And, yup, the first guy I spot inside the room has whales on his tie. Called it.

The second guy is Flip. The welcoming smile slides right off his face when he sees me. My gaze swings from him to Hannah, who’s standing arm in arm with her groom-to-be. My sister’s expression doesn’t chill, though. If anything, she’s eyeing me with concern.

And then there’s Asher St. James. He’s leaning casually against a chair, his hair flopping theatrically across his forehead, a cocktail glass in his hand.

For a quick second, I wonder if it’s possible that he didn’t even see the texts. The thread was full of engagement party planning stuff. He’s probably too busy chatting up famous athletes and models to bother with my drunken rants.

A man can hope.

But the exact moment he registers my arrival, that hope dies. Asher doesn’t frown at me, though. It’s worse than that. So much worse.

A corner of his handsome mouth tilts up. And he smirks.

That’s when a chill enters my body. Because it’s go-time. No more rehearsals, just three awkward apologies.

Slowly, I cross the room toward Hannah, Flip, and Asher. One of them is frowning. One looks worried. One looks smug.

The answer is, yes, this night can suck more.

NINE

The Sliding Scale of Hotness

Asher

And here I thought engagement parties were dull.

This one might have been, in spite of the fact that I’m throwing it. My opinion of marriage rituals is ambivalent at best. But here comes the bride’s brother slinking through the door, looking like a kid who’s just been caught putting a snake in the teacher’s desk. A venomous one.

So this party just got a whole lot more interesting.

Ever since meeting Mark several months ago, I haven’t known what to think about the buttoned-up banker with the midnight blue eyes. He’s always struck me as mild-mannered and carefully inoffensive. Like a striped tie, or a white dress shirt. I’m sure he owns both. In multiples. If he has a car, I bet it’s silver.

He works at a Wall Street bank, for fuck’s sake, doing something with math or spreadsheets. “He’s in derivatives,” Flip once said, and I’d shuddered because the word made me think of failing out of calculus class in college.

Sometimes, though, if you get a few drinks in a guy, the truth comes out. That’s what happened last night, I suspect. A little after midnight, when Flip and I were out on the balcony of his apartment, smoking a couple of Cubans I scored off a client, both our phones started pinging with drunk texts from the mild-mannered banker.

I should probably feel guilty for reading them. It was immediately obvious to both of us that Mark had only meant to text his sister. The four-way group text had begun only yesterday, as a quick way for me to plan this spontaneous engagement party, and Hannah was the last one to weigh in with an exclamation-laden (I can't wait for the party!!!) reply.