Page 1 of The Accident

1

HE BROUGHT A PORN STAR AS HIS WEDDING DATE!

Kayleigh

The first rule at a wedding is don’t wear white. The second, especially if you’re the cousin who’s still single at twenty-one and the subject of endless sidelong glances at the dress rehearsal, is don’t draw attention to yourself. I break neither rule. My dress is a deep, bruised rose—nothing virginal about it, nothing screaming look at me, either, unless you’re the kind of person who’s really looking. Which, I hope, tonight, includes only one person.

Trevor.

My stepbrother. A gorgeous asshole, with the arrogant smirk and piercing blue eyes and about a billion dollars to his name.

The one who makes me go hot all at once, squeezing my thighs together as my pulse races.

But I shouldn’t feel this way because my mom married his dad a mere two years ago, so we’re related. Not by blood of course, but still … we’re not nothing.

Speaking of which, I enter the wedding venue and spot my mother immediately. Victoria is where she belongs, next to Henry—the aforementioned stepfather—at a table near the front, in the orbit of my aunt and uncle, the photographer, and that one guy who’s always a groomsman. My mom’s hair is swept up in a twist so architectural it could have its own blueprint, and her navy sheath looks tailored to perfection. Her teeth are a bit too white, the way only money can manage. She looks aristocratic, amused, and perfectly at home. Henry’s the same, albeit a male version. He’s a big man, still well-built even in his 50’s. His suit is a graphite shade with a bit of a sheen, and his cufflinks glint like small, predatory eyes every time he moves. Basically, my mom and stepfather look like the old version of the cool crowd at school. I try not to feel inferior.

A server drifts by, all black and white and silent steps, and I take a flute of champagne with a thank you, the words sticky in my mouth. I’m already two glasses down, but no one would know it. My hair is up, the same blonde as Mom’s, only softer, wavy pieces coaxed down to touch my shoulders—bare, since the dress is off-the-shoulder and the early June heat inside the room is turning skin dewy. I’ve done the makeup, not too much, not enough to mask the freckles that dust my nose and shoulders, and my figure is what my mother delicately refers to as “hourglass,” which I’m pretty sure is code for “still hasn’t shed the freshman fifteen.” Or the freshman twenty, in my case. At least the dress flatters. At least I can walk in the heels.

I orbit the room, clutching my glass, exchanging pleasantries with second cousins I’d only ever seen in Christmas cards until today. Aunt Marta’s already gossiping about the floral arch (“it’s silk, can you imagine, at these prices”) and one of Miranda’s high school friends is crying into her phone in the hallway. I keep my smile soft, unremarkable, and my eyes peeled for the only person in the room who matters, and who’s not yet here.

Him again.

Darnit, why can’t I stop thinking about him?

Again, technically, Trevor Cahill is my stepbrother. Practically, he is an event that happens to a room. I met him at the rehearsal dinner for our parents’ wedding, and he’s the kind of beautiful you’re supposed to be immune to once you reach a certain age, but my soul never got the memo. I don’t let myself think about him most days—he’s too old for me, too rich, too obviously not interested in anything but work and whatever gym created those shoulders—but the crush is there, a secret heat that curls low in my stomach every time someone mentions him. He’s thirty-five, he founded some startup that does something with AI, and he’s so far out of my league that I’ve never even bothered to embarrass myself by flirting with him.

Plus, he’s your brother, the voice in my head reminds me.

Right.

I’m so busy not thinking about that tricky little fact that I don’t notice the shift in the room until it’s already happened. It’s like the lights dim an extra shade, or the air thickens, and suddenly all the heads at my end of the hall are angled toward the double doors. I turn, just enough to see.

He’s in black—no, dark, dark charcoal, with a subtle check if you’re close enough to notice. The suit is sculpted to his body in a way that would read as vain if the man wasn’t built for it. He’s tall, not just over six feet but with the kind of posture that makes it look like the ceiling was designed for him. His hair is black, not brown or sandy or whatever all the boys at my college had, and it’s styled back with just enough shine to look effortless. He has the bone structure of a villain from an old movie, but his smile—when he aims it at the person working the coat check—melts something in my chest. There’s a silver tie, a white pocket square, and the kind of wristwatch I’ve only ever seen in magazine ads.

He moves into the room and the conversation drops, just a little, not enough to be rude but enough that I know I’m not the only one noticing. A woman in a flowery dress stops mid-laugh; a waiter steps out of the way without being asked. Even Henry glances over the shoulder of the best man, and his face does a thing that’s almost pride.

But then I see her.

She’s platinum. Not just blonde, but icicle-bright, the kind of color that only happens in bottles or TV studios. The hair is down, all the way to the waist, in loose waves so perfect they could be synthetic. She’s medium height, but that’s not what’s making men’s eyes pop out. It’s the body, squeezed into a tight outfit that’s only slightly more appropriate than hooker-wear. Seriously, the red dress is cut down to there, showing off giant tits, and the skirt of the outfit stops about two inches below her pussy. Couple that with dramatic makeup, and what do we have? A gorgeous, sexy woman who stands out like a hooker at a garden party.

Does my stepbrother care?

Hell no.

She probably is a hooker, and Trevor wouldn’t care.

He smiles like a fucking hound dog, and then leans down to whisper something into his date’s ear. I see her lean into him, like they’ve rehearsed it, or maybe just because she likes how it feels. She giggles prettily, flipping that icy hair over one shoulder, and then moves as Trevor guides her with one hand in the small of her flawless back.

There are micro-reactions all around me: a man at the next table mutters something, a little too loud; a bridesmaid near the bar actually blinks and looks down at her own chest, then back up.

The jaw-dropping couple stop, perfectly framed under a chandelier, and I think even the lighting makes an exception for them. Trevor’s eyes move around the room, taking it in, and for half a second he scans right over me. Nothing flickers on his face. Not recognition, not surprise, not even the faintest hint of acknowledgment. I might as well be one of the waitstaff.

His date, on the other hand, smiles like she’s on stage—a slow, deliberate up-curl of her red lips that’s mesmerizing. Not that anyone’s looking at her face. We’re all staring at her tits because damn, those things defy gravity with every inhale. Then, the couple pauses at the head table.

I remember, belatedly, to breathe.

My stomach does a slow, ugly flip, and I become aware of every single thing wrong with me: the soft pouch at my middle, the way my arms look next to the bare shoulders of every Pilates addict in the room, the fact that my hair is the kind that frizzes in humidity and tonight is no exception. I lower my glass, conscious of my posture, and tell myself that this is what I signed up for, isn’t it? My stepbrother’s a handsome asshole, so of course, he’s brought a date that looks like a porn star.