Page 46 of Without a Hitch
Lochlan: Thanks, mate. You good?
Colton: Better than you’re doing, I’d say.
Lochlan: (middle finger emoji)
Lochlan: I’m at the Foundry wedding. Let’s get a pint soon.
Colton: Done.
Pocketing my phone, I almost feel worse than before I texted my friend, but I square my shoulders and enter the reception anyway. Somehow, the bridal party has already made their entrance, and as I walk toward my family, my gaze never leaves Abby. My fire.
I don’t dwell on the fact that I keep referring to her as mine. For tonight, and maybe tonight only, that’s exactly what she’ll be.
* * *
I’ve sat through a meal,four dances, and a fucking cake cutting that required no less than six helpers because it stood at least five feet tall. Now there are speeches I’ll never remember, and I’ve stared, glowered, and ogled Abby the entire time while shooting daggers from my eye sockets at the men who have touched, talked, or laughed with her.
To say I’ve hit my limit with this wedding bullshit is the understatement of the fucking century. I’m done. So, when my girl excuses herself from the grasp of lecherous man number five, I track her movements to the restrooms.
When did I start stalking women headed to the loo? Tugging on my earlobe, I sit back in my seat and attempt to fake a relaxed position.
“You like her,” Nova whispers to my right.
“Oh, he likes her all right.” The glee in my father’s voice makes a smirk lift at the corners of my lips. I don’t give into the smile entirely because I will not give him false hope. One-night stands do not mean love.
“Why are you glowering at her then, dear?” my mother asks through a smirk of her own. She is truly diabolical. Kitty Bryer-Blaine is as shrewd as I am.
“My guess is because of all the dances she’s had with other men as part of her wedding party duties.” Nova stresses each word.
Logically, I know she’s correct. But I still hate it.
“Nonsense,” I say instead. “We simply have unfinished business. That’s all.”
“Unfinished business, Banny? Like slime the banana?” My father wiggles his eyebrows with a suggestive expression.
I choke on my old-fashioned. “Jesus, Dad.”
“Check the oil,” my mother adds.
“Feed the kitty? Knocking boots? Bumping uglies?”
I glare at Nova. “The last thing I need to think about is all the euphemisms my family can come up with for having sex.”
“The no-pants dance? Two-person push-ups? Stuff the taco?” My sister is thoroughly enjoying herself now.
“Test the humidity?” my father barks out.
“Burping the worm in the mole hole?”
“Bloody hell, Mother! The mole hole? Are you serious?”
I feel my face flame, but my family is on a roll, and laughter rings out loud, proud, and happy. They’re nothing if not thorough.
I precisely fold my napkin, taking a moment to count to ten before I storm off like a… what is it Colton calls it? Ah, yes, a juiced-up nut monkey. Lovely. Now I’m quoting my most immature friend.
Perhaps I am having a midlife crisis? Yes! Can thirty-two be considered midlife?
I’ve had enough of my own shit. My thoughts are rampant and unnerving, and no matter what I do, I cannot get them under control.
