Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(59)

“Huh. I thought the freaking-hot lawyer had a shot.” I almost drew blood that day, biting down on my tongue to stop from laughing out loud when I overheard her talking to her friend on the phone. And then they started going on about vibrators and . . . damn! I’ve been with a few chicks who like to pull their toys out of the drawer when I’m over. Those nights have always been memorable.

The look Reese shoots me over her shoulder, her cheeks bursting with color, makes me raise my hand in surrender. I’ve learned enough to know that Reese may act tough but she does not like being embarrassed. The last thing I want to do is piss the little commando off.

“What kind of party did you say this was again?” Reese asks, studying two of Penny’s strippers walking up the path ahead of us, both in skin-tight dresses that would get a mannequin off.

No way was I going to tell her the truth. She’d never agree to come. “The kind of party that you have fun at.” I smoothly loop an arm through hers and begin leading her around the side of the Miami mansion that overlooks the beach. God knows she may still run. But for now, she slowly matches my steps along the path. “So I’m clear, am I just a casual date or the new girlfriend?”

“Casual date. No one who knows me would believe otherwise.” I shoot my winning smile at her as I add, “A highly amorous one, of course. I wouldn’t have brought you otherwise.”

I catch her tiny eye roll as we round the corner. And then her feet stall like a skittish cat facing a bath as all the white folding chairs and the archway come into view.

“You brought me to a f*cking wedding?” she hisses and I instinctively flex my arm around hers.

“Don’t swear; it’s bad luck.”

By the way her fingernails are digging into my forearm, I’m starting to regret going with the element of surprise. “I’m in white, Ben!”

“And you look damn fine,” I assure her, but her eyes are closed and her head’s already shaking in that “God, you’re such an idiot” way.

“You can’t wear white to a wedding! I’ll look like I’m trying to compete with the bride.”

“Oh, f*ck. Don’t worry about that. You can’t compete with her.” Shit. I heave a sigh. “I mean . . .” Even I know I’ve just stuck both feet into my mouth, and the flat glare I get confirms it. “That came out wrong. You know what I mean. Come on.” I give her a tug forward. “Let’s get a drink. They’ll have the good stuff out.” Knowing Storm, the bar well will be stocked with only the best for their guests.

“Please tell me you know these people, Ben. And that they know I’m coming? Because I’m feeling like an offensive wedding crasher right now.”

“Relax. Storm and Dan are two of my closest friends. And, yes, they know you’re coming.” When I phoned last night to tell Storm that I was bringing a date, she of course grilled me a bit and scolded me for waiting until the eleventh hour but then giggled, saying she couldn’t wait to meet her. She’s great like that.

Reese’s perfectly shaped eyebrow spikes. “Her name is Storm?”

I expected that. “Old stage name, yeah. The pregnant woman whose pie you destroyed last week? She’s the one getting married today.” Greeting the bartender, I order two shots of tequila and a bottle of Corona.

“No tequila,” Reese argues with a furious headshake.

“Oh, come on. You’ll need it to deal with me.” This act will work better if I can remove that rod from Reese’s spine.

“Why? Are we getting married too?” I love how she cracks jokes to downplay her irritation. Especially ridiculous ones like that.

“Babe, the only way a wedding ring is landing on this finger of mine is if I’m in a coffin.”

“You may be in one by the end of tonight,” she mutters more to herself, and then tells the waiting bartender, “I’ll have a Jim Beam, neat. Thanks.”

“Jeez. Guitar playing . . . Harley riding . . . bourbon . . . Do you even like men?” I tease as the guy pours and hands her the drink.

“Not right now,” she throws back in a dry tone as she takes a healthy sip. At least she hasn’t pulled away from me yet. That’s good. It gives Mercy—who I see in my peripherals, standing with her partner in crime, Hannah—less room to attach herself. Not that it would necessarily deter her.

“Isn’t that the Twinkie in the blue?” Reese’s brow pulls together as she assesses the stripper’s extremely short blue dress.

“Yeah. You want another introduction?” Leaning in close to her ear—she smells like strawberries and cream again today—I whisper, “The one on the left may be more your type, though.” The words are barely out of my mouth when Reese’s bony elbow collides with my ribs.

I watch her observing them, her eyes narrowing slightly, her fingers smoothing her skirt out, tugging it this way and that. She’s normally so hard-edged that her sudden self-consciousness is a nice, humanizing change. “Do you actually like all that silicone?” she finally asks.

“It has its merits,” I admit but add quickly, “Girls like that get boring quick, though. And I prefer your tits. Though I think I need a refresher on them.” I’m not lying, either. About either assertion.

“Another Hallmark sentiment.” Her caramel eyes shift up to stare at me, as if weighing my words for their truth and deciding what kind of smart-ass remark she should fling at me. As her lips part, I’m tempted to test this fake date out and shut her up with a kiss—that I damn well know she’ll enjoy—but before I get the chance, a familiar hand slams down on my shoulder.