The Worst Best Man
Lucy Score
Dedication
To Joyce & Tammy for your hours of time, your gentle guidance, your pointed reminders, and your unwavering support.
About This Book
The bride is a doll. The groom is the perfect gentleman. But the rest of the wedding party? They’re the stuff of nightmares. Rich? Check. Vapid? Double Check. Entitled? Not enough checks in the world. And the Best Man? More like the Worst Man.
But Maid of Honor Franchesca takes her duties seriously. Kidnapped groom? She’s got this. Rude attendees? You just watch her handle them. So a Best Man with a big attitude and an even bigger…checkbook? Yeah, there’s no way she’s going to let that pretentious, judgmental jackhole ruin her best friend’s wedding. No matter how sexy he is. (Well, that’s the plan anyway…)
Aiden Kilbourn doesn’t do long-term relationships. He’s busy ruling the business world, and has yet to find a woman he can tolerate for longer than a month, two at the outside, anyway. Conquering the unconquerable is basically his bread and butter. And he hasn’t met a challenge that he can’t win. But Franchesca Baranski? This smart-mouthed girl from Brooklyn may just be his downfall.
Chapter One
It was the bridal party from hell. The gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and acres of Italian marble of the Grand Terrace Ballroom couldn’t dress up the fact that a hot mess was currently in progress. From her vantage point on the upper balcony that ringed the hotel’s sunken ballroom, Frankie could see it all.
The groomsmen, in their Armani and Brioni, were overgrown frat boys destined to spend their lives reliving their prep school glory days. Their trust funds were cushy enough to buy their way out of any real trouble.
The bridesmaids were worse. All working on landing husband number two—or three in Taffany’s case. They were on the prowl for men who came with a favorable prenup and a yacht in Saint Tropez.
To Frankie, it was a literal circus. But there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do for the bride, including standing up for her best friend in a three-ring mess of a $350,000 wedding. Pru and Chip were the golden couple of the Upper West Side. College sweethearts who had found their way back to each other. And Frankie was more than happy to be a part of their extravagantly special big day.
If this engagement party was any indicator of how fabulous the destination wedding would be, Frankie wasn’t sure how a poor, sarcastic girl from Brooklyn with big hair would fare amongst the who’s who in Barbados. But for Pru, she’d give it her best shot.
Besides, it gave her a chance to ogle the best man in person. She snagged a champagne glass from a passing tray, winking at the server who joined her against the balustrade. She eyed Aiden Kilbourn across the room. Impeccable, aloof, and painfully beautiful.
“I can’t believe we got this gig,” Jana, the server hissed. “I never in a million years thought I’d see Manhattan’s Most Eligible Bachelor in person, let alone serve him champagne!”
“Just don’t spill anything on him, Jan,” Frankie cautioned.
“You mean ‘don’t pull a Frankie.’” Jana smirked.
Frankie lifted a shoulder. “The guy grabbed my ass. What was I supposed to do, not drop a tray of canapes on his lap?”
“You’re my hero,” Jana sighed.
“Yeah, yeah. Get back down there before they start sobering up. And tell Hansen to maybe migrate away from the ladies’ room. He’s not getting any phone numbers tonight.”
Jana tossed her a mock salute. “On it, boss.”
Frankie watched Jana nimbly skip down the stairs, tray aloft. As soon as Pru and Chip had announced their engagement, she’d snapped up a second job with a catering company, knowing the cost of doing business with the privileged. She wasn’t about to let Pru pay for her bridesmaid dress or her plane tickets, though the offer was there. Frankie was determined to hang with the socialites just this once without being a charity case, even if it bankrupted her.
She ran a hand over her two seasons-old Marchessa that she and Pru had found at an upscale consignment shop in the Village. It was hard to find couture that fit her curves. Pru and the rest of the bridesmaids were nymphy waifs. All blonde, all thin, all B-cups. Well, except for Cressida. Her double Ds spilled out of her size zero Marc Jacobs. Either the woman was blessed with incredible genetics, or they weren’t real. But without getting a handful, Frankie couldn’t tell for sure.
Speaking of good genes, she turned her attention back to the man in the white tuxedo jacket. He had a hand in his pocket in that effortlessly casual stance that the rich were born with.
At forty, Aiden was Manhattan’s unicorn bachelor. Never married—just a rotating cast of arm candy, the longest of which had lasted nearly three whole months. He rarely smiled, unlike the rest of the cast of characters who pasted on their phony “great to see you” grins. It looked as though he was perhaps as uncomfortable as she was in the thick of things.
Pruitt waved to Frankie from the center of the throng. Maid of honor duty engaged. Frankie pasted on a smile of her own before taking to the stairs to join the party. She wove her way between gold cushioned chairs and ivory linen-draped cocktail tables. It’s funny how good the wealthy smelled. All subtle, rich scents as if it emanated from their pores.