by Lisa Suzanne
A reception? Like a wedding reception?
“Oh,” I say. It’s all I can manage at the moment as I think through the idea of inviting my family to a fake reception all while getting them to believe it’s real between Adam and me.
My brothers aren’t going to buy it.
There’s no way.
But I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.
“Will you be okay here by yourself?” Adam asks me softly while the guys chug what’s left in their bottles as they get ready to leave.
I nod. A little alone time doesn’t sound half bad after the last few days, to be honest, and I have about a million people to call back.
“Okay. Help yourself to anything.”
They’re off and I wander around the kitchen for a few minutes, studying the framed photographs of MFB playing in different locations, before finding a bottle of Fireball in the pantry. I put some ice in a cup and toss in a little of the cinnamon whiskey, take a healthy sip, and slide into a chair at the table.
I draw in a deep breath and pull out my phone.
I want to get the toughest call out of the way first, so I click on Chad’s name under my most recent missed calls.
“You got married?” he answers without preamble.
I laugh.
I can’t help it.
“I did. And not to you, you big old douchebag.”
“Is this some kind of joke? Something for the media?”
“No, it isn’t. It’s real. You know how long I’ve known Adam, and I told him how I felt. The feeling was mutual. Somehow getting married just felt right.” The lie Adam and I came up with to explain our spur-of-the-moment marriage rolls off my tongue easier than I could’ve dreamed it would.
“I knew it. It wasn’t me who cheated first. It was you.”
“If that’s what helps you sleep at night, you keep right on believing that. I’m coming by tomorrow for my stuff. Don’t be there.” I end the call before he has a chance to respond, and I feel a little lighter now that I’ve nipped one asshole in the bud.
CHAPTER 20: EMILY
“Can I call you back?” I ask my mom softly when I hear a knock at the front door. I’m practically whispering, but I don’t want whoever’s at the door to know someone is here.
I’m a little freaked out. I’m here alone in a house that a bunch of rock stars live in, and someone is knocking at the door.
I creep quietly toward the knocking sound and peek through the little peephole, and there stands Kylie, magazines spilling out of the bag slung over her shoulder and a binder clutched to her chest.
I open the door. “Oh, it’s you,” I say, relief evident in my tone. “Don’t you have a key?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t want to scare you by barging in. I texted you. Didn’t you see it?”
I shake my head. “I was talking to my mom, trying to convince her how in love I am. I don’t know if I can keep the lie up in front of my family.”
She steps through the door and shuts it behind her. “Is it a lie, though?”
“Excuse me?” I practically squeak.
“Look, Emily.” She sets the binder down on the table and pulls her bag off her shoulder before setting it on top of the binder. “I may be marrying Dax, but these are my boys. All five of them. I know when one of them is shaken by something, and I see the way girls look at them every single night of the week. There’s something more between you two than a drunken mistake.”
I open my mouth to say something, but words don’t come out. I close it, and then I open it again, and now I just look like a stupid fish flapping her gums.
“It’s not just you,” she adds softly. “He’s got it bad for you.”
“Don’t be silly,” I finally say.
“You need proof?” she asks. “I saw him with Bree, and I’ve seen him trying to get over Bree for the last six months. He was pretty quick to agree to this sham, but it isn’t just that. No one has held his interest in months. He’s tried and failed. But he’s a different guy when he’s around you.”
I sit back in my chair and take another sip of Fireball. I might need another cupful before having this conversation. “Different how?”
She sits, too, and thinks for a minute, tapping a finger against her lips. “Lighter. Happier. Like he finally pulled his head out of his ass.”
My first instinct is to defend him, but that will only confirm her assertion that I have feelings for him. So instead, I laugh and change the subject. “What’s all this?” I fan my hands out at the supplies she brought.
“We’re throwing a reception to celebrate your wedding, and I have some questions I need you to answer so I can deliver all of this to our party planner and get preparations underway. I figured this was a good time since all the guys are out.” She’s all business as she opens the binder and takes a pen out of her bag.
“What if I want to help with the plans?”
She glances up at me and lets out a laugh. “Says the girl who doesn’t have feelings for him. Yeah, right.”
My cheeks heat, but I deflect. “My mom will never believe I didn’t want to be involved in the planning.” My defense is weak.
“And that’s why I’m here now. I called in a favor and got Marcy Preston.” She grins like I’m supposed to know who the hell Marcy Preston is, and when she sees my blank stare, she expands. “Marcy Preston? Wedding planner to the stars?”
I shake my head and shrug, and she sighs.
“It doesn’t matter. She sent me a list of questions so we can ensure personal touches. If you want more involvement, you can get in touch with Marcy.” She flips open the binder. “Now, because MFB has shows in NorCal Saturday and Sunday and Christmas is next weekend, we need to act quickly. Marcy found an opening on Saturday, February twentieth at Piaget.”
“Piaget?” I ask, dumbfounded once again.
She presses her lips together like I’m the annoying student asking the dumb questions in class. “It’s a wedding venue on an active vineyard. The reception salon has three terraces, and one of them had an opening. I guess the bride got cold feet.” She shrugs and holds up both hands. “His loss, our gain.”
It’s a little cold, but I can’t argue with the luck in that.
“Your close friends and family are invited, of course, with no expense spared to get them here, and it’ll be filled with people in the industry. We aren’t throwing this party for personal reasons. It’s a chance to network, and we’re nabbing it.”
“Is that what your wedding will be, too?” I ask.
Her eyes meet mine, and for the first time, they soften. She shakes her head. “No. But I’m marrying someone I’m in love with.”
I sigh. Right. Can’t argue that.
“So my first question was supposed to be whether you’d prefer indoor or outdoor for the venue, but we’ve put a deposit on Piaget. So next, do you want this to be a wedding and a reception or just a reception?”
“If we want it to be believable, I’d think a wedding, or at least a vow renewal, would be important. You know, so our families could be there to witness it.”
She nods like I said something right for once and adds a note to her notebook. “Up next is food preference. Your options are French, Italian, or a surf and turf option.”
“Surf and turf.”
“Great.” She jots something down and reads the next question. “Open bar, obviously,” she murmurs. “Oh! Here. What’s your favorite color?”
“Orange.”
She makes a face and shakes her head. “Not for this wedding, it isn’t. Maybe peach or salmon or some other shade with orange in it.” She writes down her ideas for my wedding.
Only it’s not really my wedding.
“Are you more traditional or more modern?”
“Traditional,” I say without hesitation. I want to smash cake in his face and I want him to pull my garter off and I want to toss my bouquet.
She nods. “Okay, great. I suppose that means assigned seating, too?”
<
br /> “Not if I don’t know the majority of people on the guest list.”
“Good point. I’ll let Marcy decide.” She takes some more notes. “We’re almost done. Dream officiant?”
I laugh as I try to come up with the most far-fetched name I can think of, and maybe because we just saw Vail that first night in Vegas, one name comes to mind when I think of my dream officiant. “Mark Ashton.”
“He’s every woman’s dream everything, right?” We both giggle, and then she grows serious and glances down at her paper again. “What is the one thing you always dreamed of having at your wedding?”
“Aside from a groom I’m in love with?”
She chuckles.
I think for a minute. I want the groom, of course, and the gorgeous dress and everything else. But I’ve always wanted a special flower as part of my bouquet because of the nickname my dad gave me when I was a kid. “Buttercups.”
Her brows crinkle. “Like peanut butter cups?”
I shake my head. “The flower. For my bridal bouquet.”
She looks confused, so I pull up a picture on my phone and show it to her. She nods. “Pretty. Okay, buttercup it is.” She writes that down, too.
“Last question for Marcy, and then we’ll look at dresses. What do you want your day to feel like?”
I actually immediately know the answer to this, but it’s what I want for my real wedding, not for this play we’re performing. “I want it to feel like I’m floating through a dream from start to finish.”
“I love that.” She writes it down, and then she closes the binder and tosses a magazine down on the table in front of me. “Find yourself a dress and mark any bridesmaid dresses you like.”
“Bridesmaid?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah. Who do you want to be your maid of honor and who do you want standing up with you?”
“Amber should be my maid of honor.” I wonder if this has already been decided for me. “I don’t need any more than that.”
“So you’re gonna make Adam pick between the other four guys in his band? That’s not fair.”
“Who else is gonna stand up with me?”
“Do you have sisters?”
I shake my head.
“Sierra and Zoey will do it,” she says, naming Kane and Brody’s women. “That’s four.”
“But I don’t even know you or Sierra or Zoey,” I grumble.
She looks pointedly at me. “Does it matter? You don’t really know Adam and you married him.”
“That’s different. We have a history together.”
Her eyes light up. “Oooh, a history? Do tell!”
“Not like that.” I cluck my tongue. “We’ve just known each other a long time and I...” I trail off. I was about to say I’ve always had a thing for him, but that’s not going to strengthen my case.
“You what? Had a crush on him?”
I can’t look directly at her and deny it, so I pretend I found a dress I like in the magazine and I study it a little harder.
She shakes her head. “I knew it!”
“Whatever,” I mutter.
The wedding is practically planned a few hours later, and I can’t help but wonder what we’re paying Marcy for. I actually found myself having fun with Kylie. She’s smart and organized, and it’s clear she loves her job as MFB’s manager.
And then I started yawning, and I wanted to be in bed before Adam got home anyway to avoid the awkward interaction of which side of the bed we each would take, so I headed upstairs.
And now I’m staring at the bed as I try to decide which side I want to be mine. With Chad, it came naturally when we fell into bed one night and I fell asleep on the right.
I take the left.
New relationship, new side of the bed.
I’m scrolling Instagram on my phone much too late into the night when the front door opens and slams shut followed by raucous laughter downstairs.
The boys are home.
When I hear the bedroom door open quietly, I pretend to be asleep.
Adam climbs into bed beside me and laces his arms around my waist as he plays big spoon to my little. My eyes widen when I feel his extremely hard dick pressing into my back.
“My wife,” he whispers, and I can smell the whiskey on his breath. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
CHAPTER 21: ADAM
I haven’t been this hungover since the morning I woke up married.
I remember all of last night, though, so I didn’t get as drunk. Too much tequila wipes my memory out, but too much whiskey turns my stomach.
My wife isn’t in bed when I wake up. I must’ve passed out cold since I didn’t hear her get up. I vaguely remember nuzzling her before these overwhelming feelings for her washed over me. I remember whispering the truth to her before I fell asleep, wishing she was awake so I could tell her.
In the early light of morning—or late, as I note the time is just past ten—I’m glad she was asleep. I can’t fuck up our arrangement by admitting my actual feelings, not when she’s been so amenable and dedicated to making this work for me and the band.
I chug some Pedialyte and take a shower, and I’m ready for breakfast by the time I’m done toweling off.
We had fun last night. As much as I hang out with the guys, we don’t often go out to a bar for a few hours just the five of us anymore. It reminded me of the old days, a simpler time when we frequented Emerson’s, the local bar a few blocks from our place we used to play a few times a week when we first got our start. We drank too much whiskey last night, laughed too loudly, and reminisced about all the good memories of the days when we spent all our time there.
When I get down to the kitchen, I find Emily laughing along with Rascal and Amber.
Amber?
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, pinning my eyes on my sister.
“Good morning to you, too,” she says with sugary sweet sarcasm. She leans over and plants a kiss on Rascal’s cheek. “Will called me over after the bar.”
“His name’s Rascal, not Will,” I mutter. My eyes float over to Emily. “Good morning, wife.”
She giggles. “Thanks for being nicer to me than you are to her.”
I fight the urge to plant a kiss on the top of her head as I walk by her on my way to the coffee pot. I give into the need to physically touch her somewhere, though, and squeeze her shoulder as I pass her. “I’ll always be nicer to you.”
I pour myself a cup of coffee and slide into a vacant chair beside Emily. “Did you have a good night?” I ask her.
Her cheeks turn a little pink as she nods. She clears her throat. “Kylie came over and we worked on planning our wedding.”
“She told us it would be in February. Are you ready for that?”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s way too fast, but she didn’t make me feel like I had much of a choice, and that venue she picked is gorgeous, so we’ll make it work.”
“You always have a choice,” I say. I hate that she felt pressured into something.
“I know. And it’s fine.” She offers a smile, and I study it to be sure it’s genuine before I nod. “How about you? Did you have a good night?”
“Oh, he had a good night,” Rascal says.
I glare at him.
“What does that mean?” Amber asks.
“It just means I drank too much,” I say before Rascal has a chance to announce to the group that he held down his shots longer than I did. It’s embarrassing, especially after what happened the last time I did shots.
But he’s too proud of the fact that he finally won a round of shots to let it go. “Adam puked first.”
I flip Rascal the bird while both girls laugh. “Thanks, man.”
Amber and Rascal head out to breakfast, leaving Emily and me alone. “You ready to go move your shit out of that douchebag’s place?” I ask. “The moving company will be there in a few hours. They’ll put whatever you want into one of those pods and we’ll park it until we close on the new place
.”
She smiles. “I’m ready. And thanks for being on my side.”
“You’re my wife. Of course I’m on your side.”
She has no idea how much I mean that.
The moving company left a bundle of supplies at my place this morning, and when we get to the apartment she shared with her ex, she starts in the kitchen. She pulls out all the things that are hers and sets them on the counter, and I wrap the breakables in paper before setting them gently into boxes.
She moves to the family room next and grabs some decorations. She marks the furniture that’s hers with stickers from the moving company, and then she moves to the bathroom and finally the bedroom.
She throws some stuff on the bed from the desk drawers before heading to the closet.
“What’s this?” I ask, picking up a frame that has the word Buttercup written in a man’s handwriting.
She pokes her head out of the walk-in closet, and her cheeks turn pink again as she rushes over to me and grabs the frame from my hands. “Nothing,” she mutters.
“Oh, it’s not nothing,” I say. “Wives aren’t supposed to keep secrets from husbands.”
She rolls her eyes as the pink in her cheeks deepens to a bright red. “It’s from my dad. He calls me Buttercup. Everyone in my family does, actually, but my dad started it when he told me to always remember that I’m as beautiful and sweet as the flower.” She mumbles the words.
“That’s adorkable.”
Her brows draw down. “Did you just call me a dork?”
“No. I called you adorkable, Buttercup.”
She narrows her eyes at me, and somehow it’s endearing, cute, and sexy all at the same time. “You’re not calling me that.”
I twist my lips. “Oh, well, I think I just did.”
“Fine. Then I’m coming up with a nickname for you, too.”
“Sexy husband?” I suggest.
She thinks for a minute, and then she shakes her head. “I’ll come up with something.”
“I’m kind of partial to sexy husband. If you don’t like that, what about number one guitarist?”
