My Big Fat Fake Wedding(18)

Ugh. Why do I have such crazy friends?

But Abi has been the best friend a girl could have . . . despite the occasional bouts of insanity.

“And somehow, you think Ross would agree to something like this?” I demand.

“Sure, why not?” she says with a trademark Abi grin. “I’m his oldest little sister. I should know. Not to mention, he’s known you for years. Hell, you’re almost just as much his sister as I am. And you’ve also done stuff for him in the past, remember? He’ll have no choice but to agree to our little scheme once we get done with him.”

“Our little scheme? We?” I ask, still reeling in shock. “I never said I was doing this.”

Abi smirks. “Sure, you are. I can see it in your eyes.”

I shake my head vehemently. “Forget it. It won’t work. Besides, we’d end up killing each other before ever making it to the altar.”

“Nonsense,” Abi says, waving her hand at Ross to get his attention. “Yoo-hoo, Rossy. We’re over here.”

Ross looks our way and smiles. Then he says something to Janey and moves around the counter, making his way over to us. Even his walk is sexy, confident, and graceful. All things I’m definitely not. I swallow, wishing I could just disappear underneath one of the boutique tables. Or into the center of the Earth to burn up and not have to deal with any of this mess.

Fuck me . . . he’s an asshole, but he’s a hot asshole. Why are the bad ones always so pretty on the outside?

“Hey, Abs. Hello, Violet.”

I school my face before my thoughts betray me. Jesus, I always forget how deep his voice is. And embarrassingly, I imagine what that rumble would feel like against my skin. Once upon a time, I had foolish dreams of Ross being my first kiss. My fantasies now involve a lot more than just kissing, that’s for damn sure. But I’ve never imagined Ross as that fantasy man . . . until now.

I look up to see Ross standing over me, a fresh batch of stubble shading his chiseled jawline. He’s even more impressive close up, looking like he’s had a hard day’s work, his dress shirt partially opened at the front, his hair slightly disheveled.

How does he manage to look like such an arrogant bastard and so damn handsome all at the same time?

The thought comes from an alien place in my mind, and I dismiss it as my being high-strung in the moment. The days of my crushing on Ross Andrews are long gone.

“What? I don’t get a ‘hi’ too?” Archie pouts. But I can feel his eyes watching the interaction between Ross and me with new interest.

“Hello, Ross,” I reply cordially, ignoring Archie’s lame attempt for attention. “Nice to see you.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Chickie. How’ve you been?”

Ugh. Remind me why I always want to slap you, why don’t you?

I used to have chicken legs when I was in middle school, legit pencils attached to a hinge. Ross used to tease me about them relentlessly to the point that I spent a whole summer exercising my ass on in order to stop the jokes. And while it stopped all of his chuckleheaded buddies from doing it, Ross still references that first taunt from time to time.

I think it’s partly out of habit and partly to annoy me.

“I’m just fine,” I say through gritted teeth, biting down on the urge to call him Dumb Ogre, my favorite nickname for him growing up. It’s weak, but my middle school brain hadn’t been capable of much more than a typical dumb jock joke to bestow a nickname on him. “You?”

Ross grins, noting my irritation. “Peachy.” He looks past me to the stacks of peach-colored cardstock.

Abigail gestures at the table. “I just got done making these invitations for Violet’s wedding. Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Amazing,” Ross says, barely giving the invitations a lookover, instead looking over at me. “How’s the engagement coming along, Vi?”

I’m not sure, but I think I detect an undercurrent of intensity to his words.

“Uh . . . um . . . it’s going . . . okay,” I say, not having the guts to tell him I was dumped. But Ross always leaves me this way, with the verbal IQ of a potato when I need to be on my A game around him.

Very frustrating.

Ross’s expression is unreadable. “Really? So, you guys have it all figured out?”

Great . . . trapped. I have no idea where to go with this one. “Um we’re sort . . . of working on it . . . but I—”

“Have something to ask you,” Abi finishes for me cheerfully, elbowing me sharply in the side.

I shoot her murderous look. “Uh, no, I don’t.”

“Uh, yes, you do,” she mimics back.

Ross looks back and forth between us, frowning. “I’m confused.”

“Nothing to worry your pretty little head about,” Archie interjects, bumping Ross’s shoulder in a move that would scream ‘bro’ if anyone but him did it, but I can see it for the flirtation it is and I can’t help but grin a little. Archie’s on my side in the ongoing war with Ross and does what he can to set Ross off-kilter. “Bitches be crazy.” He says it solemnly, like it’s some great insight shared between the males of the human species. “Of course, there’s one way to mitigate their impact . . .” He trails off pointedly, his subtlety that of a rampaging wildebeest.