Two Wedding Crashers Page 4

  Closing the gate behind me, I nod at the bartender as I make my way through the pool area only to see a woman sitting at the end of the bar by herself, casually stirring a drink, legs crossed, long ebony, wavy hair lusciously falling over her shoulder.

  I know that hair.

  I know those slight shoulders, the smooth, freshly showered skin.

  Pausing in my path to my room, I also recognize those perfects tits, small but also full. Before I can stop myself, I’m walking toward her, a bit of pep in my step and a need to know more about her.

  “Can I get you anything?” the bartender asks as I walk up.

  “Water is great.” My answer pulls the woman’s attention as I take the seat next to her. Turning in her direction, I hold out my hand. “I don’t think we formally met. I’m Beck.”

  She eyes my hand and then looks me up and down, a knowing glint in her eyes. Sighing, she mutters, “Didn’t see my boobs, my ass.” She shakes her head and then takes my hand. “Rylee, nice to meet you.” She takes a sip of her drink and stares at the water the bartender sets in front of me. “Not much of a drinker?”

  “Not really.”

  “Me neither.” She downs the rest of her drink and cringes. “But after today, I’m pretty sure I should be allotted an entire pint of vodka.”

  “Rough day, huh?”

  “You could say that.” She spins the ice cubes in her drink with her straw.

  “I was there, you know? I saw the hell you lived through,” I say, as if it was Doom’s Day. “I could almost have predicted what happened to you, and if I could have stopped it, I would have. But that baby was too fast on the trigger, and I couldn’t block the spewing of orange.”

  Perking up, she looks me square in the eyes. “You were there?”

  I nod. “I saw it all happen. Witness number one, right here.” I point to myself. “There was nothing you could have done. That baby hosed you. You took one for the first-class team, burped the hell out of that baby.”

  “You were there.” She presses her hand against my forearm. “You were witness to the bullets of mango and peaches pelted at me.”

  “I can still see it in my mind in slow motion.” I shake my head. “Damn shame. That sweatshirt will be stained for years to come.”

  She agrees, playing with my humor. “It was a good sweatshirt, so warm, so thready.”

  I pound the bar and then throw a fist up to the sky. “Damn you, puke, damn you.” With disappointment heavy in my voice, I add, “Another innocent article of clothing bites the dust. When will it end?”

  “It’s a never-ending crime wave.” Her hand squeezes my arm.

  “Such a fucking shame.” I sigh and lift my water to Rylee. “To your sweatshirt, may it be known as endlessly comfortable and practical.”

  “To my sweatshirt.” We clink glasses and I take a sip of my water while she plops an ice cube in her mouth. Sighing, she says, “I think I should have a burial for it.”

  I ponder that idea for a second and then suggest, “An at-sea burial.”

  As if she was thinking the same thing, she replies, “I can’t imagine saying goodbye any other way.”

  I drink the rest of my water, guzzling it down with one tip. I set the glass on the bar in front of me and say, “Okay, let’s do this.”

  Caught off guard, Rylee sits up. “You’re serious? You want to bury my sweatshirt?”

  “You tell me. Do you really think you can OxiClean that stain? That puke was neon. But if you have confidence in your stain-removing skills, by all means, soak the shit out of that thing and pray to the heavens you can make it less neon orange and breathe life back into those well-deserving threads.”

  She nibbles on her bottom lip and says, “Would you judge me if I admitted that my domestic skills are less than stellar?”

  I lean forward myself. “Would you judge me if I said I still turn my clothes pink on occasion?”

  Giggling, she shakes her head. “No, I wouldn’t judge you in the slightest.”

  “Good.” I clap my hands together. “So are we doing this? An at-sea burial?”

  “I think we are.” She tosses a few bills on the bar and hops down from her stool. I do the same and realize for the first time how much taller I am. Taking me in, she says suspiciously, “You’re not some psycho killer who’s going to toss me in the ocean with my sweatshirt, are you?”

  Playing around, I add my own question. “Are you some murdering mistress trying to lure me in with your sweatshirt mishap only to shank me in the back with a bottle opener you jimmied into a knife?”

  She narrows her eyes. “That too specific. It’s like you’ve banked that way to off someone in your mind for far too long.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You didn’t answer mine,” she counters, head tilted up.

  I very well think I might have met my match. Saucy, I like it.

  “If I was a psycho killer, don’t you think I would have attacked you while you were naked, or at least waited outside your door once you left to capture you and bring you to my creepy-as-fuck lady lair?”

  “That’s not reassuring at all.” Her hands are on her hips now.

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “I’m not a psycho killer.”

  “Prove it.”

  Okay, like that’s easy. How does one prove they’re not a psycho killer?

  Searching through ideas, I finally pull my phone out and dial Chris, who answers after the first ring. I put the phone on speaker so Rylee can hear the entire conversation.

  “Woooooo, dude you’re missing out. We’re getting all the pies. Fucking pies for days.”

  Rylee raises an eyebrow at me. “Chris—”

  “Coconut Key lime pie in my mouth, right in my mother fucking mouth. I’m owning this bitch.”

  “Chris—”

  “Beckkkkkk, you’re missing out,” Justine wails into the phone. “Don’t worry. Even though it’s parents’ night out, we’ll still bring you a piece, because we’re parents after all and if anything, parents are considerate fucks.”

  “The most considerate fucks ever,” Chris adds.

  Rylee covers her mouth. She’s barely containing her laughter, and I’m digging her sense of humor.

  They’re high, on sugar. Wouldn’t be the first time. This is what they do when they’re free of their kids. They eat as much sugar as they can. They won’t let their kids have any, which only deprives them. So whenever they’re childless, they binge and they binge hard.

  They’ll regret it in the morning. As always.

  “I’m happy for you guys, sugar it up. Just real quick, can you tell this girl I met that I’m not a psycho killer?”

  “You met a girl?” Justine excitingly squeals.

  “Dude, is she hot?” Chris asks, causing Rylee to blush.

  Keeping my eyes trained on her, I say, “Super fucking hot, and she’s on speaker phone so if you can just give her the thumbs up that I’m a good guy, that would be awesome.”

  “Look him up,” Justine calls out. “Beck Wilder, that’s all you have to type.” I roll my eyes. Oh great.

  “Yeah, and ignore his haircut. It’s recent, so don’t let the buzz cut steer you wrong. He has luscious locks when he grows them out.”

  “So luscious,” Justine chimes in. “I don’t know you, lady, but I’m going to tell you right now, you’d be stupid not to get to know this man. Trust me.” And with that, they hang up, making my phone turn black.

  In their world, that’s like dropping the mic. Ridiculous.

  “Well, I guess I need to look you up.” From the way she’s nibbling on the side of her lip, she’s curious.

  I lean against a pillar next to the bar and cross my arms over my chest. “I’ll wait.”

  Giving me a suspicious look, she pulls her phone from a pocket in her dress and types across the screen. I give her a few minutes, let her read until she pockets her phone and mimics my stance. “You’re into philanthropy, huh?”

  “Ca
n’t get enough of helping others, especially families in need.”

  “I can see that. You raised over fifteen thousand dollars for families who needed help during Christmas.”

  “It’s a passion of mine.” I shrug my success off, even though I’m damn proud of it. Anything to help, anything to ease the ache in my chest that I carry daily.

  “That’s a sexy passion,” she admits without stumbling over her words. She’s confident, I like that.

  “What about you? You clearly can tell I’m not a psycho killer, despite the recent haircut.”

  “Yeah, about that. What made you buzz it all off?”

  I rub my head, feeling the short strands stumble over my fingers. “Wanted a change, was going to warm weather, so I buzzed it.”

  Her eyes fall over my haircut, observing, taking it in. “I like it. You have a nice-shaped head.”

  Chuckling, I say, “Can’t hear that compliment enough. Now stop avoiding the question; are you going to shank me or what?”

  “I’m not going to shank you.”

  “Yeah”—I nod at her—“prove it.”

  Rolling her eyes, a smile twitching at her lips, she pulls out her phone and puts it on speakerphone, letting it ring out loud. Mimicking the phone-a-friend, I like it.

  “What?” A groggy female voice answers.

  Slightly cringing, Rylee says, “Victoria, uh hey, sorry to bother you, but can you please tell a guy I met that I’m not going to shank him.”

  Grumbling, the girl who Rylee spoke to on the airplane fumbles with the phone and then says, “Dear sir, stay as far away from the wild beast that stands before you. She will shank you if you look at her wrong, and she’s been known to annoy friends when they’re trying to sleep. She might be pretty, but she’s a gold digger, a certified clinger, and shows no concern in stealing your wallet and leaving you high and dry. My advice to you is run and run fast.” And then she hangs up the phone.

  Before a furious Rylee can respond, I throw my head back and laugh, a good hearty laugh, the kind of laugh I haven’t laughed in a while.

  “Well, that didn’t go as planned.”

  “Yeah, your friend didn’t paint you in the prettiest of lights. I’m actually a little more nervous being around you. A certified clinger? I’m not sure I’m ready to have a live-in girlfriend, someone who apparently likes to steal wallets and annoy friends while they’re sleeping. That’s some inconsiderate shit right there.” Thankfully the humor in my voice makes Rylee smile.

  So goddamn pretty.

  “Victoria is super cranky. Let me try a different friend. Hold please.” She holds up her finger and types away on her phone. It rings twice.

  “Thank God, I was just about to call you. What is that sex position you wrote about in your last book, the one where the guy is scissoring his legs—”

  Rylee hangs up, her face bright red as she sticks her phone back in the pocket of her dress. “Uh . . . wrong number.”

  “No way.” I reach into her pocket and pull out her phone. Thankfully the lock screen isn’t up yet as I pull up her call history. The last number reads Zoey Best Friend Forever. Turning the phone toward her, I say, “Doubtful that was a wrong number.” I hand her back her phone. “Are you an author?”

  Relenting with a sigh, she says, “I am, and if you ask if I write porn I’m going to kick you square in the balls. Like toenail to taint.”

  Fuck, she’s funny.

  “Turn down the sauce there, lady. I wasn’t about to ask you about porn. Jeeze.” I look around and then lean in. “So . . . do you write porn?”

  Her head falls back and she rolls her eyes, hard. “No! I write romance. There is a huge difference. Yes, I write sex scenes as my friend Zoey so beautifully revealed, but if you take the sex out of my books, there is still a funny, romantic, and witty story to be read.”

  “There are storylines in porn.”

  She points her finger at me. “No, there is not. Boss banging his secretary until she puts more toner in the copier is not a storyline.”

  I laugh. “Could be.”

  “It’s not.” She folds her arms and looks away.

  “Okay, so tell me your author name. You got to look me up, so I want to look you up now.”

  She eyes me suspiciously. I’m guessing she’s really giving thought to whether or not she should show all her cards with me. Luckily, I win out because she says, “My author name is my real name, Rylee Ryan.”

  I type her name into the search engine on my phone. The first thing to come up on my results is her website. I click on the link and instantly see a picture of her, sitting cross-legged on a bright purple couch, books on either side of her, and a giant smile on her face. I turn the phone toward her. “Are all of those books yours?”

  She nods, a blush staining her cheeks. “I’m a fast writer.”

  “I can see that. Damn.” I click on the link about her books and take in all the shirtless men on the covers. “I’m going to take a wild guess and assume you like abs.”

  “Love them and pecs. Seriously, there is nothing more sexy than a man with strong, thick pecs.” She cups her hands as if she has a pair of those “strong, thick pecs” in her palms.

  I raise an eyebrow at her. “Is that right?” She licks her lips and nods, making me chuckle. I check the rest of her website out and then pocket my phone. “Everything checks out to be normal, so if you try to shank me, I might go Misery on you and Kathy Bates your little ass.”

  “I think I can take you.”

  “You can try, Saucy, you can very well try.”

  Chapter Five

  RYLEE

  I’m on a pier, at night, the ocean rippling beneath me, standing next to a sexy man. Strike that. An extremely sexy man I know practically nothing about, and we’re saying goodbye to a sweatshirt encrusted in regurgitated mangoes and peaches. When I signed up for this little getaway, I never envisioned my first day going this way.

  “She was good while she lasted, wasn’t she?” Beck asks, looking out into the ocean where my sweatshirt ashes now rest.

  “She provided so much warmth.”

  Scooting closer to me, Beck’s woodsy cologne mixes with the ocean breeze and sends a thrill of chills up my spine. He wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me in close. “Such a beautiful ceremony. You did her well.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” I joke, feeling a little awkward now that we’ve bid my sweatshirt adieu.

  He sighs and turns toward a small part of the resort next to the water where they brought in sand, lawn chairs, and hammocks for a very resort-like ambiance. “Care to join me in the hammock?”

  “Sounds a little naughty.”

  He squeezes me for a second before releasing his grip on my shoulder. “I promise to keep my hands to myself.” Why do I think I might regret that?

  He guides me down the tanning pier to the sandpit, his hand on my lower back, his strong presence making me feel comforted, like I’m in good hands.

  Who is this guy and where did he come from? And why is he single?

  It’s like I plucked a hero from one of my books and set him in this picturesque setting.

  He’s everything I would write about when it comes to one of my male characters . . . besides the buzzed hair. I’ve always been partial to a styled haircut on a man, so the buzz is different. Hot in a way. Pushing past his hair, he has it all: the penetrating eyes, the witty banter, the easygoing, addictive personality, and he’s all muscles, at least from what I can tell. Plus he has this rebel quality to him, dark and sultry in a way that has me curious to find out his story.

  “I can’t remember the last time I was in a hammock,” Beck says, holding it still so I can climb in.

  I hop in, not being the slightest bit modest because frankly, what’s the point? Beck has already seen it all at this point, no matter how much he wants to deny it. Although, at least I put panties on before I went to dinner.

  “I had one in my backyard growing up. I spent
hours reading in it.”

  Beck joins me, a little clumsily which makes me giggle. Once he rights himself, he lets out a pent-up breath and his shoulders visibly relax next to me. “That hammock mounting could have gone wrong so fast. I mean, I could have flipped you right out of this damn thing and sent you straight into the sand beneath us.”

  “I’m glad you were able to mount somewhat gracefully”—I pause and suggestively wiggle my eyebrows—“because eating sand doesn’t sound quite appetizing right now.”

  He grins. “Does it ever?”

  “Maybe.” I smirk and then look at the bright stars above us. “What brings you to Key West, Beck?”

  I feel like that’s a question I should have asked a while ago but with the whole naked hotel room exposure—which I have yet to tell my friends about—and the sweatshirt burial, we haven’t had a real chance to get to know each other. Not that I’m complaining all too much. What I know about Beck so far is that he’s a gentleman and likes to have a good time, even if that means torching a sweatshirt and sending it on it’s way.

  There aren’t many people I know who would stand there, hand over heart, talking about the thread count of a sweatshirt while fake crying.

  The corner of my lips pull up just from the image of Beck wiping “tears” from his eyes with the back of his index finger.

  “Do you want the truth, or do you want a fabricated lie that will cause you to fall madly in love with me?”

  Chuckling, I answer, “Both.”

  “Fair enough.” Beck pushes his foot against the sand below us, sending the hammock into a relaxing swing. “Want the truth or the lie first?”

  “Hmm, how about I guess which is which.”

  “Ah, things are about to get exciting.” He chuckles and rubs his hands together. “Okay, reason number one.” He clears his throat. “I’m attending a wedding this coming weekend, a wedding I wasn’t invited to, but my friend begged me to attend because he wanted to bone his wife without children around. It doesn’t make sense, but hey, I’m a good friend so here I am.”

  Errr, that’s eerily familiar. I swallow a little harder than expected. There is no way he’s crashing a wedding like me. That’s only something a desperate author does in order to find signs of love again. “Okay, reason number two.”