It was just something I occasionally did for money.
At that moment the balcony door flew open and the bride—Sophie—ran in, saying to Emma, “I need one more.”
At least it looked like the bride.
Walking down the aisle, she’d been stunning. Her dark hair had been tidily piled on top of her head, accentuating her bright green eyes and long, graceful neck. She’d looked like everything I imagined a bride would want to look like on her wedding day.
Her hair now, though, was everywhere. Technically a lot of it was in a messy bun on top of her head, but long strands of curly hair hung all around her face like she’d just wrestled a bear. She was no longer wearing any makeup, which made her look like a teenager, and she’d switched out the wedding gown for a Celtics jersey and leggings.
She stopped in her tracks when she saw me, and then a big smile slid across her face. “You. Are. My. Hero.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she cut me off with an index finger. “Gimme one sec. I have to finish a project.”
I watched in disbelief as Emma tossed her a Hostess Twinkie, and then she disappeared back out onto the balcony.
“Do I want to know?” I asked, my eyes still on the sliding door.
“Twinkies won’t hurt the Volvo’s paint, so it’s a harmless crime,” she said, turning to look at the bottles of liquor on the shelf behind the bar. “That’s all you need to know.”
I contemplated just exiting the hotel room at that moment, because I didn’t need the hassle of whatever this was, especially when it was just past seven and I was starving.
But when I saw the bride pull her arm back and launch that snack cake off the balcony like a professional quarterback, I decided to stick around for another minute.
“Want a drink?” Emma asked, looking ready to pour herself a tequila shooter.
Before I could answer, the bride came back inside, saying as she closed the sliding door behind her, “We need to switch to something else.”
“What? Why?” Emma asked, pouting. She held up the bottle of tequila and said, “Jose is our friend.”
“Nope.” The bride shook her head and said, “As much as I want to get ripped, I don’t want to end up with my head in a hotel toilet. Pretty sure that’s how you get dysentery.”
Pretty sure that isn’t right, I said under my breath.
“Schnapps, maybe?” Emma asked.
“Objector’s choice,” Sophie said, her lips turning up into a little smile as she tilted her head and looked in my direction. Yeah, she heard me. “What should we drink?”
“Whiskey,” I said, wondering what her usual drink of choice was. Because when she was dressed as a bride, I would’ve pegged her as a cosmo drinker, perhaps someone who enjoyed a nice chardonnay. But this Twinkie-tossing, wild-eyed girl was a bit of a mystery. “Unless you’re dialing back to something lighter.”
“Not at all,” she said, pulling the elastic from her hair and shaking out the half-bun. “But tequila punches too hard.”
“Have a shot with us, Objector,” Emma said, or rather, squealed. “The pizza’s already on the way.”
“First of all, you have to stop calling me that.”
“Why?” Sophie asked, putting her hands on her hips and screwing her eyebrows together. “What’s your real name again?”
“Max,” I said.
“Max,” she repeated, raising her eyes to the ceiling as if it held an opinion on my name. “I mean, that’s a fine name and all, but The Objector is next level.”
“It makes me sound like an off-brand superhero.”
She snorted a little laugh, and I noticed her freckles when she crinkled her nose. “Like a lawyer who got stuck in radioactive waste, right?”
“Exactly,” I agreed.
“Which whiskey, Objector?” Emma asked, gesturing toward the bar. “You’re drinking with us, right?”
“Thank you, but I can’t—”
“Of course he isn’t,” Sophie said, rolling her eyes and climbing onto one of the two barstools. “He is a man, and it’s their job to disappoint us. Please pour me a shot, Em.”
“Didn’t you just call me your hero?” I asked, sliding my hands into my pockets as she ignored me and reached for the shot glass. “Like two minutes ago?”
“Your actions were heroic and I’m very grateful,” she said, circling a perfectly manicured fingernail over the top of the tiny glass and turning her back to me. “But I said what I said. Emma, my love, will you pour my whiskey shooter, please?”