The Unhoneymooners(5)

From that day on, he’s been nothing but disdainful and prickly with me. What am I to think? That he went from smile to disgust in ten minutes for some other reason? Obviously my opinion of Ethan Thomas is: he can bite me. With the exception of today (wholly because of this dress), I like my body. I’m never going to let someone make me feel bad about it or about cheese curds.

Voices carry from the other side of the groom’s suite—some fratty cheer about man sweat or beer or opening a bag of Cheetos with the force of a hard stare; who knows, it’s Dane’s wedding party we’re talking about. I raise my fist and knock, and the door opens so immediately that I startle back, catching my heel on the hem of my dress and nearly falling.

It’s Ethan; of course it is. He reaches out, his hands easily catching me around the waist. As he steadies me, I feel my lip curl, and watch the same mild revulsion work its way through him as he pulls his hands away and tucks them into his pockets. I imagine he’ll rip open a disinfectant wipe the moment he has the chance.

The movement draws my attention to what he’s wearing—a tuxedo, obviously—and how well it fits his long, wiry frame. His brown hair is neatly combed off his forehead; his eyelashes are as preposterously long as they always are. I tell myself that his thick, dark brows are obnoxious overkill—settle down, Mother Nature—but they do look undeniably great on his face.

I really don’t like him.

I’ve always known Ethan was handsome—I’m not blind—but seeing him dressed in black tie is a bit too much clarification for my liking.

He gives me the same perusal. He starts with my hair—maybe he’s judging me for wearing it clipped back so plainly—and then looks at my simple makeup—he probably dates makeup-tutorial Instagram models—before slowly and methodically taking in my dress. I take a deep breath to resist crossing my arms over my midsection.

He lifts his chin. “That was free, I’m assuming.”

And I’m assuming driving my knee right into his crotch would feel fantastic. “Beautiful color, don’t you think?”

“You look like a Skittle.”

“Aw, Ethan. Stop with the seduction.”

A tiny grin twitches the side of his mouth. “So few people can pull off that color, Olivia.”

From his tone, I can tell I am not included in this few. “It’s Olive.”

It amuses my extended family to no end that my parents named me Olive, not the eternally more lyrical Olivia. Since I can remember, all my uncles on Mom’s side call me Aceituna just to rankle her.

But I doubt Ethan knows that; he’s just being a dick.

He rocks back on his heels. “Right, right.”

I am tired of the game. “Okay, this is fun, but I need to see your speech.”

“My toast?”

“Are you correcting my wording?” I wave a hand forward. “Let me see.”

He leans a casual shoulder against the doorframe. “No.”

“This is really for your safety. Ami will murder you with her bare hands if you say something dickish. You know this.”

Ethan tilts his head, sizing me up. He’s six foot four, and Ami and I are . . . not. His point is made, very clearly, with no words: I’d like to see her try.

Dane appears over his shoulder, his face falling as soon as he sees me. Apparently I’m not the beer wench they were both hoping for. “Oh.” He recovers quickly. “Hey, Ollie. Everything okay?”

I smile brightly. “Fine. Ethan was just getting ready to show me his speech.”

“His toast?”

Who knew this family was such a stickler for labels?

“Yeah.”

Dane nods to Ethan and motions back inside the room. “It’s your turn.” He looks at me, explaining, “We’re playing Kings. My big brother is about to get owned.”

“A drinking game before the wedding,” I say, and let out a little chuckle. “Sounds like a prudent choice.”

“Be there in a minute.” Ethan smiles at his brother’s retreating form before turning back to me, and we both drop the grins, putting our game faces back on.

“Did you at least write something?” I ask. “You’re not going to try to wing it, are you? That never goes well. No one is ever as funny off the cuff as they think they are, especially you.”

“Especially me?” Although Ethan is the portrait of charisma around nearly every other human, with me he’s a robot. Right now his face is so controlled, so comfortably blank, that I can’t tell whether I’ve genuinely offended him or he’s baiting me into saying something worse.

“I’m not even sure if you could be funny . . .” I falter, but we both know I’m committed to this horrific rim shot: “. . . on the cuff.”

A dark eyebrow twitches. He has successfully baited me.

“Okay,” I growl, “just make sure your toast doesn’t suck.” I glance down the hall, and then remember the other bit of business I had with him. “And I assume you checked with the kitchen to make sure you don’t have to eat the buffet for dinner? Otherwise I can do it when I’m down there.”

He drops the sarcastic grin and replaces it with something resembling surprise. “That’s pretty considerate. No, I hadn’t asked for an alternative.”