Page 11 of Bridesmaid for Hire
She gasps, because his jawline is so cut that she could slice up ham on it, make them a sandwich, and share itLady and the Trampstyle.
And he gasps because oops, her tiny bikini has caused her boob to show, and he’s never seen a more perfect, luxurious breast in his entire life. It’s game over for him. That nipple caught his eye in the dreamiest way possible.
She congratulates her breasts for snagging the guy.
He thanks the sweet heavens above for his clumsiness.
And then they live happily ever after.
Insert chef’s kiss.
I can’t believe this is happening. My very own meet-cute.
“Sorry,” he mutters again as he lifts off me.
Quite all right, dreamboat, future husband, and father of my well-mannered children.
I hold back my smile as I lift up from the lounge.
I wet my lips, wanting them to glisten under the sun.
And as I turn around to face my lover, the man who will give me passion and endless orgasms for the next ten days—and a possible future full of feral sex and happily ever after—I puff my chest, flip my hair over my shoulder, and prepare to look into the eyes of my—
“Maggie?”
Maggie?Wait, how does my lover already know my name?
Did Makani tell him?
Confused, I turn the rest of the way, only for the sun to block the features of the tall figure standing in front of me.
Broad shoulders.
Messy hair.
And a fitted shirt that clings to his large biceps and narrow waist.
I don’t know anyone with this type of body, besides Hayes, who would know my name, but he’s in San Francisco.
“Jesus Christ, it is you,” he says.
The hairs on my arms stick up straight, my nipples shrivel up into tiny dehydrated pinto beans, and my skin quivers.
It can’t be.
I lift my hand up to the sun and as I start to eclipse it, his face comes into view.Fuck.
Brody Freaking McFadden.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask as my dreams and hopes of a meet-cute come crashing down into a pile of flames and rubble.
Chin lifted, he replies, “I should be asking you the same thing.”
I gesture to my resort-appropriate outfit—well, semi-appropriate. “I’m on vacation.” I now take in his light green joggers, black T-shirt, and athletic footwear. “What are you doing?”
“Same,” he says as his eyes roam my body for a brief second, making me feel like I need to cover up.
“You don’t look like you’re on vacation.”
