“Ahhh, thatsh what you always say, bruuhhh.”

“Yeah, either that or, ‘I’ve never felt this way before.’”

Willow looked Derek in the eye. “Whatever. You’ll see. I’m bringing Eden to your wedding. Stealing the show right out from you and Mara.”

Derek jabbed a tattooed finger in his chest. “Don’t fuck up my wedding. And you’re fucked in the head if you think you’re getting a plus one.”

“What? Everyone else gets a plus one!”

“You’re not everyone, Ginger. Do you want to get kicked out of the groom party, altogether? You’re already on thin ice with the kilt thing.”

Psycho blinked his bugged-out eyes. “You’re Derek’s groomsman?”

“Sure am, Tiger. The second-best man.”

“Stop calling yourself that,” Derek snapped.

“Not going to happen.” Willow clapped a hand on Psycho’s shoulder. “Do you wanna wear a kilt to the wedding? It looks fantastic. Everyone at my cousin Marty’s wedding got laid and it was one hundred percent down to the kilts.”

“Reeeally?” said Psycho with interest. “What colour?”

Derek jammed his elbow into Willow’s side. Somehow, he kept getting him in the same spot. “Ow! Can you fucking stop that?”

“Can you stop repping kilts? Isn’t it bad enough you’re gonna be in one and throw off the whole vibe?”

“No, it’s what my people do!”

“Steal attention?”

Willow scoffed. “If I wanted to steal attention, I’d show up in a tux. Look just like James Bond.”

Psycho giggled and even Derek smiled. He wasn’t good-looking, at least not in a James Bond way. He was an old school ginger with orange hair and neon freckles. That and his big Scottish nose had got him compared to Nigel Thornberry more than once. It had broken his heart, but his high school girlfriend hadn’t exactly been wrong.

Byron—Derek’s best man—was good-looking. Psycho was good-looking. Even Derek was good-looking, if you were into grumpy cunts. He, on the other hand, had to rely on charm, money, having an eight pack, being able to cook, mastering oral sex and working as a professional football player. Not a bad arsenal, but that still didn’t mean he was the kind of guy a goddess like Eden was into.

She was still on stage, filming herself on someone’s phone before tossing it back to them. She moved like a ballerina, all floaty confidence, even in her ripped wedding dress.

Psycho gave a low whistle. “Very nice.”

“Yeah.” Willow watched her ass as she spun. “Some man on Instagram paid her a hundred bucks to spit on him.”

“I had a guy do that to me in under-eighteens for free,” Psycho said.