The Mistletoe Wedding

by Izabella Brooks

  Except her version is skewed. She set the blame squarely on me and lit out of San Diego to North Carolina while the rest of us stayed close to home. Jake never tells me anything, but I’ve become pretty good at digging dirt, so I know she graduated with a journalism degree also and that she now works for a small radio station as the early morning host.

  I bet you anything she calls herself a DJ in her spare time.

  My brain tells me to shut her down and shut her up before she even opens that pretty mouth of hers and ruins this wedding. My cock is telling me something else entirely. I’m smart, though. I only listen to my dick half the time.

  Shit moves along and pretty soon we’re all hustled to the back of the church to actually practice walking up the aisle. Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t tell Jake to kiss his own ass and tell him to pick Trell or Bryn for the job. Unfortunately, I never did.

  The women are pairing up with the dudes, which is laughable, because it’s just two of them and three of us. Arla is an only child so she doesn’t have any obligatory sisters and Jake only has a brother, who actually isn’t in the wedding party because he’s a bit of a black sheep and flat out refused—smart dude—so there’s an uneven number.

  Cozzie is flanked by Bryn, who smacks her ass, and Trell, who doesn’t smack Cozzie’s ass because he’s way smarter than that. She’s like a little sister to him. To me too. I would say Breona fits in that category as well, but hell, she’s always been more than that to me. Okay, she never was, but I wished she was.

  I’m thrust up against my worst nightmare come to life. She bristles when I reach out and loop my arm through hers.

  “The old dude’s insisting,” I hiss near her ear when she practically gnashes her teeth at me.

  Her eyes flash. “That’s rude.” She indicates the priest. “Have some respect.”

  “Always little Miss Priss,” I whisper shout, like a two-year-old, into the shell of her ear. Big mistake. Her curls brush my cheek and I get a heady waft of the same apple and vanilla scent, but this time there isn’t anything floral wrapped up in it. Honey. That’s what the lingering notes remind me of.

  I rip my face away to find her scowling at me. Her lips are flattened out into a thin line, her nostrils flare, her eyes narrow. In short, she looks royally pissed. She’s always hotter when she looks that way. I almost tell her, but decide I want to keep my balls for another day, thank you very much.

  “Let’s just try to get through this without killing each other,” Breona whisper-shouts back.

  Cozzie, Bryn, and Trell all start trekking up the aisle to organ music drifting in through the sanctuary, while the rest of us stand just outside.

  I glance over my shoulder. Jake flashes me a thumbs-up. Arla glances at Breona nervously, like she’s worried she’s going to explode and take the whole church down with her.

  I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that no one told her I’d be the best man. Or the one escorting her up the aisle. Basically, that I’d be her plus one for a whole day and night.

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  “Yeah?” she snarls under her breath. The threesome has made their way to the front and are receiving instructions about which direction to turn and how fast to do it. “Was it a good plan to steal my essay and use it as your own? To take the scholarship that was supposed to be mine? Your family was rich. You had a free ride anyway. You just ensured that I didn’t.”

  I don’t bother telling her that she’s wrong. That I never took anything. That I tried to help her and she ignored my advice. That she’s wrong about my free ride. Explaining that shit would be opening up a big old can of personal festering worms, and no thank you. Not today. Not fucking ever.

  I paste on an annoying smile instead, so she can’t see how her words cut at me in the most vulnerable spot I have. She plasters a mask on her face too, a big, fake, radiant, happy smile. She cranks her head around as the pastor waves us in.

  “Think you can manage not to crush my toes, you big oaf? Or did the last decade teach you to be more coordinated?” Her words are so soft that no one else hears them. All before we even reach the open door.

  I tighten my arm in the crook of hers and she shudders violently. All hatred and revulsion, I’m sure.

  “Think you can remember this is your best friend’s day and not ruin it for her and everyone else? Think you can be a good maid of honor and realize that Arla is going through hell trying to please Barbara Dragonbreath over there?”

  Another shudder rips through Breona, one that I feel straight in my groin. Once, I thought we could be something. There was one night. The moon was full and we were laying on a blanket in her backyard staring up at it. I just about rolled over and kissed her. I felt like she was leaning in. It wasn’t cold. She wasn’t trying to soak up my heat. I felt like maybe she wanted me to. Then she rolled away and got up and told me she had to pee and she’d be right back and the moment was shot to shit.

  I never tried again. I let her think she was my best friend and that I never had any wet-dreamy feelings about her. I let her friend zone me to death. I friend zoned her back. Two months later, I read over the portfolio she was submitting for the journalism scholarship in San Diego. She didn’t know I was applying. I never told her that I was her competition. The rest of the world never knew how much it cost me.

  “You’re right.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I whip my head around to face Breona. She’s giving me a sidelong look that is almost contrite.

  “You’re right about Dragonbreath. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll behave if you will.”

  I nod slowly, letting her think I’m in full agreement. We walk up to the end of the aisle and break away without incident, though the pastor yells at me for walking too fast. Un-fucking-believable.

  Jake strolls down next, Dragonbreath and his dad, Patrick, who is about as p-whipped as it gets, on either side. Then comes Arla, with her parents flanking her. Her mom is just as pretty and blonde as her daughter. Her dad looks like a book nerd. He works in finance, in an office. I never understood how he got someone as hot as Arla’s mom, but then again, maybe being smart is worth more than being ultra-muscled and braindead.

  As the pastor drones on about this and that and I check out, Breona glances my way. I smile at her and she actually gives me a forced one back.

  She thinks we have a truce. She has no idea what’s about to hit her.

  I made the mistake of letting her go once. I’m not about to make it again. She’s about to get the rudest of rude awakenings, because I know for a fact, compliments of Arla, that she’s single and ready to fucking mingle. Just so happens, so am I.

  Chapter 3

  Breona

  The rehearsal dinner should have been good. Jake’s parents are footing the bill at a five-star restaurant that overlooks a gorgeous strip of beach, and if there’s one thing Malibu is known for, it’s the beaches.

  As it is, I lost my appetite the second I caught sight of Karsyn Effing Diswell. I got more than a sight of him. I got a nose full of his spicy, dark, deep, manly scent. He smells different than he did in high school. Back then, he smelled okay. Like strong deodorant and hormones and boy. He smells like he looks now—all grown up.

  I wish he’d turned into a troll. That the small amount of awkwardness that had been there in high school hadn’t bloomed into a walking, talking female magnet. He’s stacked. Probably about six four, which is new. He shot up a couple inches after high school, even though that’s pretty rare. He’s filled out in the past decade. Grown into his legs and shoulders and now he looks like he’s been carved from the most exotic bronzed clay, sculpted by the most masterful hand.

  His jawline is even different. Harder. Firmer. Just like the rest of his beautiful features. The only thing that is still the same are his lips.

  A perfect shade of pink that is almost sinful on a man. Plush. The bottom just a little fuller than the top. They’re just as soft looking as they were ten years ago and before that.
I can’t tell you how many times I thought about kissing them, so I have every single detail stored away in my useless memory bank that I really wish I could just wipe clean.

  Unfortunately, I’m seated right next to Karsyn. Fortunately, Cozzie flanks my left. Not so fortunately, Bryn, her fiancé of forever, their love story as epic as Arla and Jake’s, flanks her other side and she’s spent most of the meal talking to him.

  My stomach alternates between tightening and spinning and I really think it’s time to stop staring at the steak I don’t want to eat and get a breath of fresh air. By fresh air, I actually mean the bathroom, since I can’t just bail on Arla.

  Dragonbreath has been going over every single detail of tomorrow all freaking meal and Arla keeps sending us all please save me looks that we can’t do anything about.

  “I’m just going to the washroom,” I whisper to Cozzie before I push out my chair. I nod to the rest of the table and make a fast getaway in the direction of the washrooms.

  They’re right at the back of the snazzy, expensive place. The furniture is probably a hundred years old. It’s big and blocky and classically expensive. There is a real dude playing soft piano music in the background and all the servers look like penguins in their sharp black-and-white attire.

  The bathroom is exactly what I expected. Marble floors. Big heavy wood doors on every stall. Ornate sinks, gold everywhere, two antique chairs in the corners, a dish of perfume and soaps on the counter.

  Right. Because that’s what every single woman needs in a time of crisis in the bathroom. Try mints, tissues, or a tampon. God, maybe even a condom. Not so classy, but far more accurate.

  Blood rushes to my face and just about every other part of me at that last thought and I rush into one of the stalls. I sit down hard on the closed toilet, because of course they have seats and of course they’re made of wood, and breathe hard.

  Deep, huge gulps of washroom scented air. Fortunately, the air smells like baby powder. Maybe that’s unfortunate, because my stomach heaves and I nearly turn around, afraid that I’m actually going to be sick. I close my eyes to stave off that feeling.

  All I can hear is Karsyn’s laugh. All I can see is his cobalt eyes. All I can hear is myself promising to be best friends with him forever. All our memories from high school on, since we met in ninth grade, run on replay.

  He wasn’t an ugly duckling in high school. Far from it. He had enough potential that girls flocked to him even then. He was sensitive. He didn’t play football, even though he was built well enough for it. He actually played basketball, but he didn’t take it very seriously, and he ran track, which he did take far more serious. He came from money. He had a nice car, nice clothes, nice everything, but he wasn’t a dick about it. He was actually one of those uber-rare nice guys.

  I think I might have wanted him from the second I laid eyes on him in Mr. Hill’s ninth grade biology class. I was lucky enough to be paired up with him for the semester. We dissected frogs together and studied together. Soon, we started doing everything together.

  Once, I was a stupid, young, naïve, trusting girl who thought Karsyn would wake up one day and realize that I was head over heels in love with him. Or at least in infatuation. Because real love doesn’t die, and I know for a fact that mine died hard the second I found out he’d stolen everything from me, namely my essay and my future.

  I give my head a shake. I can’t keep rehashing it all. Arla’s mother-in-law is going to think I’ve been struck with a case of the stomach flu and send me to the hospital if I stay in here any longer. I need to get my shit together, slam up my walls, paste on the smile of the century, and get the hell through this.

  I’m going to visit mom and dad after this is over. At least I have that to look forward to. Arla and Jake. Cozzie and Bryn. Even Trell. I can look forward to all of them.

  I stand up, push open the stall door, and head straight to the sink, where I splash a heck of a lot of cool water all over my burning face. I dry it off with the folded up hand towel from a gold hued basket, throw it into the pile of dirty ones, and head out of the posh washroom.

  As soon as I push the heavy wood door open, I spot him. Leaning up against the dark cherry wainscoting and green floral wallpaper a few feet away. He looks like he’s holding up the wall, not the other way around. Broad everywhere. Muscular, bronzed arms bulging out of his black t-shirt, abs on full display under said cotton. His jeans hang sinfully low on his hips.

  It’s the look on his face, though, more than anything, that stops me in my tracks.

  He straightens slowly, unfolding in slow motion. Every single muscle bunches and moves and shifts on full display. His jawline is so sharp it could cut the steak I didn’t touch back on the table. His lips are pursed in a sexy, knowing smirk and his cobalt ice eyes lock on mine.

  I feel paralyzed, like those eyes have special stun gun magical powers. I freeze, hoping like hell my mask of indifference is firmly in place. My insides roil and twist into a sick series of knots while my heart skitters up into my throat. I want to brush past him. Call him an asshole. Tell him the men’s room is the perfect place for a turd like him. I don’t. Because I can’t. I can’t get a single word out. I can’t force my feet to move.

  Karsyn doesn’t have the same problem. His body works just fine, and all of a sudden, he obliterates the distance and he’s standing right in front of me. Towering over me. Taking up the whole restaurant. There are tons of people in the place, but it feels like it’s just him. And Just me. I try and force my lips to move. To tell him that he’s the exact opposite of a savior and he needs to get the heck out of my way before I do something stupid like knee him in the nuts and claim self-defense.

  My lips won’t work. My tongue won’t work. My mouth won’t work.

  He doesn’t have the same problem. Karsyn Diswell, my ex-best friend, my ex-crush, my ex-everything, bends his gorgeous dark-haired head where not a single hair is out of place. It’s cut short and obviously has some hair product in it, because it’s slicked back in way that should be greasy and cheesy, but on him looks timeless and sexual. Yes. His hair is sexual. And I hate him for it.

  His breath fogs out hot against my chin, his lips an inch from mine.

  “I should have done this a long time ago, Bree. Maybe if I had, you never would have gone off. Maybe if I had, you would have believed me.”

  Yes, his lips work just fine. Not just for words. No. Those lips that I dreamed of on mine for the better part of four years, and haven’t managed to erase from my memory banks, crash over mine. Hungry. Wolfish. Dark. Devouring.

  I might hate him, but I can do nothing to stop him.

  Chapter 4

  Karsyn

  I always knew Breona would taste like heaven. Sweet. Lush. Sensual. Deep and rich, like an exotic dessert. I wasn’t prepared for the havoc that broke out inside me the second our lips touched. I kiss her deeply. Swiping my tongue over the seam of her lips. Her mouth stay shut, but she lets out a tiny whimper, which I devour straight to the bottom of my soul.

  Her lips, her skin, her scent, her sounds, her taste are everything I thought they would be, and a thousand times more. I can feel my knees turning to jelly, ready to buckle. I snake my arms around her waist, ostensibly to pull her closer and deepen the kiss, but really to hold her up. She’s trembling. Shaking. Vibrating in my hands.

  I lick the seam of her lush, full, delicious dessert worthy lips again and just as they open and I’m about to sweep my tongue in and lose myself in the truest paradise I’ve ever known, she bites down hard on my bottom lip and plants her small palms against my chest and shoves me back hard enough that it actually knocks me off balance and I release her.

  I whip a shaking hand up to my pulsing lip. Dangerous, Breona. I’d like to see you try that again. If we weren’t in a public place…

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demands, clearly no longer at a loss for words.

  Nope, she’s livid, and seeing her come fully to life, her eyes blazi
ng, her shoulders heaving, her lips parted, nostrils flaring, is enough to make my cock give my zipper one hell of an uppercut in my jeans.

  “Is this what you call a truce?” she snaps when I don’t answer her. “You’re insane! What makes you think that I’d ever want to-to get anywhere near you?”

  “That kiss,” I admit, half because it’s true and half because she looks so damn beautiful worked up. I know it’s not fair. I know I’m being an asshole. I also know that we’re never going to get over what happened and I have one day to try to change her mind. That makes me more than a little desperate, even if it’s not a good look. “You were into it. You were shaking. You kissed me back.” I lean in dangerously close, within distance of her knee, which could go straight to my balls, and whisper darkly in her ear. “I bet, if you're being honest, you’re soaked.”