The Worst Best Man(2)

“You look amazing, Frankie,” Pru told her, dropping the double kiss on the cheeks and squeezing her hand.

“Me? Have you looked in a mirror tonight? You look like a high-fashion model pretending to be at an engagement shoot.”

“Good enough to eat,” Chip, the golden groom, said swooping in to kiss his bride-to-be.

They glowed at each other, and Frankie felt like she was intruding. “Well, I should get back—”

“Uh-uh. Not until you meet Aiden,” Pru said, dragging her attention away from Chip. On cue, Chip waved at the man.

“That’s okay. I can meet him at the ceremony,” Frankie said.

“Frankie doesn’t like high-society people,” Pru stage whispered to Chip.

Chip slid an affectionate arm around Frankie’s shoulders. “Good thing she made an exception for us, seeing as we’re classy as fuck.”

Franchesca laughed. “You should have put that on your wedding invitations.”

Hansen the server approached with a tray of beef crostini, and Chip snatched one off the tray. He popped it into his mouth, eyes rolling back in his head. “Ummm. Frankie, we owe you for the catering recommendation. Delicious.”

Frankie gave Hansen a nod in the direction of where Pru’s father was glowering in the corner. The man hadn’t gotten over the fact that Chipper Randolph III had unceremoniously dumped his little girl in the months after college graduation when she’d been expecting a ring. But he was picking up the bill for this shindig, and Frankie was determined to make sure his stomach was full to prevent any hangry outbursts.

“Chip. Pru.” The voice was a full octave deeper than Chip’s. Smooth, cultured. Frankie considered asking him to read the grocery list she had stashed in her hand-me-down clutch just so she could listen to him pronounce edamame.

“Aiden!” The good breeding kicked in automatically, and Chip turned to his best friend to make the introductions. “Frankie, this is Aiden Kilbourn, my best man. Aiden, this is Franchesca Baranski, the maid of honor.”

“Frankie,” Aiden said, extending his hand. “That’s an interesting name.”

Frankie gripped and shook. “We’ve got a Taffany and a Davenport in the bridal party, and I’m the one with an interesting name?”

His already cool expression chilled a few degrees. Obviously, he wasn’t used to being educated by an underling. “I was merely making an observation.”

“You were pre-judging,” she countered.

“Sometimes a judgment begs to be made.”

She was still holding his hand. Annoyance had her tightening her grip. He returned the squeeze, and Frankie dropped his hand unceremoniously.

“So, Aiden,” Pru began brightly. “I met Franchesca my first semester at NYU. She’s brilliant—full-ride scholarship—and she graduated a semester early with a 4.0. Franchesca works part-time for a nonprofit while pursuing her MBA.”

Frankie shot daggers at Pru. She didn’t need her best friend trying to talk her up to a snobbish ass.

“Aiden is COO of his family’s business. Mergers and acquisitions,” Chip supplied. “I don’t remember his GPA from Yale. But it wasn’t as good as yours, Frankie.”

She was about to excuse herself and track down another tray of champagne when the DJ changed it up. The first beats of “Uptown Funk” brought half of Manhattan’s elite rushing to the dance floor like someone had announced the new Birkin bag was available.

Pru’s hand clamped down on her arm. “It’s our song!” she squealed. “Let’s go!”

Frankie allowed Pru to tow her toward the dance floor. They slid seamlessly into their choreographed dance crafted two years earlier after one of Frankie’s moderately disappointing breakups. They’d polished off two entire pizzas with three bottles of wine and spent the rest of the evening choreographing the perfect ass shaker.

“I couldn’t tell if you two were fighting or flirting,” Pru yelled over the music.

“Flirting? You’re joking, right? I’m way out of his league.”





Chapter Two


Aiden had a headache by the time he’d crossed the marble lobby of the Regency Hotel, one of the bride’s family’s holdings. And he knew an evening spent in the company of the Brat Pack of groomsmen and a few dozen people looking to marry him off, secure his investment, or beg some free advice would only make it worse.

But it was the price he paid for privilege. He handed the empty champagne flute to a passing server and wished for scotch. But drinking away his headache wouldn’t do anyone any favors tonight.

“How about Margeaux?” Chip asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the model tall, waif-slim blonde. She wore a gold gown with a slit practically to her chin. She was ruthlessly styled, hair perfect, makeup impeccable. She never ate or smiled in public.

“How about not on your life? She looks like the equivalent of an ice cube in bed.” Since Chip had found his lasting happiness with Pruitt, he’d made it his mission to drag his best friend Aiden along with him for the ride.

“Yeah, she’s horrible,” Chip agreed. “But Pru was her maid of honor so…” he winced. “I’m going to do you a favor and skip over Taffany.”

“Thanks,” Aiden said dryly. The woman rebranded herself as Taffany after a second cousin named her baby Tiffany. She was the quintessential party girl. A week didn’t go by when she wasn’t plastered across the gossip blogs flashing her crotch in dresses short enough to be shirts and falling out of rock stars’ SUVs in front of clubs.