“Or Aleck,” Preston adds.

The table erupts into laughter as if they’re aware their friend Winter “Baby Bulldog” Sommers is an enormous pain in the ass.

“Only raised blood pressure at this point,” I say calmly. “But there’s still time.” Leaning back in my chair, my gaze takes in the way Winter watches my mouth when I speak.

“Yeah, well, you’re pretty anger-inducing, yourself.” She lifts an eyebrow, and all I notice is the way she bites her bottom lip. Especially when her lips are painted red like that.

“Well, you two are both life savers. Wedding savers, at the very least. Sondra and I want to thank you both, from the bottom of our hearts.” Preston raises his glass higher, and the table follows suit, raising their glasses in a toast.

“To Winter and Aleck,” Sondra says, prompting everyone to drink.

I watch Winter’s lips sip her champagne slowly. My eyes drag up to hers and she’s watching me as well.

“Don’t thank me,” I say. “Just make sure this one sticks because this is the last wedding I’ll ever take part in.”

I smirk, and Winter rolls her eyes.

“Until your own,” Sondra adds.

Winter almost spits her champagne across the table. “Ha! Fat chance of Señor Lady Killer ever getting married.”

“You’re one to talk, Baby Bulldog,” I jab back.

“An ice cube has a better chance of surviving hell,” she says with a snort.

“Not if said ice cube was chipped from your shoulder. That shit would be ten inches thick and virtually indestructible,” I retort.

Everyone at the table looks around at each other, not knowing if they should laugh or dive under the table for cover. They don’t know this is what we do. We push each other into corners with verbal jabs and insults until we’ve sucked up all of each other’s oxygen. Then there’s no choice but to maul each other to get our air back.

“Uh-oh,” Sondra sings, peeking at her friends from over her champagne glass. “Looks like Winter has met her match.”

Dottie and Keith raise their glasses and take sips through their shit-eating-grins. Winter narrows her eyes on her friends and crosses her arms over her chest.

Little brat. She looks like a goddess but acts like a damn child. Whoever she ends up with someday will have to be decently out of their fucking minds to have to deal with her.

* * *

After dinner and a visit from Chef Pompey, a friend of my father’s, we make our way to the resort bar. Thankfully, I called ahead of time to reserve a table because the bar is packed. The wedding crowd for this weekend’s wedding has arrived.

“Honestly,” Preston says, talking about his grandmother. “I’d be happy if we set her on fire and sent her out to sea, I don’t necessarily need a funeral. Shit, we’re out of whiskey. Babe...” he calls to the other end of the table, to Sondra, who’s sitting between Winter and Keith. “Is there any wine left?”