by Sarah Skye
Harmony turns back to me and reaches to gently touch my arm. “Look, Lily. I know we weren’t besties back in the day. And I know that you two haven’t had the easiest history.” Her eyes cut to Marco, who’s staring at the ground. “Why don’t we start over? Forget what happened in the past. We’re all adults, right? Let’s commit to being better.”
Her speech has my head spinning. Sure, it’s nice in the theory to start over, but for her to just gloss over all those times she tormented me in school makes me want to scream. I need something more sincere—like an apology—before I can agree to anything more.
I open my mouth to speak, but just then there’s a hand on my other arm.
“Lily would love to go to your bachelorette party,” Mom says.
Before I can turn to Mom and tell her that I can make my own decisions, Harmony claps her hands once, squeals the word “yay,” and spins around to join another conversation.
“Marilyn. It’s good to see you again,” Marco says, flashing that winning smile to Mom.
She holds her hand out for him to kiss. They chat briefly about nonsense, Mom chuckling every few seconds. I turn away and roll my eyes while huffing out a frustrated breath. Marco could set fire to an animal shelter and she would still fawn over him. She’s such a sucker for that suave rich boy charm.
She pats my arm. “Why don’t you two wrap up, and I’ll meet you in the car?”
I’m gritting my teeth as she quickly walks out the door. She knows I won’t confront her about forcing me to join Harmony’s bachelorette party in front of everyone.
I shake my head as Marco chuckles.
“Your mom cracks me up.”
“Glad you found that funny.”
“Oh come on, Lily.” He raises an eyebrow at me while grinning. It makes him look extra smug. “Look on the bright side. You might meet someone you can take with you to the wedding as a date. Maybe someone who loves art just as much as you.”
His tone drips with condescension. But his little art comment also triggers something inside of me.
I look him square in the eye. “Actually, I have a date.”
Marco’s smile drops; his brow furrows the slightest bit. “You do?”
“Yup. And you’re right. He loves art.”
Memories of Calder posing in my class play out in my brain once more. I don’t waver for a second in my eye contact with Marco. A muscle in the left side of his jaw bulges. A tell-tale sign that he’s annoyed. I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning at just how glorious it is to watch him squirm.
“Well… that’s… good for you.” He clears his throat. “He’s an artist then?”
“Nope. A model.”
Something flashes in Marco’s eyes. “I see. Can’t wait to meet the lucky guy.”
He tugs on his jacket sleeve before turning away. I walk out of the room, my heart thundering against my chest, exhilarated by how I’ve left Marco stammering. But once the weight of what I’ve done sinks in, I’m in a silent panic. I dart to the bathroom and splash cold water on my cheeks.
Marco thinks I’m bringing Calder to the wedding as my date. What the hell did I just do?
5
Calder
The long pose this week in Lily’s class is child’s pose, so I’m kneeling on the dais with my face on the ground, arms by my ears. There’s a cramp growing in my thigh and a freak-out mounting in my brain.
The situation I’ve gotten myself into has come into sharp focus over the past week. I dropped the underwear gig Stella had been on about in an effort to stick to my oath. The loss of a paycheck really woke me up. I have plenty of money set aside, but it’s not easy to carve out a niche in this business. I’m proud of my rep, and I’ve worked hard to establish myself. Now, I’m essentially throwing it all in the bin on a possibility.
But it’s a possibility that embodies my favorite things in life. Whisky and fine aesthetic are the greatest pursuits a man can have. To be the face of a label I grew up around would absolutely be worth making some major changes—if only I could be sure that those changes would lead to the job.
But aside from pulling out of a shoot, I’ve got nothing to prove I am settling down and changing my image. Saying I’ve got nothing but my dick in my hand at this point would be putting it nicely. Nate has invited me to an event Saturday night, which means I’ll have a grand time making excuses for my nonexistent girlfriend’s absence.
“Thanks, guys. It’s time to close up for the week.”
Lily’s announcement changes the ambient sound in the room, and I sit up and stretch out my hip. Students toss me waves and thank-yous as they leave and I cinch my robe. I wave back, glad I don’t have to give another bloody speech. When the room is empty, I cross to where my clothes are stacked on the edge of her desk. Lily gives me a close-lipped smile that I return. Today’s class held none of the silliness from last week, which is probably for the best but far less amusing. To be fair, I’ve been deep in my thoughts about this predicament, and I don’t know her well enough to say she seems preoccupied, but—
“Sorry if I was a little distracted today,” she says, tucking a stray strand of dark hair back into her bun. “I’m currently the meat in a weekends-from-hell sandwich.”
It’s an odd way to put it, but it makes perfect sense. I grimace and nod. “No worries. I’m not here to be entertained.”
She frowns. “Well, yes. I-I mean, of course you’re not. Just that last week was so—well, it was just more lighthearted, I guess. I just don’t want to seem rude. I was raised better than that.”
The bitterness in those last words arches my brows. So much venom from such a sweet mouth makes no sense. “How you were raised means nothing compared to how you’re feeling now. If you’re having a bad go of it, you have every right to manage it however helps you get through.”
Her face is a mask of muddled emotion. Anger and frustration give way to surprise—I suppose at my blunt words—before her expression crumbles into a tiny smile. That pink returns on her cheeks.
“Good point,” she murmurs.
“Indeed.”
I pull my shirt over my head as she perches on her desk. We catch eyes, and she gives an almost-imperceptible head jerk toward the blank spot beside her. I definitely might’ve imagined it, but when I lean on the faux wood and cross my arms, her shoulders lower.
She does a terrible job of hiding the way her eyes travel over my biceps. The look of guilt when she realizes she’s busted is too much. My grin breaks out, but I resist the urge to tease her. “So. A hellish sandwich, eh? Sounds excruciating.”
“You have no idea.”
“But the week between, now that’s not too bad, is it? Surely you’ve found some time to unwind and enjoy yourself.”
“I guess. I have spent a lot of time at the wheel.”
“Driving, knives, or bondage?”
She jolts so hard I reach out to steady her from falling off the desk. Chuckling, I make sure she’s stable before letting my fingers slide slowly away from that satin skin.
“I meant pottery. Good god, do I seem like the kind to throw knives or… or… I don’t know what, get sexed while I’m tied to a spinning wheel?”
Fucking bloody hell, now that is an image. And it is indeed, although nothing about this woman would indicate she’d be into such a kinky setup. Still, Ms. Lily bound and blindfolded, waiting patiently for…
“Um, what now?” I clear my throat and shake my head, but the smirk that curls her lip tells me it’s my turn to be busted. “Weather? Aye, hot as hell, innit?”
That smirk explodes into a full grin before her giggles bounce around the room. I scratch the back of my head, embarrassed as hell at being so obvious but unable to resist laughing, too.
She lays one hand on my arm as she tries to control herself. “Oh, I needed that laugh,” she gasps finally. Glittery eyes turn up to me. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Her fingertips trail away slower than needed but too fas
t for my liking. She’s radiant from laughing, and all of a sudden I have the silliest thought in my head:
Ms. Lily Maldonado is exactly the kind of woman a man would want on his arm at a Sonce party. She’d be perfect in a black cocktail dress—but she’d also be perfect around the house in a ratty old t-shirt and wooly socks. She is exactly the kind of woman I pictured when that crazy pledge flew out of my mouth.
She’s the kind of woman who’d be worth changing an image for.
Earth to Calder. You know nothing about her.
And yet the thought is there—and is freaking me the hell out. I stand up and jerk my head to the door. “Right, well, best be going then. I’ll see you next week.”
“Did I say something wrong?” Her tone is hurt, and I instantly feel like a total shit.
“Not in the least.” I toss a casual grin to let her know all is well, but she’s not buying it.
“Oh, okay then. Of course. Have a good week.”
“Cheers.”
6
Lily
“Shots, ladies! Shots! Shots! Shots!” Brittany yells from the end of the bar.
I hold in a groan and accept the shot of tequila that one of Harmony’s friends slides down to me. I can’t help the grimace when I swallow. This my second shot of the whole night. So far during Harmony’s bachelorette party, I’ve managed to keep my alcohol intake to a minimum. I only took tiny sips at the wine tasting which probably added up to a single glass. At the first bar we hit, I managed to just pound water. But now that we’re at the second bar, doing group shots seems to be the direction we’re headed in.
I sigh, feeling the slightest bit lightheaded. One shot of tequila plus the shot of vodka I did with all the ladies minutes ago is already hitting me fast.
I quickly ask the bartender for a giant glass of water, which I drink half of in seconds. Then I plop down on the nearest bar stool and take in the scene. For some reason, we ended up at a place called Billy’s Sports Bar. There are flatscreens everywhere I look, broadcasting the same soccer game. It’s eighty percent men in this place. I wonder why Brittany, Harmony’s maid of honor, decided on coming here, but then I watch as the bartender hands out a tray of cosmos to Harmony’s crew. A guy sitting in a nearby booth waves over to Harmony, who blows him several kisses. A group of women in tight dresses in a mostly male establishment often means free drinks.
A shrieking noise causes me to look down the long wooden bar, where I spot Harmony hugging Brittany. A few of their other friends stand around them, all in pink mini dresses, singing along to some country song I don’t recognize that’s playing over the sound system.
I tug at the microscopic hem of my own pink mini dress that I haven’t worn since I was probably nineteen, annoyed at how ridiculous I look and feel. I’m pushing thirty and dressed like a Barbie doll.
Just then another tray of shots is deposited at Harmony’s end of the bar. I faintly hear the bartender say, “orgasms for the ladies,” and then the whole group is squealing with laughter.
I roll my eyes and sigh. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to survive the night. I silently curse my mom for saying I’d go, and then I silently curse myself for just nodding along with it instead of standing up for myself. You could’ve refused… yeah, but did I really want another lecture on “manners”?
Harmony stumbles over to me and yanks me into a hug while giggling. Her blue eyes are glazed over. I guess she likes to get cuddly when she’s drunk.
She tugs at the sparkly tiara in her hair, which has a piece of tulle glued to it to look like a mini veil. I reach out and straighten the hot pink sash that says “bride to be” in glittery letters.
“I just have to say, Lily,” Harmony slurs. “You… you’re one brave girl.”
“Uh, thanks.”
She blinks, and her eyelids sag. She stumbles and I hold her up with both of my hands on her forearms. “I mean, to go to my bachelorette party… to go to your ex-boyfriend’s wedding. You’re a hero!”
“I’m not sure about that,” I mutter.
Her eyes go wide. “You are! I mean, I’d be humiliated.” Her head falls back in a laugh. “I would never, never go to anything for any of my exes, let alone wedding stuff. I mean, you’re just really special for doing that.”
She hugs me once more while I grit my teeth and absorb her insulting comments.
“And to go to my wedding without a date! Oh my gosh!! I would never do that. Not in a million years would I go to any wedding alone. Let alone my ex’s!”
Again she chuckles while I bite my tongue. Instead of lashing out at her, I happily accept the shot that Brittany hands me after she walks over to us. I don’t even grimace at the burn this time. Even though I told Marco that I had a date—and implied that it was Calder—that was a total lie and I shouldn’t repeat it here, not even if it would save me from this humiliation.
“Three cheers for Lily! The girl who’s brave enough to go to her ex-boyfriend’s wedding without a date!” Harmony shouts while stepping back and raising her arm, shot in hand. Everyone gawks at us, and my face bursts into flames.
Brittany’s eyes go wide as she looks at me for a split second before glancing away. A few of Harmony’s other friends give me the same pitying expression. As if it’s not awkward enough that I’m attending all of my ex’s wedding events, now everyone knows that I’m doing it as a pathetically single woman. Great.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” I mumble. My head spins. I need a minute to myself, away from this shitshow. Or maybe I can just hide out there the rest of the evening and Harmony and her friends will get so drunk that they’ll forget about me and go to the next bar.
7
Calder
Even though the second button is already open on my dress shirt, I tug at my collar yet again. Today’s Liverpool v Chelsea match is on replay on the huge screen in front of me. Billy’s Sports Bar is as good a place as any to unwind while I sort through the party I just left.
Sonce is going all out to build hype for its holiday-season release. Their “family first” image is sure to be a smash hit, and they’re already putting money where their mouths are on it. The party tonight was a meet-and-greet of corporate backers and industry professionals—and their children. While VIP guests schmoozed over finger foods and top-shelf booze, a small team of babysitters watched over their children as they explored a playground in the corner.
As a teen, Nate owned no clothes beyond ratty jeans and band t-shirts. Watching him work a room dressed in a Versace suit was almost amusing enough to distract me from the fish-out-of-water feeling that haunted me every time I heard a shriek of childish delight.
On top of that, the urge to flirt back with all the women who tried to strike up a conversation was too natural. It’s just what you do at a party like that if you’re in the business—except the whole point of me being there was to prove that I’m a wholesome, hearts and flowers boyfriend who embodies the Sonce attitude.
So I’d drifted around the room with a highball glass in hand, making small talk with co-ed groups of people only and checking the time a little too frequently. Nate had given me a come on, mate look when I said that my girlfriend was off at a hen do that she couldn’t get out of, but I’d just shrugged and made some vague reference to bridesmaid obligations as if I knew a damn thing about it.
As I review the whole deal over a pint and the match, though, I have to say it didn’t go terribly. Yes, a girl on my arm would’ve been a better look, but the hen party excuse had elicited sympathetic nods from the women in the cluster we stood in, so I suppose that’s a point. And I didn’t leave with a model—or three—which is definitely a shift from the usual high-end parties I attend.
I lift the glass just as Chelsea gets a corner kick. “Here’s to faking it till you make it,” I say to no one in particular.
“Shots, ladies! Shots! Shots! Shots!”
The age-old chant is followed by peals of laughter from the front of the bar. There’s a gaggle o
f lasses flittering about in the main area of my favorite sports pub. Clearly, they’re out for free drinks and a good time. I glance over my shoulder and am nearly blinded by the amount of hot pink these women are wearing.
A hen party. How appropriate.
I whip out my phone and text my sister.
Me: Why TF would a hen party go to a sports bar? The match is on & they’re bloody shrieking too loud for me to concentrate.
Lucy: Duh. Pick up guys/get free shots bought for them. See if you can take one home. I dare you to pick her up with a line about being Fabio’s protege.
A gif of Fabio follows. I’ve seen this one many, many times over the years. I still chuckle while I send my standard reply to such comments: a gif of someone giving the middle finger. She sends me back hearts, so I put the phone down and look around.
“Hey, Danny?”
The waiter looks up from where he’s clearing a table nearby when I call to him. “Yeah, boss?”
I gesture at the bar, where the bride seems to be slow-dancing to a country song with one of her pink-clad attendees. “Buy them a round on me. Orgasms for all, got it?”
He laughs. “Done.”
With a chuckle, I relax into the booth and focus properly on the match in time to catch the end. Danny brings me another pint and my bill, so I settle up and rise to hit the restroom before I tuck in another beer.
“Oomph.” It’s a harmonious sound uttered by me and the woman who’s just collided with my back when I stepped out of the booth. I spin round as she topples sideways. She’s a flash of neon pink and black-brown as her hair whips in her face and she wobbles on stiletto heels. I reach out, catching her by her bare shoulders before she crashes to the ground. She leans into my grasp to steady herself and grips my jacket blindly.
But then she speaks, and my heart fucking leaps.
“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry, I—”
