The Shippers(5)

He looked like hell only if like hell also meant very, very … surprisingly sexy.

I took a deep breath to pull it together.

This was Cooper. He used to sit on me and fart.

But that’s when Cooper lifted those dark blue eyes and looked right at me through his black lashes.

I felt a buzz in response. Like I was a doorbell, somehow, and he was … ringing me.

Had I just tried to convince anyone that Cooper looked bad?

Even Cooper didn’t buy it. He gave me what can only be described as a flirty look and said, “Liar.”

Now he’d gone too far.

It was one thing to crash my wedding—late—in full Patagonia and walk in here with all those muscles. It was quite another to give me a flirty look.

This was a kid I’d peeled grapes with so we could call them eyeballs. This was a kid who’d dared me to suck a spaghetti noodle up my nose. This was a kid who’d hocked Jell-O cubes out of his mouth into the air so I could catch them in mine.

We were way past flirting.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

He shrugged. “My oldest friend is getting married.”

“So?”

“So, I should be here.”

“You RSVPed no. With extreme prejudice.”

“I was being an ass.”

“Yes. You really were.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Cooper said.

“No, you’re not.”

Somewhere, in a distant land, an ancient lady named Mrs. Allen was waiting for me to start my bridal procession.

But how could I do that when Cooper was stepping closer—and looking me over?

“You look like a bride,” Cooper said next, in a tone like he couldn’t believe it.

“I am a bride.”

I guess Cooper knew enough about my whole dynamic with Pearce to ask next, “How did you get him to propose?”

I thought about lying. But this was Cooper. We were even more beyond lying than we were beyond flirting. So I confessed: “Ultimatum.” Then I said, almost just to see how Cooper would react, “I told him to shit or get off the pot.”

Cooper blinked and then said, deadpan, “That’s romantic.”

I deadpanned back, “Isn’t it?”

Cooper took in the sight of me again and said, “Well. However it happened, you look beautiful.”

Beautiful? I felt a funny sting in my chest.

I hadn’t even been hoping for beautiful today. I’d just been hoping for not covered in hives.

Had Cooper ever said anything that nice to me before?

But there was a rasp in Cooper’s voice. He meant it.

Then, before I could stop myself, I said, “You don’t think I look like Fozzie Bear?”

At that, Cooper squinted at me like I was equal parts adorable and ridiculous, tilted his head, and repeated—carefully—so I could really hear the question I’d just asked reflected back: “I do not”—a pause—“think that you look”—another pause—“like Fozzie Bear.”

I didn’t appreciate the mockery. But it did make me feel better.

“You,” I said, just to get us back to normal, “look awful.”

“So you’ve mentioned.”

I reached up to tug on his beard, like it might be a vaudeville prop with an elastic strap. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s a beard,” Cooper said.

“I see that,” I said. “But why?”

A hint of a shrug. “Why not?”

“It looks like a pigeon built a nest on your face.”

At that, he broke into a big grin.

“A pigeon with a bad personality,” I added.

“Why do I love it when you insult me?” Cooper asked.

“Because the truth feels good.”

Cooper tilted his head again. “Does it?”

“And I’m not insulting you,” I said. “I’m helping you.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“And what’s going on with this?” I reached up and mussed his hair next. “Is this a man-bun?”

“It’s a ponytail,” Cooper corrected.

I shook my head. “What were you thinking?”

“I grew it out.”

“It’s so bad.”

“You don’t think I look kind of great?”

I sidestepped the question. He did look kind of great. “That hair is a tragedy,” I declared. “Shakespeare could’ve written that hair.”

Cooper was still smiling. “You really hate it.”

“I one thousand percent hate it.”

“That’s a lot of percentage points from a math major.”

“I’m begging you to cut it,” I said. “Stick your head under a lawn mower. Anything.”

“Noted,” Cooper said. Then he added, “You, by the way, look amazing. Just to be clear.”

I didn’t feel amazing. I looked down, like I’d forgotten myself. “I look like I’m wearing someone else’s wedding dress.”

“Are you?”

I nodded, all solemn. “Pearce’s mother’s, to be exact.”