How to Ruin a Wedding(34)

“I can’t parallel park.”

I bark out a laugh and drop down on the bed, bouncing lightly on the mattress. “Tragic.”

He smirks, then pushes off the doorframe and nods toward the kitchen. “Wine? Water? Do you need some time to settle in?”

The way he says wine—low, intimate, like a secret, delicately wrapped gift—makes my mouth go dry.

“Water.” Better to keep my head on straight, especially with how my body heats the more time Anders and I spend in this room together.

He returns with two glasses, one dark, one transparent. He hands me the water, his knuckles brushing mine when I take it, and the heat burns through me, like a rubber band was pulled tight and snapped across the skin he touched.

“Okay,” I say, trying to pretend I’m a normal, sane, not-at-all-horny woman. “I have some general ideas for interfering with the wedding, but I need to gather my thoughts, get more info, get on Valerie’s good side.”

He doesn’t sit right away. He watches me for a moment, sipping his wine, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then he walks over and takes the spot beside me.

“Let’s hear those wedding types again,” he says. “Lust, Trust, and Rust?”

“Right,” I confirm. “Valerie’s feels like a cross between lust and delusion. She met John during a rebound spiral and thinks the universe gave her a gift-wrapped husband.”

“And she’s big on signs,” Anders adds. “Which is why you brought up the psychic. You don’t actually know a psychic, do you?”

“No, of course not,” I say, “but it’s a good play to plan.”

He sighs. “I feel a little guilty about this,” he admits, “but I’m willing to feel anything if it means helping Val make the right choice about her future. I want her to be happy. And I don’t think John can do that. Not forever.”

“Well,” I say, “then I’ll do my job.”

“You’re more than just the job,” he says, so quietly I almost miss it.

But I hear it. And, unfortunately, so does my heart.

I shift in my seat. “You’re paying me to be here, Anders.”

“I know.”

There’s a silence between us, charged and buzzing like static on skin. The kind that makes your body restless no matter how much you move. A constant thrum of nerves and heat.

He’s too close.

The room is too quiet.

And it’s been too damn long since I’ve been this attracted to someone—just his brushing my skin for half a second shoots arrows of heat and awareness between my thighs.

I jump to my feet. Don’t be an idiot. This is a job—he is your boss. Pull it together. “I’m so tired. I have to get ready for bed before I pass out mid-conversation.”

Anders doesn’t press. He nods, then moves toward the door. He pauses there, one hand on the knob, the other in his pocket.

“If you need anything, get it. Or let me know, and I’ll get it for you.”

“Okay,” I say.

Our eyes lock for a heartbeat too long.

“Okay,” he repeats, breaking the spell.

Then he shuts the door, and I drop backward onto the bed, slapping a hand over my mouth, my pulse hammering in my throat.

Already, I’m getting lost in Anders’s gaze, his warm words, his easy way—enough that it’s becoming a distraction from my actual purpose here.

And it’s only the first night.





10.


My first impression of Valerie was an intriguing combination of spoiled, self-aware, selfish—but with a dash of kindness and a hint of warmth. Those traits still rang true after six hours of venue scoping. However, with those characteristics in place, I thought she’d take more of a back seat in wedding planning, maybe hire a handler.

Now we’re at our seventh venue of the day, sunlight still pouring over us in Valerie’s convertible, the breeze tangling my hair into wavy knots. I’m convinced she’s purposely wasting time. There is no venue for her. She only wants the marriage on paper, not a grand event—though even that feels off. Everything about her screams Look at me; I know you want to, and I admire my admirers.

And yet here we are, speed dating buildings. Had Bethany not pressured her into a wedding, a real one, Valerie would be out drinking wine and socializing with friends—so she has reminded me multiple times as we continue with our scouting. Is this some subconscious sabotage? Surely this modest art gallery the employee is leading us through isn’t as good a fit as the others we visited. Valerie had hated each one more than the last.

Bed and breakfast? (Too homey. Meant for those “over the hill” and on their third marriage.)

Church? (Beautiful stained-glass windows, sure—but hard to get married in a place where she once hooked up with the priest’s son.)

Garden? (One gnat flew in her face, and she turned us around.)

Boat? (If anyone got sick during the ceremony, she’d shove them overboard.)

Hotel? (Too pretentious.)

Beach? (Not pretentious enough.)

The employee stops by an arched opening. “I’ll let you two wander. Do let any of the staff know if you have questions.”

Valerie barely waits for her to finish before she marches into the first room, heels clattering on the floor. I hurry after her, my battered sneakers leaving less of an impressive echo.