by Katy Evans
“You’re thinking too much,” Gina whispers discreetly before tucking a lock of dark black hair behind her ear. She says something to her hairdresser then rises from her chair to check out my new do. “We’re getting all dolled up for the party of our lives. And it will be the party of our lives, Wynn, you little hot ticket, you.”
“What do you mean? Of course I’m a hot ticket. I’m the only single one among us now.”
“Only that you’ll look like a million bucks and we want Emmett to eat his heart out tonight.”
“Forget asshole Emmett. His food was horrible, no offense, Wynn. I ate it because of you,” Rachel says slyly as she approaches, looking drop-dead gorgeous as usual. “You’re better off without him. Trust me. When the right man comes, there will be no doubt about it that it’s him.”
“Ugh. I almost don’t care anymore. After last night’s date, I’ve decided I should focus on work and forget men altogether.”
When I start to wonder if Silver Eyes will bring a date, I pull myself out of my thoughts and focus on Livvy as she steps away from her chair, her hair perfectly coiffed and ready for her veil. “You look like an angel,” I say, taking Liv’s hand as soon as she approaches. “Callan’s world will stop as soon as he sees you.”
“You’re making me blush,” she says, fanning her face.
“She’s making you cry!” Rachel hugs her.
“Watch the hair!” Alessandra calls out.
“You’ll be so happy,” I tell her.
While we gush over Liv, I think about Callan and his love for Livvy. Renting out Alessandra’s salon didn’t come cheap, I’m sure, but he didn’t do it to impress others. He wants Livvy to have a memorable wedding day.
“Are you happy?” Gina asks her.
“I’m over the moon!” While she waits for the manicurist, she runs through a list of Callan’s plans for their future. “He wants a house in the country that we can hit up often to get away from the city . . . And he talks about kids. All the time.” She hushes and looks at me in concern.
I blink, suddenly realizing that she’s holding back because of me. Because she knows that I’ve always wanted . . . well, this. A part of me sometimes hurts to hear about it because it’s something that feels so out of reach. But on the other hand, if I don’t hear about it, I’ll miss out on the highlights of my friends’ lives and I can’t have that. What kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t stick around and watch her ride off into the sunset? I want to know how the story ends. I need to witness the excitement because then, maybe, I’ll have my faith restored.
“Go on,” I prod with a smile, taking her hand and squeezing to say, I’m happy for you and I wouldn’t miss your big day for the world.
And it’s true. I’ll survive the wedding if it kills me. There’ll be champagne on hand and if Emmett shows, I’ll down plenty of it.
CELEBRATION
Five hours later, we’re at the wedding, us and our great hair. I stand in a rose garden with the other bridesmaids, my sisters from other mothers. Due to the full trees, we can only see glimpses of the men.
I go up on my toes in search of Silver Eyes but can’t spot him, so I force myself back down. Most of the guys out there are married anyway.
Callan’s the dashing groom. Wearing a pointed-collared shirt, bowtie, and black tux, he looks like he’s more than ready to take that quantum leap, the fearless jump so many men fail to take.
The one Emmett avoided at all costs.
He’s not at all like Emmett.
Callan looks . . . fired up. I think Callan wanted to marry Livvy from the moment he first saw her. Now, he’s waiting for the love of his life, and I know she can’t wait to run straight into his arms.
Liv’s more than ready for her big day. And while Callan is gorgeous, Livvy’s totally stunning.
The music starts.
For a split second, I panic. I think my knees will buckle before I step up to the ivy-wrapped archway leading to the ceremonial gardens.
Before my knees do just that, Cullen is beside me. As soon as I see him, I feel him. He snakes his arm through mine, and the heat of his body suddenly surrounds me.
He wasn’t at the wedding rehearsal last week; I didn’t know he would walk me in.
I was supposed to walk alone. Suddenly, I’m grateful that I’m not, but I won’t let him know it.
I grip his arm tighter when Cullen murmurs, “I thought you and Livvy were best friends.”
“We are.”
He raises a lone eyebrow, still looking ahead. “Someone should’ve told the bridesmaid. It’s rude to look hotter than the bride.”
My skin heats. It’s a slow burn from the inside out. I’m uncomfortable but need to hear more. I wonder if Playboy has another play in his handbook.
As we pace ourselves and follow Gina and Tahoe, he brushes his fingers across the back of my hand. I shiver at his touch but remain poised, collected.
“Stop the wooing,” I whisper.
“Wooing was last night. Tonight, it’s game on. You’re being seduced.”
“Here?” There’s a pause in my stride but he helps me find my step again. “Stop.”
“Can’t help myself.”
“It’s not working.”
“It will.”
We reach the end of our walk together. “We’ll see.” We part ways.
Cullen stands next to Callan. I veer left to wait for the bride, completely breathless by that tiny encounter.
Our gazes touch, part, meet again. If he doesn’t stop this now, I’ll be one wet bag of nerves by the time Callan and Livvy are pronounced man and wife.
I watch as the rest of our friends make their way down the aisle to stand up for Callan and Livvy.
The gang’s all here.
I like that about us. We’re devoted to one another.
My eyes find Cullen’s, and I don’t know why. I guess I’m a glutton for punishment. Maybe he has a lucky charm in his pocket. My gaze dips lower. When I realize what I’m doing, I quickly jerk my eyes upward.
His lips twitch and I curse my existence. I’m eye-fucking at my best friend’s wedding. Worse? I’m thinking about getting it on with the groom’s brother.
How low can I go?
Whispers ripple across the crowd. I jerk my eyes away from him.
Rachel and Saint are standing under the arch. They’re so stunning together and almost steal the show as Rachel holds the hand of their three-year-old little boy, while their little girl, safe in her father’s arms, points at Saint and says, “My daddy.”
Photographs are snapped. A well-known lifestyle blogger scribbles notes while a reporter from The Times takes out her smart phone, takes her shot, and hurriedly shoots off an email. Malcolms and Rachel’s daughter just made the news. She’s still patting her daddy.
Muted snickers erupt. Cullen watches her with amusement and now?
I’m terribly wooed.
As we wait for Callan’s beautiful bride, a full orchestra plays “Never Tear Us Apart” and it’s lovely. Absolutely perfect.
Hearing Livvy and Callan say their vows to each other makes me weep. He says he wants to give her the world and that she’s the most important thing in his life. And for some reason, I’m still weeping when the wedding march comes on.
I weep because I’m happy for them, and sad for me.
I weep because only months ago, I imagined that one day, one day soon, I would be standing up at the altar with the man who loved me—a man with Emmett’s eyes and hair and face. And he would be saying his I do’s.
I can’t believe that this is me, that I’m the only single girl among my friends. That not only do I no longer have Emmett, but that I really don’t believe the dream of getting married and loving and being loved “until death do us part” will ever really happen for me.
At the reception, I head to the bathroom to fix my face, and chide myself, Don’t be a crybaby, Wynn. It’s Livvy’s big day. Be happy for her. Distract yourself. Don’t think about
Emmett.
It’s easier said than done . . . until he arrives.
Cullen.
I spot him and somehow the urge to cry is gone, replaced by some weird urge to look stunning.
I don’t know why I want to look stunning but maybe it’s just to give him some competition.
Because he looks so damn good.
I tell Rachel, under my breath, “If he’s a fireman on top of being a poker player, set me on fire, will you?”
She laughs, then eyes him with the eye of a connoisseur. She’s married to the most desirable man in Chicago so . . . she knows. “Yep. Very hot.” She takes a sip of her wine, eyes twinkling as we watch him. “But stay away.”
I want to lick my lips and an image of me licking Cullen’s lips hits me.
What am I thinking?
To be honest, I don’t know if I want to sell my soul to Cullen Carmichael, but he’s hot like the devil tonight. Even the shirt under his tuxedo jacket is black, and the man rocks wearing black like nobody’s business.
I keep tabs on him through the wedding reception (which is suddenly moved indoors because of the rain.)
I don’t mean to keep tabs on him. But a part of my subconscious seems curious enough about him to note that he drinks only water, has smoked a total of half a cigar before he was forced to put it out by Livvy’s parents, and laughed a total of once . . . a laugh that was directed at his brother fawning over his wife, so I’m not even sure that can be considered a laugh at all.
After a while of stealing glances, I realize I’m paying too much attention to him, and so I make an effort to ignore Cullen—until my ex arrives.
Emmett.
My lower-than-life ex-boyfriend who is, in fact, not lower than life, but just the guy who broke my heart in so many tiny pieces I can’t build it back up again in its complete form because not even a loupe could find some of the shards.
I spot his blond head across the room, greeting Livvy and Callan.
Emmett looks perfect as he hugs Livvy and a roiling tornado starts in my stomach. Trying to get as far away as possible, I shuffle to our tables, and that’s when I spot Emmett’s name on the place card right next to my own. I blink, looking at the place cards again.
Oh no, no, no, not Emmett next to me!
We’ve both said all that needed to be said. Talked all we needed to talk.
It’s O V E R.
I glance around in a panic only to discover all my friends are either chatting with their husbands or busy mingling. I turn my eyes back to the shocking place card placement, and I know it’s not the groom and bride’s fault. They’ve been crazy busy with the wedding and the wedding planner simply didn’t get the memo of our awful breakup three weeks ago.
So I do what any girl would do. I search for Cullen’s name on the opposite table and exchange it for Emmett’s.
Not only will I not have to tolerate sitting right next—right next—to the man I’d loved for four years and who broke my heart spectacularly, I have the opportunity to sit next to a guy who appears single—and it’s just a guess, of course, but he seems too quiet and broody for me to imagine any woman actually wanting to commit to all that her whole life. And more importantly, he’s a guy I don’t care about or need to impress.
So now I’m switching the cards and watching Cullen and all his devilish good looks wind across the room, a drink in hand.
I’m not very sure that I like him at all. It’s not that he’s hard to look at, it’s more that I’m not sure I like Cullen. He makes me too nervous to “like” but he intrigues me enough that I haven’t been able to shake him off my mind since last night.
Now he ambles toward me, making my heart thud uncomfortably in my chest.
He pulls his chair back with his feet and sits. He seems a little surly. As if he’s irritated with me, and I don’t know why because I also feel irritated with him.
I don’t even know how a guy can be so hot and not disintegrate the floor beneath him.
The air around him feels flammable.
“Wynn.”
“Cullen.”
There is nothing from him, just him smiling at me.
“What’s so funny?”
“My name wasn’t on here.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“Because I checked.”
“I . . . oh.” I glance at him in surprise, his stoic expression revealing nothing. “And were you disappointed?”
Whoa. Wait. He checked? That’s kind of badass.
“Terribly,” he says in a voice that doesn’t necessarily mean he means it.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t know why I’m even bothering talking to you.”
“Because your ex is looking.”
My heart stops beating. I’m not sure if it’s because Cullen leaned a little closer or because he’s right. Emmett is watching.
“So?” I ask.
“So you still love him.” He smirks, those sharply handsome features that mock me and those jeweled eyes of his taunting me. “What did he do? Fail to buy one of your art works on a particularly important exhibit?”
I don’t even know this guy and I want to deck him. Instead, I play along and ask, “Are you making fun of my love of art?”
Frustrated, I stand impatiently to get myself a glass of wine. His gaze tracks me across the room.
A vicious knot forms in my stomach as I snatch a glass from a waiter and sit back down next to him.
“What I do is far more valuable than what you do,” I add as I shoot him a scowl.
“I have a mind to prove you wrong. But then I’d have to take you with me to Vegas. To watch me win my place at a table of nine for the Texas Hold’em championship.”
“Vegas? I’ve never been.”
“Not sure if I want you around for the final. Not sure if I want you around at all.” He watches me with that unnerving, unreadable silver gaze and leans forward, a wicked twist in his lips. “I’ll tell you what, though. You brought my luck back.”
“And you’re exactly what I needed to get out of my relationship rut. You make me not want to be in a relationship ever again.”
“I’m glad I inspire you, Red. You seem to inspire me too.”
“You?”
“You inspire my game.”
“Ah yes, cards. ’Cause your job is so much important than my job.”
“You haven’t spent enough time gambling to know for certain.”
“Nor do you know anything about art. Art is far superior.”
“I’d love to agree with you, but then we’d both be wrong and I’d rather play.” He eyes me. “You spend some time at my job. I spend some time helping you with yours. We vote on the best. Winner takes all.”
“What does that mean, winner takes all?”
“A hundred grand?” he suggests.
“God no! I’m not betting money. I work for every dime.” I shudder at the idea.
“You don’t have anything else I want.”
Bull. Every man wants something. “Really? That money hungry, huh?”
“My hunger knows no bounds.”
Now that I can believe. This guy will bet on pretty much anything.
At first that excites me, until I consider what he bets on. He probably has a private club and gives odds on marriages and divorces, births and deaths. I gasp at the last thought. How morbid. And yet I know it’s true. If there’s a game or prediction, Cullen will bet on the outcome.
Now, I wonder. What kind of odds does he have on me?
“Keep gambling for a living and you’ll eventually know hunger.”
As much as he irritates me, Cullen Carmichael also intrigues. I spent the better part of my day thinking about him. Now, I sit beside him and I’m being crass. Is it because Emmett is watching and I want him to know that a man can be interested while I totally blow him off? Do I look sophisticated or am I going for bitchy?
And why would Emmett care in the first place?
Why do I?
“How ca
n you hate something you don’t understand?” Cullen moves his chair closer and rests his arm on the table.
“I understand enough. Maybe it’s a great way to make a living.” Great for him, I guess, but I won’t live that way. “A gambler’s life is full of ups and downs. One minute, you’re rolling in the money and the next, you can’t keep the lights on. What kind of life is that?”
There’s a long silence as he debates my answer. Then he says, flat out, “You’re coming to Vegas with me.”
“What?” I shake my head, certain I’ve never objected to anything else so quickly. “No. Never going to happen.”
“Only way I can prove you wrong.” He sits back in his chair as if it’s settled. “Gamblers have their own unique set of ‘challenges’ but I’m not a gambler. I’m far more disciplined.”
“Fine. I’ll bite. Explain.”
“Poker’s different. If you’re good at it . . .” He gives me a gaze-fuck that I won’t soon forget. “And I am . . . very, very good. It can be a lucrative career with perks that’ll blow your mind.”
“I bet.”
“Want to?”
Suddenly I want to do a lot of things to and with this man but gambling isn’t one of them.
“You’re not satiated with your millions and all your mansions across the world? You want a couple more?”
“I want everything money can buy.”
“Well, I may have some things money can’t buy. Like really nice cleavage.”
“Sweetheart, I get an eyeful of cleavage daily and far more than what you’re showing. Truthfully, I’m already zoning out.”
He yawns, and my ego pricks. “Butt,” I then say. “I have a nice butt.”
Really, after a horrible breakup the last thing I need is this guy to give me insecurities, yet I’ve been baited and can’t stop. “If you win, I’ll do whatever you tell me to. A dare. And if I win, the same,” I add.
“That’s too vague. I never play without knowing the prize.”
“Let me think.”
He runs the tip of his tongue across his lip. “Dazzle me with some creativity.”
