Page 39 of Beautiful Small Things

As she approaches, I move the curtain back to reveal myself and my bowtie situation.

“Why isn’t your shirt buttoned?” James asks, staring at my chest and abs.

“I couldn’t get it,” I shrug. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s playing dumb.

“Ugh, you’re so annoying,” she seethes as she steps into the cramped space and pulls the curtain closed. Reaching up, she runs her hands around my neck to straighten the bowtie before flattening it along my collarbone. Sparks trail my skin behind her touch, and she bites her bottom lip in response.

“Can you really not do this?” she asks, her voice heavy from our proximity.

“Maybe I can,” I tell her. “Maybe I just wanted to get you alone here.” I hear a sharp intake of breath as I grab her shoulders and flip her around so her back is to the mirror. She’s staring at my chest when I grab her hand and run it across my pecs and down my abs. “Touch me,” I whisper in her ear. “I know you want to.”

She allows her hand to move over my abs while she stares at me with glassy eyes and heavy lids.

“OK, Baby James,” I tell her, flipping her back around and opening the curtain. “That’s all you get. Out you go.”

“I hate you,” she says with narrow eyes and a low growl, but the goosebumps on her skin and the flush in her cheeks betray her words.

“No, you don’t,” I say casually. “You just wish you did.”

Chapter sixteen

Booze and Bridal Showers

James -Age 20

The nerve of that man. Imagine thinking that you’re so irresistible that you can just make someone drop everything they are doing for a chance to be near you. Only that handsome bastard is that irresistible, and he knows it. It’s up to me to put him firmly in his place and keep his feet on the ground.

This thing with us is going to continue to build until someone puts an end to it. Technically, I started this, so it should be me. I almost lost it in that dressing room. Being so close to him again, touching his skin, smelling his cologne, nearly had me in a puddle on the floor. And he knows it. But I know he wants me, too. I just have to figure out how to make him admit it, so I can squash him like a bug.

I haven’t seen him since that day in the shop, but he’s been uncharacteristically well-behaved. Callan told my sister that he didn’t even try to hook up with anyone during the bachelor party weekend. That may have nothing to do with me, but I like to think it’s because he’s also enjoying our little game.

Last week, I sent a picture of me in my lacy strapless bra and thong and asked if he thought I should wear it under my dress for the wedding. He responded by sending me a picture of himself, his own boxer briefs shoved deep into his butt crack to imitate a thong, asking the same question. Lesson learned.

I’m drumming my nails on the French linen tablecloth at my sister’s bridal shower and contemplating this crazy situation with Marcus when it dawns on me that I’ve been ignoring the party. This is my sister’s wedding shower, and as her maiden of honor, I need to get my ass in gear.

I look around the great room at the country club where my mom and Callan’s mom are throwing her the most beautiful bridal shower. The open and spacious room has beautiful vaulted ceilings and large windows overlooking the pristine golf course below. Flowers and balloons decorate the large space. I do love a good balloon arch.

Since they are having a June wedding, Colby chose a summery pastel color palette. The table clothes are white, accented with lavender gauze cheesecloth napkins. Blush-colored peonies, dusty pink tulips, and gorgeous white Calla lilies make up the grand centerpieces. It looks like a dream.

The food tables are enormous and extravagant, offering large charcuterie boards, various muffins, scones, fancy donuts, and Belgian chocolates. One full table is a mimosa bar with different types of juice and champagne. I head straight to that table.

“Hey, Little Mermaid,” comes Colby’s voice, “Happy Shower!” It’s so cute to me that she still calls me that after all these years. I love the fact that she gave me my middle name, Ariel, the day I was born and has forever used the loving moniker.

“Hi, Colbs,” I reply, embracing her in a hug. “This is so beautiful,” I say, waving my mimosa-embracing hand. “It’s just gorgeous.”

“It really is,” she smiles, narrowing her eyes at my champagne glass. “Don’t overdo it on those mimosas,” she scolds.

“It’s a celebratory drink at my sister’s shower. Geez. Calm down, Mom.” She always hates it when I refer to her as “Mom,” and it has the intended effect of shutting her right up. Instead, she looks around the room with her eyes glistening as if she’s trying to memorize every moment.

“Are you OK?” I ask, my sister’s intuition kicking in.

She cocks her head to the side and looks at me. “Why do you ask?”

“Just a hunch,” I say.

“It’s nothing,” she replies, sipping her cherry Mimosa. “I am just so nervous to marry Callan.”

“See, I don’t get that,” I admit. “You two have been together forever. Why would you be nervous?”