The Worst Best Man(42)

“Send me that waiter,” Frankie hissed as the woman shoved her toward the photographer.

“You!” The photographer pointed an accusing finger in her direction. “Makeup!”

As if by magic, a hotel employee with a palette of gels and goops and glosses appeared in front of Frankie and started applying things to her face.

“And you!” The photographer pointed at Aiden who had trailed in, a glass of something manly in his hand. “Your hair is a little long on top for my vision. We need to cut it.”

“Or you’ll take me as I am,” he suggested calmly, his gaze finding Frankie.

“Bah!” the photographer spat out a laugh. “Fine. Stand there and look broody. Perfect,” she said when he didn’t move a muscle. She pointed at Frankie again. “You. Go there.”

“Where’s my tequila?” Frankie whispered to the assistant.

“I’ll share,” Aiden offered, holding up his glass.

She wasn’t getting through this without alcohol. She sipped, her eyes widening at the slow, smooth burn at the back of her throat.

“Scotch?” she asked, taking another sip. A team of assistants appeared and shoved her at Aiden, arranging them for the photographer.

Aiden nodded. His hand skimmed the small of her back, fingers curling around the curve of her hip.

One of the assistants snatched the glass from her hand and Frankie glared, mutinously at the man. “I must have only had the bad kind before.”

“I’ll give you a case,” Aiden promised.

Frankie looked up at him sharply. “Don’t start with me, Aide.” One of the stagers grabbed her hand and laid it flat on his chest. “Hey!” Frankie didn’t care to be arranged like a Barbie doll. Especially not when her Ken was Aiden.

“Perfect! Don’t move!” The photographer flew around them snapping away. Flashes blinding them both. “Stop looking at me. Look at each other.”

Frankie didn’t obey the command swiftly enough and Aiden nudged her chin up to meet his gaze.

“Oh, hell yes. Inferno over here,” the photographer shouted. “Give me more.”

“I want you,” Aiden announced quietly.

Frankie tried to withdraw, but he wouldn’t let her. He held her in place with those two big, capable hands.

“You wanted honesty. You don’t want games. I’m giving you that. I want you in my bed, Franchesca. I want to see you when we go home.”

“God! The smolder on you two,” the photographer crowed.

“I want you, and we both know that’s not one sided,” he pressed.

She shivered, thinking about those probing fingers under the table at dinner the night before.

“Giving in to every craving your body has is a stupid idea,” she shot back.

“Craving. What a perfect word for it.” He brought his hand up and smoothed her hair away from her face.

“Oh, yeah. I’m having orgasms over here,” the photographer shouted. “Way better than Sunburned Fake Tits and Mr. Roboto.”

“I just told you I don’t sleep with guys who treat people like shit.”

“Then I’ve changed my ways.”

She gave him her best “shut the fuck up” look.

“I’ll be whatever it is you want me to be.”

“Aiden! How is that not playing games?”

“I’m trying to be honest with you.”

“Then try this on for size,” she suggested. “‘Frankie, I like you. A lot. And I want to fuck you, and I promise to make it worth your while.’”

“I want to do more than fuck you,” he admitted.

Frankie shook her head. “I know what you do. You play with women like toys until something newer and shinier comes along.”

“I don’t do long-term relationships,” Aiden agreed. “But I won’t play with you. I’ll be good to you.”

“While it lasts,” she shot back. “I’m not interested in being someone’s toy. And what makes you think I’d want a relationship with you anyway?”

“Then spend tonight with me.”

“Just tonight?”

“Let me have you tonight. All night. Then decide.”

“Jesus, Kilbourn. You want me to fuck you and then decide if I want to be your plaything?”

He looked pained. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

“Newsflash. You don’t buy me, asshole. You earn me.”

The camera shutter clicked incessantly. “Why don’t you grab her leg and hook it over your hip,” the photographer suggested to Aiden.

“I think we’re done here,” Frankie said, pushing out of Aiden’s arms. She needed tequila to cool the slow burn in her blood. Every damn time he put his hands on her, she couldn’t think of anything else but how good it felt.

She couldn’t trust him. Wouldn’t trust him. She had standards. She wasn’t some walking horn dog like Margeaux. And she wasn’t an idiot like Taffany. She knew exactly what she’d be getting into, and it wasn’t just Aiden’s bed.

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The party moved to the expansive stone terrace for dinner and more drinks. Frankie noted that Pru looked a little shell-shocked over Chip’s description of recent events. But she was a Stockton-Randolph now. Appearances had to be kept.