Wardrobe Malfunction(49)

“I bet she’s getting excited. I remember what I was like in the run-up to my and Carter’s wedding.”

“Yeah, she’s driving my mom nuts. Bridezilla at its worst.”

“Are you taking Charly with you?” she asks in a lower voice.

The mention of my name makes my feet stop just before I’m about to round the corner.

Natasha knows about us? He never told me that.

“I don’t know. I haven’t mentioned it to her.”

“You haven’t told her that your sister’s getting married?”

“No. Why?”

She laughs. “God, you men are clueless. Do you want to take her with you?”

I hold my breath, waiting for his response.

“I don’t take women home.”

“Yeah, I know that. But I didn’t ask if you took women home. I asked if you wanted to take Charly home with you.”

There’s a long pause.

His lack of a response makes my chest ache. I rub a hand to the spot.

Then, Natasha speaks again, “Well, if you do decide you want to ask her to go with you, don’t leave it much longer because, otherwise, she’ll feel like you just asked her as a last-minute choice.”

I don’t want to hear any more, so I trace my steps back and go around the back of the van.

I stop at the other side and paste a smile on my face, shrugging off the hurt I’m feeling.

Then, I step out. Vaughn’s eyes instantly come to me. He smiles at me. That secret smile he always gives me, one that usually turns me to jelly…not this time though.

“I need you in wardrobe,” I say to him, fake smile on. Then, my eyes move to Natasha. “Natasha, Logan asked me if I would bring you along, too.”

“Sure thing,” she says, tossing her coffee in the trash.

Vaughn follows suit, tossing his coffee.

And we all walk over to wardrobe, Natasha and Vaughn talking over their upcoming scene while I totally zone out.

His sister’s getting married, and he didn’t tell me. Okay, that’s not such a massive thing because he’s a man, and men don’t think like women.

But Mr. I Don’t Take Women Home doesn’t want to take me with him? Well, okay, he didn’t exactly say that. But he didn’t say he wanted to take me either. He didn’t say anything.

I mean, rationally thinking, he probably hasn’t asked because I pushed to keep us a secret, and if I go to his sister’s wedding, we definitely wouldn’t be a secret…which brings me to the fact that Natasha knows!

How many other people has he told?

And why do I feel so weird and bent out of shape about this?

Why is it bothering me so much that he hasn’t asked me to his sister’s wedding?

I’m being stupid.

I must be due for my period. I’m hormonal. It’s the only reasonable explanation for why I’m acting like a wack job.

Because, honestly, I’m not bothered that he hasn’t asked me.

I’m not bothered at all.





Vaughn


Charly’s acting weird. She’s been weird since last night. It’s like she’s here, but she’s not actually here.

I’ve asked her countless times if she’s okay, and I get the same answer every time.

“I’m fine.”

Like now, we’re in my trailer where she’s stitching up a shirt that got ripped in a fight scene, and I’ve been talking to her, but she’s not actually listening. She’s doing the ums and the ahs in all the right places, but I know she’s not taking in a fucking word I’m saying.

“So, yeah, I was thinking of asking Natasha about the three of us having a threesome. What do you think, babe?”

“Hmm.”

“Or we could have a foursome with her husband. I’ll do Natasha. You do Carter. How does that sound?”

“Mmhmm.”

See what I mean?

I get up from the sofa and walk over to the dining table. Sitting down in front of her, I pull the shirt from her hands.

“Hey! I nearly stuck myself with the needle then!”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” She pulls the shirt back from my hands.

“I just suggested having a threesome with Natasha or maybe a foursome with her hubby, and your responses were all hmm and mmhmm.”

“You want to have a three-way with me and Natasha?” she all but yells at me.

“No, I don’t want to have a three-way, you fucking tool. That’s my way of proving you haven’t been listening to a word I said, and you haven’t since yesterday.”

“Did you just call me a fucking tool?” She frowns.

“What is going on with you? Why are you acting all weird?”

“I’m not,” she says with shifty eyes. Looking down at the shirt, she carries on with sewing it.

Jesus! Fucking women!

I growl with frustration, “That’s it. I’m withholding sex until you tell me what’s going on.”

Her eyes lift, and she laughs. “Yeah, okay,” she says in a mocking voice.

“I’m serious.” I fold my arms.

She puts the shirt down. “You’ll last a day, max.”