, she landed on my lap.

“Hey, watch the elbows!” I shoved my arms over my groin to guard against cheap body shots.

Kiki extricated herself from my lap in a dramatic huff and glared at me while she planted herself in the uncomfortable wing chair, as far away from me as possible. She crossed her arms, silently hating me with her body.

I winked at her. She loved me.

In fact, all my sisters loved me, their baby brother, no matter how pissy they got over my behavior. Kristen’s the oldest. Katherine, or Kiki as we all call her, the next. Kendall is the youngest girl, two years older than me. They were the only people on the planet who got to call me Kincade. And only ever when they were pissed as hell. Or impatient. Or PMSing, which was pretty much all the time.