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Chapter One

Chapter One

ANNIE

I caught

a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I sat on a giant, round pouf of a chair. It was purple and squishy, and I almost fell off when I gave it a test bounce. I could see the headline in the gossip rags in the morning: “Guest at Celebrity Wedding Bashes Her Head While Avoiding Festivities.”

I didn’t need that. I just needed a moment, as one does when one is a bridesmaid. Again.

This was wedding number fourteen, and counting. Not that I was counting, because counting was liable to make me feel depressed about all the bad blind dates and internet match-ups that had not even led to a friend with benefits who’d throw on a tux and accompany me to my best friend Nikki’s wedding.

I was batting a zero. Was that a thing? Whatever. This was not a time to feel sorry for myself. It was time to find the bar. Or, in the case of this particular wedding, the ice cave.

“Can you believe we have a vodka tasting room made of ice?” Nikki had asked, shaking her head in the bridal suite earlier. Apparently, the wedding planner was the boss of everything and she’d insisted on an igloo. “So keep your eyes peeled for the rack of PETA-friendly fur coats. Before you go into the tasting room, which is like twenty degrees below zero, you get to put on a coat and pose with a live seal,” she said like that was normal.

Her now-husband Chris, who had gazillions of dollars thanks to the many, many superhero action films he’d starred in, had insisted on hiring the planner because he thought it would take some of the pressure off of Nikki. The result was a dove release at the end of the ceremony, a nineteen-piece orchestra playing at the reception, and a life-sized ice sculpture in the shape of Venus on the Half Shell, which held the largest display of seafood I’d ever seen.

I’d be right there. In a minute.

First, there was makeup to freshen and an attitude to adjust. In the mirror, I saw a thirty-one-year-old woman with a pile of peach silk and organza gathered from the floor and draped over one shoulder so as not to tempt fate and whatever unidentifiable germs lurked on the restroom floor. I also saw a tiara. Yup, a freaking tiara, courtesy of a best friend who’d apparently found a sale on princess gear and doled out sparkly headwear to her six bridesmaids without a whiff of irony.

Absent the other merry maids, I looked a little like a Disney princess on the walk of shame, so I took it off. The ceremony was over, photos had been taken, and I was free to pull my tumble of dark, bridesmaid-perfect waves into a haphazard knot that would keep the hair out of my face.

The dress, with its layer of organza over the silk and its spaghetti straps and square neckline—that was all my doing. I’d seen it and loved it on the hanger, convincing myself that it would look equally good on me. For the record, I don’t have the body of a hanger, but the dress, as it turned out, looked even better with hips and other feminine curves filling it out.

On the day I’d bought the dress, I never imagined that three months later, I’d have moved from San Francisco, started a new job, and found myself sitting in a well-appointed restroom of a Bel Air hotel. The room’s design rivaled the nicest spaces I’d ever seen, rooms whose primary use was not primping or pooping. Metal flowers bloomed from the walls, and tall mirrors arched behind a series of pedestal sinks.

I’d timed my absence from wedding party activities precisely. The ceremony was over, we’d taken photos beforehand, and I knew I had at least an hour of cocktail mingling before we’d all be called into the ballroom for the bride and groom’s first dance. I had such accurate knowledge of the timing because… fourteen wedding parties.

My time in the fancy restroom was designed to remind me that my horrible dating record was just a footnote. It didn’t define me. I had a great career and that would fulfill all my earthy wants and needs. Defending white-collar criminals could do that, right?

So far, my job as a lawyer had provided everything a boyfriend couldn’t: stability, activities that lasted late into the night, and the emotional high that came from compliments. “You write a beautiful brief, Annie.” “Your torts make other lawyers jealous, Annie.” “We could all learn a lot from watching Annie litigate.”

Reminding myself of my priorities right after Beautiful Wedding Number Fourteen was the best way to get out of my head and into a party mood. Who cared that my most recent date had dared me to go to the restroom and come back without my skirt on in the middle of dinner?

I was done rehashing bad dates and bemoaning tiaras because now it was go time. From this point forward, I would live in LA and practice law with a single-minded focus. Work would be my great love.

And with that thought, I saw a person ready to celebrate her best friend’s wedding with some tequila, some stupid fun on the dance floor, and an even more stupid hookup. Preferably in the form of one of the groom’s hot fellow actors who had screen-perfect abs and would leave on the next plane to film a movie overseas.

There was at least one groomsman who I was pretty sure I’d seen without his shirt, playing an Air Force captain in a movie. I wasn’t picky. Any actor/model/whatever would do. I just wanted to forget about being the new girl in a strange city for a while. That was tomorrow’s problem.

Tonight’s problem was easily solved at the ice cave and the singles table.

Nikki had described

the game of Tetris that had gone into fitting everyone into a seating chart, and she assured me that my table was the most fun. I assumed that meant she’d thrown me in with Chris’s single actor friends, which boded well for my designs on a hot hookup.

But as it turned out, I never made it to Table Ten.

I found myself drawn to the vodka ice room because the promise of a kiss from a friendly seal was guaranteed action and I wasn’t above stacking my odds. Plus, the mandate for a drink—any drink—topped all other needs.

Unfortunately, the line near the Swan Lake garden had morphed into a medusa of four or five sprawling lines that converged on a single immovable point in front of the fur coat display at the cave entrance. I wasn’t a line cutter, but I also didn’t have much patience. I looked around to see if any servers were walking around with trays of champagne. Or lithium.

“You know, there’s another bar,” said someone with a deep, quiet voice behind me. He spoke so quietly I felt fairly certain he had to be talking to someone else, but he’d spoken so near to my ear that it felt intimate. I turned around, expecting to see a man whispering to a woman close by.

I didn’t care about the intrusion into my personal space. But I did want to follow his journey to this other mythical bar because the one where I stood was going nowhere fast.

When I turned, I met a pair of deep green eyes that immediately felt familiar. In a strange firing of synapses, my mind went straight to my favorite marble in the set I used to play with as a kid. It was the shooter, and as such, it was bigger than the others and weightier when I held it in my hand. However, it was the color that entranced me, a deep forest color with tiny yellow flecks.

I hadn’t seen the marble set in two decades, but I was certain this man’s eyes were the exact shade of green. I was struck by the idea that a memory could be so instantly triggered by a color.

I stared longer than I should have and immediately realized my mistake when his lips started moving and I didn’t hear anything he said.

“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, finally pulling my focus away from his eyes and noticing that the rest of his face was equally arresting. It wasn’t because he was trying to smolder in some model perfect way; he didn’t need to try. He had a gorgeous, angular face, dark hair that was combed and gelled nicely, and crinkle lines around his eyes which indicated he either smiled a lot or had spent many hours squinting at the sun. He wasn’t smiling at the moment, but it didn’t dim the wattage of his bulb.

“I said there’s another bar. A normal one. No one seems to have noticed.” He pointed to the opposite corner of the lawn where we stood. Sure enough, there was a second bar with no more than four people standing around it. No fur coats required. It was a thing of beauty.

“Works for me.” I tilted my head to indicate we should go. I weaved my way out of the crowd and walked through the verdant space toward the other bar. Carrying his suit jacket on a thumb over one shoulder like he’d walked out of a magazine spread, he turned to follow me.

Instead of striding next to me, however, he stayed a few paces behind, saying nothing. After a few moments, I turned to see if he was even still there and noticed he’d fallen farther back and was looking at his phone. He’d put on a pair of nerdy-looking reading glasses which made him look a little like Clark Kent. When he saw me stop, he stowed the glasses and moved faster to catch up.

“Sorry. I’m on a short leash,” he said, his voice still low. He seemed serious about whatever was going on in his world.

“Hopefully your leash is long enough for one drink,” I said, wondering a little about what or who had him tied down. My initial thoughts ranged from girlfriend to serious corporate job. Or if he was an actor, a manager or agent might be a possibility. In my fantasy world of post-wedding hookups, it didn’t matter. I was fine with him remaining mysterious.

“I think I can manage,” he said.

I put his height at over six feet tall, which meant I had to stand back a bit so I wasn’t awkwardly looking up at him. I was above average height for a female, but even in my tall stiletto heels, I was probably about five foot eight. I still had to tilt my chin upward to meet his gaze. And I wanted to meet his gaze. Those eyes.

“Your eyes are navy green,” I said before I realized I was speaking.

“What does that mean? I thought the Navy wore blue,” he said, a small smile telling me he was intrigued.

I shook my head to clear away the dreamy stare before the drooling came next. “When I was younger, I thought navy blue meant really dark blue. So when I wanted to describe dark green or dark purple, I assumed the word

navy

was correct.”

“No one ever corrected you?”

“Oh, they did, but by that time I didn’t care. I knew what I meant when I said navy green, so I went with it. Other people can catch up.”

His smile broadened. “I like that. And by that definition, yes, I guess my eyes are navy green. Better than army green, I guess.”

So much better.

We sidled up to the bar, where the bartender was looking across the lawn in sympathy. “People just follow people,” my new companion said, indicating the other bar.

The bartender nodded. “Yeah, happens all the time. Most guests don’t look around. They look for the crowd.”

“Lucky us. What are you drinking?” he asked me.

“I’d love a tequila and soda with a lime.”

“Sure thing,” the bartender said. “How about you, sir?”

“Dry martini, please. One olive.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Only one olive?”

He returned my skeptical gaze. “You think I’m making an olive faux pas?”

“I mean, it’s your call, but I thought the whole point of drinking a martini was to provide a vehicle for eating olives.”

“Make it two olives,” he told the bartender, who nodded and went about making our drinks.

“Wow, careful. Two? Don’t give in to peer pressure,” I said, unable to keep my sarcasm at bay. An old boyfriend used to carp at me that “sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.” Because I was insecure back then, I questioned my approach to humor until I learned he was quoting Oscar Wilde without realizing it. That was insult enough, but when I discovered that the actual Wilde quote was “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit but the highest form of intelligence,” I saw no need to temper my comebacks. Or date him anymore. For better or worse.

This man didn’t seem perturbed. He extended his hand. “I’m Finn. And I’m quite interested in your olive theory.”

I shook his hand and took the opportunity to look again at his eyes. Yup, exact color of my marble, and that gave me both comfort and a desire to gaze unabashedly. He was almost blindingly handsome. He had a strong jaw, high cheekbones, pretty lips, and the kind of furrow lines in his forehead that made him look brooding and hot. I laid odds he was probably an actor—his face practically required it—though I couldn’t place him in anything I’d seen.

He was looking at me expectantly, and I realized I was still shaking his hand and had yet to introduce myself. “Annie. And I’m not sure my thoughts on olives qualify as a theory. What would you like to know?”

“Well, by your logic, your drink should contain multiple limes, but you only asked for one.”

I held up a finger. I liked that he was parsing condiments, but he was wrong. “The lime in my drink is for seasoning. The olive in yours is actually a snack.”

“Ah, now I see. So really, to you, a martini is a marinating bowl for olives.”

“Yes, but I don’t drink martinis, so it’s really just academic.”

“Yet you have an opinion. I like that.”

“I appreciate it.”

His gaze worked its way over my face and settled on my eyes before making its way to my lips and back to my eyes. “Do you have opinions about other alcohol-soaked foods? I’ve always found it interesting that we tolerate olives and tiny onions in drinks, but not pickles or bananas,” he said.

I considered this. “I’m not sure how many drinks would taste good with a banana, but I’m certainly not opposed to the concept. And I agree. Why does celery go in a bloody mary but not a string bean or an asparagus spear?”

“I think you and I could revolutionize the cocktail world if we gave it half an effort.”

I couldn’t help smiling at that. “It’s been a while since I’ve revolutionized anything, so I’m up for the challenge. I’d even be willing to posit that a slice of bacon might go well in a martini,” I said.

“With a wedge of cheese on the rim?”

“Ooh, now you’re talking. I think all drinks should come with a snack attached, especially cheese.”

He laughed and studied my face once more. It seemed like he was assessing something about me, but he didn’t say anything. I knew that look. I’d cast the same glance at a jury when trying to size up the likelihood of them buying my argument. I wondered if he felt like he was trying to convince me of something.

I smiled at him again, a little wider this time, trying to communicate that he didn’t need to work hard to convince me. He was exactly what I was looking for in a one-night stand: witty banter, handsome face, biceps which I could see straining at the fabric of his dress shirt, good hair that would look even better after I’d run my fingers through it. Check, check, and check.

He could distract me from thinking about any number of things—moving to LA or my new job or the fact that I’d need to glue myself to my desk in the morning and put in the time necessary to overachieve. He was doing it already.

When the bartender handed us our drinks, Finn made a point of stirring his with the toothpick that held the two olives before taking it out and offering one of the olives to me. It was sweet. “Is that why you agreed to two, because you thought I was after your olives?” I asked.

“Not going to lie, I kind of hoped you were after my olives,” he said, a slight smirk forming on his lips. “But I’ll just hang onto them for now. Maybe you’ll find them more enticing after we get to know each other a little better.” I felt certain we were no longer talking about drink garnish, but he was stoic enough that I couldn’t be sure.

I walked us to an empty cocktail table, and we stood on opposite sides of it. Ironically, in the middle of the table was a full bowl of olives next to a smaller bowl for the pits. “Well, now I suppose your olives are safe.”

“I get the feeling nothing is safe where you’re concerned.” Now he was definitely smirking.

I felt the heat creeping over my face and a lightning shock of adrenaline pulsing through my chest. I cleared my throat, which made him laugh.

“So… are you a friend of Chris’s?” I asked. It was just a guess. Being new to LA, I didn’t know all of Nikki’s friends. Or his, for that matter.

“Nikki’s. We knew each other in grad school and stayed friends.” My brain started working through likely scenarios. Nikki had gotten a master’s degree in communications. He certainly could have studied at the film school there and gone on to an acting career. Or he could work in publicity like her or even be some kind of on-air reporter.

I realized I was willing him to be an actor, mainly with the—likely false—idea that actors were sluttier and better looking than regular people. I had no evidence to prove that assumption, just hope. But maybe the less actual information about the object of my hookup dreams, the better.

“Do you work in a similar field as Nikki?” I asked, immediately contradicting myself by asking for details that would turn a handsome slut into a real person. I couldn’t help it. The conversation about condiment theory had piqued my interest. I hated small talk for the sake of filling dead air space, but I liked finding out the intriguing bits about people that they shared more willingly with strangers. We all had those moments of honesty that came from an innocuous question from someone who didn’t know us well enough to judge.

“Eh, it’s a party. I don’t want to talk about work,” he said, scooping our drinks off the table and handing me mine. He held his glass up for a toast. “To new friends.”

I couldn’t help smiling because I liked that he’d deflected the conversation about work. The last thing I wanted to talk about was my job when I wasn’t at work. “To new friends. Or even just people.”

“People?”

“Well, it may turn out that we’re just two people having a drink at a wedding. Maybe we won’t become friends.”

“Ah, I like that you’re specific.”

“Of course, maybe we will, in which case your toast is apt. And even if not, I suppose your toast could just be in honor of other people becoming new friends. Or people being people in congruent spaces, enjoying some time together, and not ever becoming friends. In that case, the toast should just be in honor of people. So...”

He was looking at me like butterflies had just taken flight from my ears. I was used to that look. It happened whenever I started speaking in an endless flow of verbiage that made sense if you cared enough to follow my train of thought, but which made most people react like I’d just escaped the nut house.

Normally, my thoughts were rational and limited to well-conceived, relevant comments. It was why I made a good lawyer. I could remain calm even in the face of anxious clients, nasty opposing counsel, losing arguments, and hopeless causes.

Unfortunately, all that even temper went flying off to Saturn when I was with the tiny percentage of people who made me nervous. And this guy—with those eyes and that face—made me nervous. It was the good kind of nervous, borne of feeling unexpectedly intrigued by a handsome stranger, but still… nervous.

I did my best to avoid situations that put me outside my comfort zone. In my work life, I was good. With close friends—also good. But with attractive, mysterious men I didn’t know well… not so good. Once I started yammering, it led to a slippery slope of more nerves and more absurd conversational gems from me.

“Well, in that case, I’d like to amend my toast because I’d like it to apply to us. You’re absolutely correct that I’ve made assumptions. How about if we toast to making use of bars that no one else knows about?” he said.

“Um, okay.” I felt suddenly calm, and my penchant for ridiculous blather had stopped in its tracks.

Oh. My. God.

He’d just taken my nervous crazy and… diffused it.

No one had ever done that before. Most people gave me a polite nod and made for the safety of the nearest rattlesnake den rather than risk possible contagion from my lunatic brain. But not him.

I was struck by a new feeling, something I’d never experienced before—I felt excited, happy, and… intrigued. Instead of slogging through the necessary small talk required to get him to take advantage of a hookup opportunity, I wanted to know him and understand him. And then kiss him.

So startled was I by his easy handling of my nervous blather that I didn’t say anything at all for a few moments. I needed to process what was happening. He was different. He was quietly confident. He was also insanely hot. I had little to say, absurd or otherwise, so I clinked my glass against his. “I will drink to that.”

He nodded, unperturbed by my nonsense. I sipped my drink, vaguely noting that it was strong before I’d downed most of it.

“Maybe we shouldn’t wander too far from the bar,” he said, leaning his elbow on a tall cocktail table and looking slowly over my face. “Given that we might want to toast again to people.”

“Or even people at weddings.”

He held up a hand. “That’s awfully specific.”

Yup, I liked this guy. He didn’t seem inclined to wander anywhere, which was just fine with me.

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