Page 51 of How to Ruin a Wedding

“Then she must have a great ass too,” I point out.

Valerie barks out another laugh. “Okay, please, come to the bridesmaid fitting coming up. Cierra wants me to pick out something for her. This way, I’ll be able to see how the dresses would fit her body type.”

“Just give me a time and place.”

“You’re the best,” she says, and her eyes go wide and deerlike. “Ever since I met you. Who would have thought Anders would have such good taste?”

Anders tightens his grip around me, and I smother all the usual thoughts that float to the surface. TheThis is fake, how will she feel when it comes to light?And, most urgently, in neon flashing lights in the script of a business’s flashingClosedsign:Do not sleep with Anders.

Instead, I ease up and lean into it all. For one night, I’ll just have some fun. I’ve secured another place beside Valerie, and I’ll continue to plant seeds and find cracks to slip in.

But—I grab my water—I’m still going to be sober.It’s a lot safer that way.

We have more rounds of drinks, laugh, and even John opens up, albeit barely, to share some stories about Valerie. Whenever they ask usto do the same, I hurriedly press them for more, and they’re all so drunk nobody seems to notice.

But then Valerie grows curious about me and my life, and it’s easy to share the truth. To talk about busy but loving parents, and precious dogs, and a sister that feels like a soulmate, and I find that opening up to her, to Anders, feelsreal.

I’ve been worried how it’ll affect the people I’m leaving when this is all over. Maybe ... maybe I have to worry about myself.

Despite the new worry, the night passes quickly and lightly. Eventually, John whispers to Valerie, and she announces he has an early morning meeting, and they should get going. We say our goodbyes, and I turn to Anders.

“Should we head out?” I ask, my hands reaching into the pockets of his jeans. “I’ll drive.”

He places his hands over mine, pinning them there. “Not yet,” he says, his gaze warm and focused. “I don’t want this night to end.”

“Why?” I say lightly. “You want to spend more time with me?”

It’s a joke, at least to me, but Anders moves his hands to my wrist, his thumb caressing the skin there. “I do,” he says, and there is no humor in the declaration.

Though his words elicit warmth throughout my body, I notice then that he’sdrunk. The sight of him, his eyes wide and pleading, and his lips just slightly pouted, is so incredibly endearing and a little pathetic—which somehow makes him even sexier.

“I don’t know,” I sing, holding out the possibility like a tease.

His hands move from my arm to the base of my neck. “Please?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

The sound of it, the sight of him, is like an enchantment. The word is out of me before I can think it. “Okay.”

14.

“I’m telling you,” I say as Anders hands me the cue stick he just chalked, “I am humiliatingly bad at pool.”

“Nobody is bad at pool,” he swears, placing all the balls in a triangle and centering them.

“Well, I can’t wait to prove you wrong.”

He smiles as he finishes setting up, then gestures for me to take the lead. “You know the rules, right?”

“I do,” I mutter, “but it doesn’t help.” I break the balls—barely. The white one moves at a snail’s pace, and the impact scatters them scarcely an inch from their original positions.

Anders coughs into his hand.

I point the cue stick at him. “Don’t you dare laugh at me. I told you I was bad.”

“Not laughing,” he says, taking over my spot and moving so quickly I barely have time to prepare. He hits the white ball with a resounding smack, and two stripes slap into opposite pockets.

I lean on the side of the table. “This feels like a humiliation ritual.”

He smiles. “I won’t go again.” He reaches for me, positioning me by the white ball. “Even if I get a stripe, I’ll just hit it once. We’ll go back and forth.”