Tools of Engagement Page 7

  “Relax, cowboy. I’m still on my man hiatus.” She turned another page. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  He begged to differ. “What exactly prompted this hiatus?”

  “The realization that men are so simplistic they keep women listed in their phones under names like Let’s Color.”

  “Jesus, Bethany. I know her name is Donna. Sue me for cheating a little with reminders after you introduced me to forty women of roughly the same age and physical description in one night.”

  He was referring to the evening the Just Us League got wind of him, a single twenty-three-year-old man taking care of a child on his own, and they’d arrived on his doorstep like Port Jefferson’s version of FEMA. He’d woken up the next day wondering if he’d dreamed middle-aged women organizing his underwear drawer, but no. His jocks were now rolled up in balls according to color.

  She pursed her lips and cut him a look. “I’m . . . sorry. For that one little assumption, nothing else.”

  “Well, shit.” He kicked up his boot, crossing it over the opposite knee. “Are pigs flying outside?”

  Bethany didn’t respond right away. “I’m on hiatus because my last boyfriend cheated on me. When I caught him texting one of his theater students, he told me I was distant and cold. Basically it was my fault. It wasn’t the first time that had happened with a boyfriend, either. In fact, it was becoming something of a pattern. And I guess I need a little time to recover before trying again. If I try again. Are we even now?”

  Fire ants crawled up his throat. How badly had she been hurt to swear off men? Had she been in love with these pieces of shit? “I didn’t need you to cut yourself down to size for me. I’d never ask that or enjoy it.”

  “You’d rather do it for me?”

  “I’m just giving as good as I get, darlin’. Sounds like you picked men who couldn’t keep up like I do.” A pink blush stained her cheeks and there it was, that same way she’d looked at him Monday morning, when she’d felt his cock between her legs. Her lips parted and she appeared to be controlling her breathing with a hard-fought effort. Those blue eyes swam with awareness and caution—a combination that made his jeans all the more confining. “I’ll show you how I’ve got you listed in my phone if you dance with me at the wedding on Sunday.”

  She snapped out of her trance with a scoff. “Forget it.”

  He waved his phone. “Sure about that?”

  A few beats passed. “One dance?”

  “If you can pry yourself off me afterward.”

  “I think I’ll manage.” She plucked the phone out of his hand between her finger and thumb, looking all prim and sexy as she scrolled. “Bethany Motherfucking Castle,” she read, wrinkling her nose. “Is that meant to be a negative connotation or a positive one?”

  “I said I’d let you look. Didn’t say I’d explain.”

  Cogs turned behind her eyes. “Well, I suppose since you have my number and we’re flipping a house together, I should probably have your number, too.”

  She sifted through her purse and extricated her phone, trailing her finger in zigzags over the screen before arriving at her contacts. She punched in a few letters before sliding it in front of him.

  “Cute,” said Wes, typing in his number under the heading Send to Voicemail.

  Leaning in close, he stopped just short of brushing her hair with his lips, noticing the way her fingers curled on the tile samples. “I pick the dance. Think you can keep from climbing me?”

  “There was a rat.”

  “Keep telling yourself that’s all it was.”

  He heard Bethany swallow. “Can we pick some tile now?”

  “You’re in charge. I’m just here for moral support.”

  “Your morals are in need of more support than mine.”

  He couldn’t help but breathe a laugh at her clever wordplay, his smile widening when she laughed reluctantly, too. Her gaze strayed to his mouth for a split second before it shot back to the sample book.

  Progress?

  Hard to tell. But he was damn well counting the minutes to Sunday.

  Chapter Seven

  Bethany popped the cork on a bottle of Moët, pouring the fizzing champagne into a neat line of crystal flutes. She’d woken up early that morning and turned her mother’s bedroom into a glamorous changing room, stringing up white lights along the edges of the ceiling, lighting candles, arranging seating. Georgie had balked at a bigger wedding venue, opting to marry Travis in their parents’ backyard, but that didn’t mean luxury had to be forgone entirely.

  Champagne in hand, Bethany turned to offer her sister a glass only to find her sprawled out faceup on their parents’ bed. “I just spent two hours on your hair, woman.” Bethany nudged her foot. “Sit up.”

  “Sorry, this is the only way I can breathe in this bustier.”

  “You’ll thank me when Travis gets a load of your tits.”

  “He’s gotten many a load on them. That’s why he’s wifing me.”

  “Georgie Castle,” their mother admonished, sashaying into the room in her new blue mother-of-the-bride dress. “You can’t stand before God with that mouth.”

  “He’s aware of her mouth by now, Mother.” Bethany handed Vivian a glass of champagne. “He also knows where she got it.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Vivian took a long sip of bubbly. “Damn. That’s good.”

  “Only the best,” Bethany said briskly, though excitement was making her fingertips sizzle. “Up with you, Georgie. It’s time to put on your dress.”

  Georgie rolled onto her stomach, pushed up, and slid backward off the bed, gaining her feet. “Is Travis here? Are guests arriving?”

  Bethany drew back the bedroom curtain and craned her neck to get eyes on the street. “Yes, he’s changing in the pool house. And it would appear we have some arrivals. Who is that slick-looking fellow with the equally slick-looking lady on his arm?”

  Georgie sidled up to the window. “That’s Travis’s agent, Donny—and his date, I guess?” She smiled. “Donny really is every inch the wheeler-dealer sports agent, but I secretly love him. If he hadn’t told Travis to spruce up his image to score the commentator gig, we never would have pretended to date, and, well . . .” Still blushing from earlier, she gestured to her fancy wedding hair. “You know how that turned out.”

  “You would have ended up together no matter what,” Vivian said, draining her champagne and setting it down on the dresser. “I saw it coming a mile away.”

  The sisters traded a smirk. “Let’s get this dress on.”

  “Ooh,” Georgie said. “Let’s wait for Rosie—”

  “I’m here!” The third member of their trio slipped in through the door and closed it behind her without a sound. “Sorry I’m late. Dominic always conveniently forgets how to tie a tie when we have one damn minute to leave the house.”

  Bethany hummed. “And then said tie ended up on the floor . . .”

  “Girls,” Vivian huffed, smoothing her updo. “Knowing those two, the tie probably ended up around her wrists.”

  “Mom!” Bethany and Georgie squawked.

  “What? I’m a card-carrying member of the Just Us League. It’s not my fault you overshare at meetings after too much tequila.”

  Bethany took a moment to recover, then crossed to Rosie, whose bronze skin was glowing in a deep-green silk dress identical to Bethany’s. “You look amazing.”

  “Likewise. I’m so glad we went with the shorter length. I plan on dancing.” Rosie twisted her hips, causing the dress’s hem to brush mid-thigh. “But I’m more interested in seeing Georgie in white.” She stepped toward Georgie and pulled her into a squeezing embrace. “Let’s make you a bride.”

  There wasn’t an unused tissue to be found during the ceremony. Travis and Georgie exchanged vows beneath the trees in the Castle backyard—the same trees where Georgie used to hide to spy on Travis while pretending to read Tiger Beat. Smoke practically came out of the man’s ears when his bride proceeded down t
he aisle in her clingy silk gown with embellished bodice, escorted by Morty. Travis didn’t take his eyes off her for a single second, as if she might turn tail, speed off in a taxi, and join the circus.

  Rosie and Bethany stood to Georgie’s left. Stephen and Dominic were positioned at Travis’s right. All the tension between Bethany and her brother were forgotten in those moments beneath the twinkling, ethereal lights and twilight sky. There were no houses being flipped, only their sister marrying a man who believed she’d hung the moon.

  Feeling eyes on her in the crowd, however, and knowing Wes watched her, Bethany couldn’t help but remember she’d agreed to a dance.

  It was just one little dance.

  Only, was it? From her maid of honor position at the front of the crowd, Bethany couldn’t stop herself from searching the sea of faces for Wes. Under the guise of welcoming guests with her smile, of course. At first she didn’t see him. Even while listening to the minister expound on the virtues of love, she despaired over her disappointment that he’d missed the wedding—

  His head popped up in one of the center rows, cowboy hat and all.

  The corner of her mouth tugged up when she realized he’d been hunting in a bag for Goldfish crackers to hand his fidgeting niece. Honestly. Where did he get off serving “James Bond meets Daddy of the Year” vibes tonight?

  Slowly, his gaze lifted to meet Bethany’s and he winked, giving her a blatant once-over that made her grateful she was shielding her excited nipples with a bouquet of roses.

  It cost her an effort to focus back in on the ceremony, but she managed it, well aware of Wes’s rapt attention on her from start to finish. Once the bride had been kissed, there was a rush to change Georgie into her reception dress and make sure the music for her and Travis’s entrance was cued up.

  In the romantic, starlight-dappled setting, with “The Way You Look Tonight” playing softly from a string quartet, the dance she’d promised Wes felt the furthest thing from inconsequential.

  Bethany watched him out of the corner of her eye as she spoke with one of the caterer waiters. Now that she could see Wes better, she noted he’d traded in his cowboy boots for shiny black loafers. Still, every time Stephen introduced him to someone new, he swept off his cowboy hat and pressed it to his chest, like Buffalo goddamn Bill, the college years. That flash of white teeth and accentuated jawline every time he smiled was so distracting that Bethany almost walked straight into the ice sculpture.

  “Pull yourself together,” she muttered, batting a nonexistent wrinkle out of her bridesmaid’s dress. “You are mature enough to know better—”

  “Are you talking to yourself or the ice sculpture, darlin’?” His shoulders shook with silent laughter. “What the hell is that supposed to be anyway?”

  Bethany’s chin went up a notch. “It’s two swans with their heads bent together, thus creating a heart. Obviously.”

  Wes winked. “Did they model it after your frigid heart?”

  “Yes. Didn’t they do an amazing job?” Bethany erected her middle finger on the far side of the sculpture, making it visible through the ice. “If you look closely you can see which part of my heart you occupy.”

  “Let me guess. That would be the fuck-off zone?”

  “Bravo, Wes. You can’t discern the basic shapes of animals, but you know your geography.”

  Bethany had the strong, stupid urge to laugh. Not a mean laugh, either. A good, long, belly laugh. Sparring with Wes had always been kind of a fun pastime, but it was alarming how much she’d been enjoying it lately. For the most part. Every once in a while, he made her stomach jolt with a barb about their age difference. Like yesterday afternoon when they’d met to pick out tiles and he’d joked that she had a few good years left in her. Those comments didn’t roll off her back quite as easily as the others. As much as she wanted to disregard them . . . they smarted.

  But why? Shouldn’t she be grateful for the reminder that they’d been born seven years apart and were totally unsuitable for each other?

  Yes. Yes, she should be. Totally grateful.

  “So. I was thinking of squaring off those archways in the house—”

  “Uncle Wes!”

  A blond streak of lightning split the atoms between Wes and Bethany. A second later, the laughing child was tossed up on his wide shoulders, knocking Wes’s cowboy hat to the ground and leaving his hair in some kind of . . . mesmerizing mess. Needing a distraction from his warm chuckle and haphazard hair, Bethany stooped down and picked up the hat, holding it awkwardly.

  “Hi, Laura,” she greeted the child. “Are you enjoying the party—”

  “Elsa!” Laura’s eyes lit up. “How come you don’t babysit me?”

  It took Bethany a moment to recover from the odd rush of pleasure she experienced over the child recalling her. Even if she remembered her by the wrong name and as a Disney character whom she apparently resembled. “I . . . well, I leave that in more capable hands.”

  Laura’s forehead wrinkled. “What?”

  Wes patted the child’s knee. “What Elsa is trying to say, kid, is that she ain’t the babysitting type.”

  “What type is she?”

  “Less make-believe, more make-miserable.”

  Bethany and Wes traded toothy smiles.

  “Did you make that ice, Elsa?” Laura pointed past her shoulder at the frozen swans. “With your powers?”

  Not wanting to disappoint, Bethany leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Yes, but you can’t tell anyone. Our secret, okay?”

  “Okay,” she responded in a hushed tone, though her feet were kicking in tandem against Wes’s shoulders. “Uncle Wes, make her babysit. Please?”

  Wes was looking at her in a quiet way that made her dumb stomach flutter. “I can’t make her do anything, kid.”

  Bethany opened her mouth, then closed it just as fast. Was she really about to offer to babysit? She didn’t know the first thing about entertaining a child. No, it was definitely better to have Laura believe her to be a fictional princess than to bring that illusion crashing down. And it would. “Um.” She clasped her hands together at her waist. “The cake is coming soon. You don’t like cake, do you?”

  “I love it!”

  Having distracted Laura, Bethany let out a relieved breath, but it caught when she saw Wes was still watching her in that knowing manner. Like he was trying to navigate the landscape of her mind and was making headway.

  Or thought he was.

  Good luck, buddy. I can’t even find my own footing in there.

  “Bethany!”

  She turned to find Stephen approaching with a bottle of Sam Adams in his hand—and she braced herself. Her brother drinking alcohol was never a good thing. He seldom imbibed, usually sticking to energy drinks and smoothies. He couldn’t hold his liquor to save his life, either becoming competitive or so sentimental about the past it made everyone uncomfortable. He was well within his rights to drink on Georgie and Travis’s wedding day, but she couldn’t help but think, Here comes something stupid.

  “Hey there, Stephen,” Bethany said, looking pointedly at the little girl sitting on Wes’s shoulders so her brother would remember not to curse.

  “Hey there,” he repeated, snickering. “I want to introduce you to Travis’s agent, Donny, and his girlfriend.” He turned in a circle. “Hey, where’d they go?” He waved at someone in the distance, who indeed turned out to be the slick couple Bethany had seen arriving earlier. They were flashy Manhattan types, comfortable in their formalwear, and they extended their hands to Bethany with practiced ease.

  “Donny Lynch,” started the agent, bringing the woman forward with a hand on the small of her back. “This is Justine, my girlfriend.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Bethany said, shaking both of their hands. “So nice to meet you.”

  Stephen tipped his beer bottle toward the dark-haired woman. “Justine is a television producer.”

  Justine lifted a shoulder. “Guilty.”

  “I’v
e been telling her Brick and Morty is prime reality-show material.”

  Bethany sighed. Didn’t she have enough on her mind tonight? The caterers were making passes with hors d’oeuvre trays, but she’d only spotted a single cocktail waiter and the sit-down dinner courses would start soon. One of a thousand things could go wrong at any second. “Um. Why is it reality-show material? Because of the family drama?”

  Justine perked up. “Family drama?”

  “No,” Stephen said firmly, lowering his beer bottle. “Because of our unrivaled craftsmanship. We blow those HGTV hacks out of the water.”

  “Now that’s a stretch,” Wes said out of the side of his mouth.

  “I see,” Bethany said, sipping her champagne.

  “I’m still interested in the family drama,” Justine pressed with a wide smile. “I’m sure it’s unavoidable, right?”

  “We managed to avoid it for a long time,” Stephen answered before Bethany could confirm that yes, family drama ran in their veins. Apparently the drama only affected those who didn’t get to make the rules. “We’d still be avoiding it if Bethany didn’t ditch the dream team for a vanity project.”

  Bethany’s mouth fell open at his casual description of something that could make or break her. Prove she was as perfect as everyone assumed . . . or fallible. “Vanity project? Really?”

  Wes whistled under his breath. “That’s not how I’d have put it.”

  “You’ve broken rank, have you, Bethany?” Justine prompted casually.

  Her laugh sounded unnatural. “I am leading my own flip, yes, but—”

  “You’re flipping houses at the same time. In the same town.”

  “Yes,” Bethany and Stephen responded at the same time.

  Justine whipped out her cell phone and pressed the button on what looked like a voice memo app. “Brother and sister, dueling flips, only one will emerge victorious. We’ll call it Flip Off.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Bethany broke in, her nerves beginning to crackle. “There’s no competition.”

  “Isn’t there?” Justine raised a brow. “Even unspoken?”

  “I mean”—Stephen shrugged—“I was certainly planning on kicking your butt.”