The Worst Best Man(78)

Frankie slid into the booth first, and Aiden followed her, his hand clamping on her thigh under the table. She picked up the menu and pretended to peruse it, ignoring the expectant weight of Pru’s stare.

“How are the clams here?” she asked innocently.

“Uh, hi. How was your limo sex?”

Frankie looked up at Pru who was resting her chin in her hands and grinning smugly.

“It was nice. Right, Aiden?” Frankie said haughtily, looking at him. His hair was mussed, but it could pass for purposeful styling. His tie was crooked. And the rest of him was, of course, flawless. She, on the other hand, looked as though someone had run a vacuum cleaner over her and then bit her in a few key places.

“Very nice. Highly recommended,” he said, reaching for his water goblet and downing half of it.

He squeezed her thigh and moved his hand a millimeter higher on her thigh.

Teasing him, she hooked her shoe over his shin, opening her knees.

No one else would know just by looking at him, but he was already displaying his turn on tells. There was the flush at the neck, the flaring of his nostrils. She wished she could get a look at his crotch, betting money he was sporting wood again. The man was a freaking marvel. His orgasms probably had orgasms.

“So…” Pru began pointedly. “How’s life?”

They dined on fabulous food, drank astronomically expensive wine and, in general, had a lovely time. Frankie eventually forgot about the curious stares and just enjoyed watching Aiden relax. His reserved fa?ade slipped around Chip. And he laughed more, smiled more, those sexy-as-hell crinkles showing at the corners of his eyes. Even while deep in conversation with his friend, Aiden still maintained a physical connection with her. Toying with her hair, stroking her shoulder with his thumb, or coaxing his fingers higher on her thigh.

Pru filled them in on their honeymoon. When residents of the Upper West Side marry in Barbados, they can’t very well vacation there, too. Pru and Chip had spent another ten days in the Maldives. Frankie wasn’t exactly sure geography-wise where the Maldives existed, but the pictures on Pru’s phone were stunning.

It felt… normal. Blissfully so.

Well, as normal as a $73 pasta entrée could feel. A Friday night with friends. For the first time, Frankie felt like they were a real couple. She wasn’t the poor girl from Brooklyn. He wasn’t the CEO and newly appointed family head.

He was very simply hers. Aiden, the man who drew every woman’s gaze and snagged the check from Chip claiming the meal was a welcome home gift, belonged to her.

Frankie felt a rush of teenage girl giddiness sweep through her. Like she’d just spotted Pre-Jessica Simpson John Mayer across the restaurant.

“Girl bathroom break,” Pru announced pushing Chip out of the booth so she could escape. “Let’s go, Frankie. Give the boys a chance to miss us.”

Pru all but hauled Frankie into the bathroom and then mauled her in a fierce hug.

“Okay. What the hell is this?” Frankie asked, awkwardly patting her friend on the back.

“You love him!” Pru squealed. “I’ve been waiting for the day when you look at a man the way you sat there and looked at Aiden.”

“I don’t love him,” Frankie argued.

“You have this glow,” Pru said, twirling around and checking her makeup in the mirror.

“It’s a post-orgasm glow. He dragged me into his limo for sex, Pru. We’re not decorating summer homes and naming babies.”

“And the way he looks at you? I swear to God it singed my eyebrows off. He wants to eat you alive.”

“Stop. You’re just all clouded with newlywed bliss, and you want everyone else to be in love right along with you.”

“We should have babies together,” Pru decided, reapplying her lipstick. “We could share a nanny.”

“I love you, Pruitt, but you’re fucking insane.”

Pru grinned at her in the mirror. “I like seeing you happy. That’s all. I promise. I’m mostly just teasing.”

“You’re such an ass,” Frankie laughed.

“I may be an ass, but you sure photograph well,” Pru said, handing over her phone.

“Are you kidding me?” Frankie scrolled through the post. It was a gossip blog with a series of pictures of Frankie and Aiden pawing each other on the sidewalk. “Oh my God, my mother is going to see these!”

“Your mother and anyone who’s anyone in the city,” Pru said, unsympathetically gleeful.

“This just happened! How is this even a story with…” she scrolled up again, “three updates since it was posted?”

Pru rolled her eyes. “Uh, don’t you teach social media workshops?”

“To business people about businesses!” Frankie waved her arms at her friend. “Not some vapid readership that has an opinion on… my food order? What the hell is wrong with these people?”

“You’re an exotic unknown on the arm of everyone’s favorite bachelor. What did you expect?” Pru asked.

Pru’s phone vibrated in Frankie’s hand, and a text message popped up.

“How is that ethno-mutt dating Aiden Kilbourn?” Frankie read out loud.

“What?” Pru shrieked. “Is that in the comments?”

Frankie held up the phone. “Uh, no. That’s your best pal Margeaux texting you.”