Best Man

Eva knocks on the door to my hotel room and screams so the entire lodge can hear, “Happy Wedding Day Eve!”

I grin as my fairytale princess dreams dissolve in my head, and I’m faced with the reality, which is, for once, even better.

I’m fucking getting married.

I sit up in my little double bed and blink in the sunlight. Tomorrow night, my wedding night, I’ll share the spectacular Presidential Suite with my husband. Just me and my husband and a massive king bed with silk sheets.

And sex. Lots of hot, wedding-night sex.

My pulse flutters when I think of my hotter fiancé, Aaron. We’ve been together half a decade, had sex probably a thousand times. But sex as man and wife…it’s got to be different, right? Hotter, more intense?

I shiver again just thinking of it. Of being a wife. To Aaron.

Ohmigod.

I’m twenty-three, and in just over twenty-four hours, I will be Mrs. Aaron Eberhart!

I scramble out of bed, doing a little dance of excitement, and tear open the door, a big grin on my face. Eva has her blonde hair in a loop atop her head and is wearing Lycra pants and a hoodie, straight outta eight AM yoga. She’s also holding a bag of Danishes and two big traveler mugs of coffee. “And how’s my favorite bride?” she sings.

I rub my hands together and grab the coffee. “Great. Tell me this is black.”

“What kind of best friend do you think I am? After twenty years of being besties, I think I know how you take your coffee.” She opens the bag and pulls out a round Danish, laying it on a napkin. She sits down at the little table and pulls her knees up to her chest, biting into a raspberry. “Danish?”

I wrinkle my nose as I sip the coffee. “I have a dress to fit into, remember?”

“Really? For what?” she asks with mock confusion. Then she smiles. “Just take a whirl on the elliptical downstairs later. Hope you’re ready to spa yourself silly today.”

“Oh, yes. I’m so in. I need to do something to these nails.”

I hold them out and she inspects them. They’re practically chewed to the quick because of all the nervous energy I have. I’m an awful nail-chewer.

“Yikes. You definitely need a mani-pedi. Your dad’s paying for anything we want done?” She reaches into her gym bag and pulls out the Midnight Lodge Spa brochure. “Because I think I’m doing the chocolate and champagne decadence massage and body facial.”

I shrug. “He said, and I quote, ‘It isn’t every day my only daughter gets married. Treat yourself!’ My mom’s doing the works. But chocolate and champagne? I think I gained ten pounds just hearing that.”

She eyes my body, which I’ve been beating into submission with PiYo classes and endless dieting since Aaron proposed, nineteen months ago. “You look great.”

I spin around in front of the full-length mirror, zeroing in on my butt in the boxers I’m wearing. I’ve squatted enough to give myself a little shelf back there, and I hardly jiggle at all anymore. “I’m so excited. I can’t wait to see Aaron’s jaw drop when he sees me. I keep dreaming about it.”

She smiles. “Oh, he’ll be unable to take his eyes off you.”

I frown. The truth is, Aaron hasn’t really noticed my transformation at all. But that’s because I wear baggy clothes most of the time. In the dress, with the help of the corset to cinch my waist and push up my boobs, it’ll be obvious. “He better.”

In my mind, the scene is set: The distant mountains, the crisp air, the robin’s-egg-blue sky, loving family from far and wide. And up ahead, the man. The man of my dreams. I thrill for the thousandth time in an hour and grab a tank and yoga pants to change into, then knot my hair up on top of my head in a messy bun. “Ready!”

I’m excited to go downstairs. Because we’ve brought over five hundred guests in, it’s almost like we own the place. Everywhere I look, there’s someone I know and love. I hug some friends from college in the elevator, and when I get down to the lobby, a crew of cousins and aunts and people I don’t even know begin to whistle the Wedding March. I grin and bow, blushing, and they all applaud.

I want to bottle this moment and keep it forever.

The only thing that would make it more perfect would be if Aaron was here with me.

But he’s not. I scan the vast lobby but don’t see him anywhere. Maybe he’s at breakfast.

We cross past the floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace to the little restaurant, following the sounds of chattering and silverware clinking to a packed room. I look around and spot all ten of my bridesmaids, as well as the two flower girls and the ring bearer, sitting around a big circular table.

But no Aaron.

Eva and I go over to my bridal party. While Natalie and Cara are good friends from high school that Eva and I both know, the others are distant family members and even some of Aaron’s family, whom I don’t know so well. But Aaron has so many friends—mostly frat brothers—that he couldn’t narrow it down to less than ten, so in order to keep things even, I ended up asking people I barely knew.

I hug Natalie and Cara and wave at the others, then give my three little five-year-old triplet cousins kisses. “Hi! Everyone having fun? Ready for spa time at ten?”

They all nod, and the little girls, wearing matching “flower girl” tank tops, clap their hands. I hug them tight and kiss their chubby cheeks again. “You two are going to look so beautiful!” I gush.

Natalie gives a whoop. She says, “Hey, girl. You hear about the bachelor party?”

Uh-oh. I’m not sure I want to. The skin on the back of my neck prickles. “What about it?”

“Nothing. Just that Mike didn’t get home until six.”

Mike is her husband. He seemed kind of sedate when I met him, which I’d thought was a good thing. Aaron’s claim to fame is rocking the roof off parties, so I hoped a couple of sticks in the mud would prevent him from getting out of hand.

Or so I thought.

“In the morning?” I blurt stupidly.

She nods.

I straighten. Well, that explains why Aaron is MIA. But I don’t get it. The bachelor party yesterday was skiing at Winter Park. Then they were maybe going to have a few beers and chill out. A little low-key après-ski fun, Aaron had said, nothing too wild.

But six in the morning? That sounds…worrisome. I can’t help but get a sinking feeling in my stomach. “What? What did they do?”

She shrugs. “They went to some club. I don’t know. But when he came in, he smelled like a brewery, and then he started puking all over the bathroom.”

“A club? That doesn’t sound low-key.” I rub my temples, still unable to shake the sinking feeling brought on by memories of Old School Aaron.

The Aaron he promised he’d left behind. Because he loves me.

Oh, god.

Noticing my alarm, Eva reaches out and jiggles my arm. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

I’m not so sure.

Aaron used to pride himself on being the ultimate party guy. If a friend did a keg stand, he’d do two. If a brother danced on the bar in their D-Phi cellar, he’d do it naked. His frat nickname was Guppy, because he drank like a fish, all the time.

He always had to push the limits, especially when alcohol was involved.

We used to have all these fights because he wouldn’t ever turn away from any woman who flirted with him. Because sometimes he did worse than flirt—when he was drunk.

I look at Natalie. “Did Mike say anything…about Aaron?”

She gives me an apologetic shrug. “No. Sorry.”

I stay quiet, realizing I’m the hostess and this isn’t a good time to have a freak-out, but the second I can break away, I dial Aaron’s cell.

It goes right to voicemail.

I dial it again, expecting a different result, but no. Voicemail again.

All sorts of cringeworthy images start to bloom in my head. Winter Park was probably full of cute little ski bunnies in tight outfits, and Aaron has always had an eye for pretty women.

More than an eye when he’s drunk, which was what inspired our last breakup.

Oh, gosh, relax, Lia! You’re overreacting.

That was nineteen months ago, before he grew up, proposed, and became a changed man. Sure he still drinks, but other than that, he’s a virtual saint, now. I just hope he didn’t overdo it in the drinking department and hurt himself.

I quickly jab in a text: U ok?

I stare at the text, willing him to respond, but he doesn’t. Then I look up and see a kind, familiar face, smiling at me across the restaurant.

It’s my ninety-year-old Mimi, my great-grandmother, from Sacramento. I haven’t seen her in years.

I almost run over a waiter carrying a full tray of breakfast on my dash to her. I’m bawling by the time I get there. She’s dressed to the nines, as usual, in a polyester pink suit, with pink lipstick to match. Her hair is dyed platinum—she looks like Barbie as a grandmother. I hug her excitedly. “Mimi! I’m getting married!”

“I know, sweetheart,” she says in her soft but gravelly voice as I crouch in front of her table. “You look positively glowing, Dahlia. I couldn’t miss my favorite great-grandchild’s big day.”

I’m not her favorite great-grandchild; all of us are. She has about thirty great-grandchildren scattered about the country and never misses a birthday for any of them. I know the tears I’m crying will probably blotch up my face, but I can’t help it. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Of course! Though I really thought I’d be coming in for Weston’s wedding, first. What happened to him?”

I look around for my older brother, West. He was invited to the bachelor party festivities last night, but had said he was “beyond” that, considering he’d just turned thirty. Plus, the guy’s always working. It’s a shame. He would’ve made a nice fly on the wall for me. “Oh. Well, he’s probably at the gym. Or working. You know him.”

She gives her head a disappointed shake. “Does he even have a girlfriend?”

I shake my head. West has lots of girls. So many, I’ve lost track. He eats them up and spits them out like sport. “No one special.”

“Ah, that’s a shame. He’s so handsome. Speaking of handsome, where is your fiancé? Aaron, is it? I hear he’s quite the dish. I’d like to meet him.”

“Oh, yes.” I gnaw on my lip a little, until I realize that’s probably not good for my overall look, either. “He had a late night with his bachelor party, but he’ll be around shortly. How was your flight? Can you believe this place? Your grandson went all-out on this.”

“It’s just fine.” She looks around, her lips puckering in distaste. “Yes. It’s quite nice. But you know, it isn’t so much the event as it is the man, don’t you think?”

“Yes. Of course. I mean—”

“All this stuff is nice, but,” she leans in closer, as if she’s about to tell me some great Mimi wisdom, “it’s not really necessary, is it?”

“Well…no. But it’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, right? Might as well do it right.”

“Right? Your great-grandfather and I got married at city hall and shared a funnel cake on the boardwalk in Santa Monica. That was right for us,” she says, her eyes misting a little, likely caught in the memory.

I smile and pat the wax-paper-thin skin on the back of her hand. That’s nice and all, but Aaron and I agreed on this: Go big or go home. He loves parties. Lives for parties. And I want something people will remember. This is the way to do it. I’ve been planning this forever. This is right for us.

I straighten and say, “Well, I’ll be sure to introduce you to Aaron when he comes down. Are you coming to spa day?”

She shakes her head. “Oh, no. That’s for you young girls.”

“You’re young!”

She waves a hand at me. “Oh, go on, Dahlia.”

“Okay, well…I’ll see you later?”

She nods. “Have fun, sweetheart.”

I hug her, inhaling her too-sweet Jean Nate, then go off to find Eva and the rest of the girls waiting for me.

I check my phone. The appointment’s at ten and we have about fifteen minutes to get down there. I can just imagine sitting in a mud bath, immobile, fretting over what Aaron’s up to and whether he’s drowning in a pool of his own vomit. That’ll be really relaxing.

“Eva, you know…why don’t you take the girls down there and get started? I’m just going to go up and check on Aaron.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Are you sure?”

I wave her away. “Yes. I’m sure. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

I take the elevator up to the second floor, find his room, and knock on the door. I listen. Nothing.

I knock louder.

Oh, great. He’s been the responsible, model boyfriend for the past nineteen months…and he picks now to go wild?

I knock until my knuckles start to ache.

Nothing.

“Whoa. Bridezilla. Chill out.”

I cringe at the sound of the deep baritone behind me. That can only belong to one person in the entire world.

I whirl around to see Miles. All six-feet-plus-plenty-more-inches of him. My face automatically twists into a scowl. That’s the effect my fiancé’s best friend has on me.

I cross my arms, trying my best to ignore the fact that he’s shirtless and drenched, his board shorts clinging to his defined thigh muscles. He has a towel slung over one shoulder and his dark hair is spiky with water. Miles Foster is, in every sense of the word, perfection.

And he knows it.

Smug bastard.

His room is right across the hall from Aaron’s. He stops there and reaches into his pocket, so I get a view of his broad back. Yep, perfection from that side, too. Not a freaking blemish, and muscles to make a girl weep, his spine and the dimples on his lower back making a perfect arrow pointing right to his ass.

I have very little memory of our first night together, but what I do remember? I don’t want to remember. Not at all, and yet I do. Remember. Stuff. Like… his ass is like a squeeze toy. Once you get it in your hands, you simply. Can’t. Stop.

It’s unfair that God felt the need to grace an asshole with such gifts.

“You’re dripping all over the floor, dumbass,” I say to him.

He finds his key card and swipes it, pushing open the door to his room. He’s ignoring me, something he’s gotten very good at over the five years we’ve known each other.

He saunters inside and is about two seconds from slamming his door on me when I shout out, “Wait!”

He holds the door and turns in a leisurely way, stroking scruff that is forever bordering on a full-on beard. “Yeah?”

I point behind me. “Little help?”

He leans casually against the doorjamb, takes the end of his towel, and rubs it through his hair so it gets spikier. Little droplets spray me in the face. Jerk. “What?”

“Well…” I let out an exasperated sigh. “You were out with him last night, weren’t you? Is he in there? Is he okay? I have five hundred guests downstairs and they’re beginning to wonder about him.”

His lips twist in amusement. “Yes. I was with him. Yes, we skied, and then we went to a club. Yes, we got home late. And yes, he’s okay. So stop worrying, Bridezilla. You have twenty-four hours until the blessed event of the year. Your perfect wedding will go off without a hitch, I’m sure.”

My scowl deepens. “Is it too much to want to see him myself? Speak to him?”

He crosses the hallway and comes up close to me, so I can smell the chlorine from his swim, see the green flecks in the angry-storm-blue irises of his eyes. I’m more than a foot shorter than him, a fact that’s never been so obvious as it is now when he’s towering over me with all his naked gorgeousness on full display.

I nearly choke on my breath.

The door clicks closed behind him. “Don’t you have a seaweed wrap or some other form of torture to put yourself through, which you think will make you look better for tomorrow but will in fact do absolutely nothing noticeable but drain your daddy’s wallet?”

“I…” That is Miles’ power. He lives to strike people speechless. He’s ridiculously perceptive, the way he reaches into a person’s soul like that and strikes all the right chords. He’s like some kind of wizard that way. He’s the kind of guy who goes his own way, and at first, you think he’s nuts, and then you start to realize he’s actually brilliant as fuck. I hate that about him. “What? Look, I just want to talk to Aaron. My fiancé.”

He’s looking into my eyes, assessing me with that same superiority that makes me feel about three inches tall. And then he says, “You need to get your nails done.”

I look down. Yes, my nails are atrocious. But how did he know? Had he even looked at my nails? And what kind of guy goes around peeking at women’s fingernails?

I ball my hands into fists, dangerously close to punching him.

Probably not a good way to feel, twenty-five hours before my wedding. With my luck, I’ll end up breaking my hand on all his glorious hardness, and what a great honeymoon in Maui that’ll be.

I skirt away from him and back down the hallway. “Look. Can you just have him call me when you get him up? He really needs to be downstairs, stat. Thanks.”

I walk quickly, my skin crawling all over from the encounter. I know his eyes are on me, following my every step away from him.

I can’t believe that he…and I… once…

Ugh. That is not something to think about on the eve of my marriage to his best friend.

I wonder if the Midnight Lodge Spa has delousing treatments.