The Worst Wedding Date

I am doing this for Emma.

I am happy to do this for Emma.

But I still scrub my face way longer than necessary to try to wash out the image of Theo in all of his naked glory on the bed, holding his thick erection against the backdrop of miles of muscles and tattooed skin.

He’s an objectively attractive man.

I can admit that.

I can also very firmly know that I will never act on any kind of attraction to Theo. Who jerks off in the same bed as someone they’re not even friends with?

And don’t tell me that’s not what he was doing.

Theo Monroe has taken perverse joy in tormenting me—or at least making sure I knew he thought I was no fun—for as long as I can remember. And while I can appreciate that a grown man wouldn’t want a babysitter, I cannot appreciate that he’d masturbate in the same freaking bed.

I cannot get clean enough.

And also why am I wondering if he knows how to use his equipment for the benefit of someone else?

It’s because he’s so very wrong for me, and it’s been too long since I’ve dated, and I’m getting tired of my mother throwing businessmen from Denver at me and talking about suitable matches and continuing the family line like we’re some kind of Manhattan socialites instead of a small family who worked hard in the right business at the right time with the right plan.

And because he looked so fun when he was smiling at the pool yesterday.

So fun.

Oh, god.

I will not have my rebellion moment at my best friend’s wedding. I will not have my rebellion moment at my best friend’s wedding. I will not have my rebellion moment at my best friend’s wedding.

I can wait a freaking week, and then I can have my rebellion moment.

Okay.

Now that I’ve reminded myself what this is, and now that I have my rebellion mentally scheduled on my calendar for a more convenient day, my entire outlook on life is significantly improved.

And it only took forty-eight minutes in the shower to get here.

With the door locked.

And several minutes of self-talk about how I did not need to work out any frustrations by touching any of my own erogenous zones because I do not masturbate to thoughts of Theo Monroe.

My mother would be horrified.

Not that I talk to her about who I think about while I’m masturbating—or that I masturbate at all.

She’d be horrified at the idea that I own a vibrator. Vaginas are no-no boxes. Penises are danger sticks. And sex will ruin your life with babies you can’t take care of after the man who put his cooties in your no-no box leaves you without child support.

Yet here I am, with fresh images of Theo Monroe’s penis in my head.

“Stop it stop it stop it,” I mutter to my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Or really, in the general vicinity of where my reflection should be.

That was one steamy shower.

Theo takes steamy showers.

I stifle a frustrated groan and turn around to grab my luggage, only to remember I didn’t bring it in here with me.

I didn’t.

Bring.

My luggage.

Into.

The bathroom.

Every nerve ending in my body ices over, and I get that sinking feeling in my chest at knowing if I had my own hotel room, I could dash out into the bedroom in a towel and no one would see me or care.

But while Theo might be perfectly comfortable letting it all hang out—or point out—I am not.

Too many years of being told it’s up to me to not tempt men into impregnating me with scandalous looks. Too many years of being told I have to be a model citizen. To be perfect. That if I’m going to take over Kingston Photo Gifts one day, I need to make sure there are no questionable pictures of me in existence.

Breaking up with Christopher and realizing that while my parents want a safe life for me, I want to live, has made me reconsider a lot of what I tell myself about work and fun. And sex. And life.

I’ve gotten way more comfortable in my own skin in the past year, but showing Theo my skin is way different from being comfortable in my own skin.

Not that there’s any danger of me sleeping with Theo. In the having sex kind of way.

But I still get to choose who sees me nearly naked. I did not want him seeing me in the only pajamas I brought last night, and I have no intention of letting him see me in them again. Unfortunately, I have nothing else in here to wrap myself in. It’s either the pajamas or a towel.

Or is it? a voice I barely recognize whispers deep inside me.

Do you want to live, Laney? Or do you want to be a prude who’s afraid of letting anyone see your body for your entire life?

Oh my god.

I twirl to look at myself in the mirror, not quite believing that I’m honestly considering giving Theo a taste of his own medicine by walking out of this door completely naked, but I still can’t see myself.

Too much steam in the already humid room.

But seriously.

Why can’t I walk out of here naked?

Why shouldn’t I own the skin I was born in?

This is what I’ve been trying to tell myself for a year now, isn’t it? Your body isn’t bad. Skin isn’t shameful. Casual sex won’t ruin your life. You get to live.

And here I am, cowering in the bathroom instead of freaking owning it in front of my biggest nemesis.

I’m talking myself into giving a big ol’ fuck it and walking out of this bathroom naked just to prove that I can when I hear the bungalow door close.

Theo’s either coming or going.

Neither’s good.

I hastily wrap myself in a towel, wrench the bathroom door open, and peek out into the suite.

No Theo.

No Theo in the living room.

No Theo in the bedroom.

The second bedroom, though, the one with the closed door and the cat noises—that one has a very clear sign posted on it.

This room is being used for something that it’s best you don’t know about, and yes, it involves nudity and pornographic noises. If you open this door, a security camera will notify me, and photographic evidence that you’re carrying my secret love child will be sent to your parents.

I gape.

And gape some more.

He’s screwing with me.

He has to be screwing with me.

I put my hand on the doorknob. This is stupid. I’m finding out what’s in there once and for all, and then I’ll deal with it.

Right?

Right?

Crap.

Do I really want to know if he’s making porn?

Crap again.

While I’m gaping, Theo’s wandering out there somewhere in the resort, possibly dressed, possibly not, and I can’t be a buffer between him and Chandler if I don’t know where he is.

Which means I need to get dressed and deal with this room later.

I turn away from the door, and three soft mews carry from behind it.

Those are kittens.

Those are definitely kittens.

He’s not—he’s not using kittens to make porn, is he?

He’s not.

He can’t be.

Except it’s Theo.

And he looks like that.

He could be making porn.

Oh my god. He could be making porn. And right now, he’s on the loose.

I dash through getting dressed, then take off out the door.

Where am I going?

No idea.

Where would I go if I were Theo and I wanted to get away from me?

I’m striding toward the lobby and the gift shop, wishing I had a better idea, when I hear my name.

“Laney!”

I spin. “Sabrina. Thank god.”

Sabrina Sullivan is the embodiment of a caffeinated squirrel, and I adore her. She’s about four inches shorter than me, has a dog back home that’s even bigger than she is, and perpetually wears heels or chunky boots so that we almost line up eye to eye, though we both still look up to Emma. Sabrina and I made fast friends in kindergarten when Annabelle Fitzsimmons refused to let either of us play with her favorite doll.

Sabrina set us up a play coffee bar instead—she was born in the kitchen of the original Bean & Nugget, unintentionally, of course, but that’s so on brand for Sabrina—and as soon as she gave me my first sip of imaginary cappuccino, we were bonded for life.

She tackles me in a hug and I get a mouthful of curly red hair as I hug her back tightly like we didn’t see each other just last night.

Pretty sure we both feel like we’re headed into battle, though I don’t know why she feels that way.

“Sleep okay?” she asks me.

“We had to share a bed,” I whisper. “And I woke up and he was all, quit touching my thing, and I was like, I’m not touching your thing, and it was just a cover for him jerking off. He says his hand fell asleep, but honestly, who believes that?”

Her jaw flaps a bit before she finally finds words. “Was the bed shaking?”

Now it’s my turn to do the jaw flap.

Was it?

I don’t think it was, but— “Well, something woke me up.”

“Why did you have to share a bed?”

My eyelid twitches. “He broke the pullout sofa and he won’t let me in the other bedroom and I don’t know why and I don’t believe the reasons he’s telling me.”

Sabrina knows everything. I won’t say she’s a gossip since my mother frowns on gossiping, but I will say she has a gift of knowing when there’s a story, sniffing it out, and sharing it where it needs to be shared for the greater good of all humanity.

So when she wrinkles her nose at me and asks, “What’s in the room?”, I know she doesn’t know either.

Yet.

And honestly? I don’t want to tell her what I think is in the room.

I want to have a secret.

“I don’t know. I heard him leave while I was finishing up in the shower and I figured it was more important to find him before I make him show me whatever’s in the room. And I need to stop by the front desk and ask for maintenance to come straighten out the pullout sofa. But where would he even go? Where’s Chandler?”

“If you can’t guess where Chandler would be, we have even bigger problems than Theo rocking the boat to wake you up this morning.”

“Golf.”

She nods. “Golf.”

“Does Theo golf?”

“I wouldn’t expect in the traditional sense, no.”

“I don’t want to know what the nontraditional sense would be, do I?”

“You probably do in the interest of finally being the fun Laney you keep talking about being, but not today. So. Wanna split up and see if we can track him down?”

“Are you still mad at him?”

“Let it go, Laney. You don’t want this.”

Secrets. Secrets. We all have secrets, don’t we? This is not how Emma’s wedding week is supposed to go.

She points to the gift shop. “I’ll start there. You head to the desk in the lobby and get everything fixed with your room. Emma’s having some secret sorority wedding ritual that she’s super excited about with Claire and a few of their sorority friends who got here last night too. Kinda nice that they have more people since it got moved from yesterday when the kitchen staff didn’t show up.”

I frown. “The kitchen staff didn’t show up?”

“It’s—argh. I think the resort is having some, erm, growing pains. But with all of us on the job, everything will be fine. Take care of you first. Find Theo second. I’ll shoot you an updated calendar. And then we can have lunch.”

I hope we can do lunch.

That’ll depend on Theo. And possibly his cats.

And on what Theo did to make Sabrina mad, and if they can put it all aside for Emma’s sake.

I think Sabrina can.

But Theo?

Theo’s unpredictable chaos.

And I have no idea how I’ll keep him contained.