SABRINA:
“I didn’t say I can’t dance,” Connor McCoy’s deep voice reverberated around the crowded Soho pub at six o’clock on a busy Tuesday evening in August. “I said, I won’t dance.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the man sitting opposite me wearing a frown so deep it made the Grand Canyon look like a minor fissure, while silently cursing my best mate Libby and Libby’s fiancé Jamie.
Wow Libs, thanks so much for saddling me with the Best Man from Hell to handle.
As a maid of honor with enough experience to write a thesis on the many pitfalls of the role, I already knew handling the best man vied for the top spot in “Wedding Shit the Maid of Honor Has to Deal With” alongside:
- Wearing an exceptionally unflattering dress (puffball sleeves optional), so as not to upstage the bride.
- Making sure the bride doesn’t have a nervous breakdown or develop an eating disorder before her big day.
- Getting hit on by tanked up groomsmen – who assume that if you’re single and a member of the Bridal Party you’ll totally be up for getting shagged senseless against a wall by any eligible bachelor within a ten-mile radius.
Luckily, as the company manager of The Daisy Chain, a non-profit community theatre on London’s South Bank, I happened to be exceptionally talented at planning events while coping with colossal male egos – making me confident I could whip Jamie’s half-brother Connor, AKA the Creature from the Testosterone Lagoon, into shape.
But even with my excellent man-handling strategies, I was struggling to suppress a scowl after only fifteen minutes in McCoy’s charmless company. That he kept challenging every single bloody thing I said with that surly, I-couldn’t-give-a-shit look in his pale blue eyes was not helping with my scowl control either.
“Yes, well, I’m afraid as Jamie’s best man you’re going to have to dance,” I said, subtly alerting him to the fact he wasn’t the most knowledgeable person on the subject of wedding etiquette – while I on the other hand could win Mastermind with it as my specialist subject.
If Libby hadn’t already clued me in on the commitment-phobic dating habits of her beloved’s older brother, I could have guessed from the way his smoldering gaze had checked out every woman in the place in the ten minutes since he’d arrived. Every woman that was, except moi.
Not that I gave a toss about his lack of interest in me, per se. All right, so Connor McCoy was undeniably hot, I’d give him that. The combination of cool azure eyes, dark brows, black hair long enough to curl around his ears and those sharp angular cheekbones made him arresting – not to mention the big dick energy which hovered in the air around him and had been a siren call to every other woman in The Pillars of Hercules pub on Greek Street and several of the men – all of whom had checked him out back. But luckily, I’d never been susceptible to alpha-jerk types who spent a small fortune on their gym membership – if the over-developed biceps stretching the sleeves of his black T-shirt were anything to go by.
Not that I’d noticed those hard, round orbs of muscle – much – that flexed and bulged every time he raised his beer bottle to his lips. But when a girl hadn’t had a meaningful relationship with anything other than her vibrator since last July, upper body strength like that was hard to ignore, entirely.
I dragged my gaze away from his distracting biceps and concentrated on getting my point across – firmly and succinctly – again.
“Libby wants us to join the floor together after she and Jamie finish their First Dance. So really, whether you want to dance or not is a moot point.”
He shrugged, bringing his extremely broad shoulders to my attention, the bastard. “I’ll talk to Jamie, tell him to scratch that part.”
“No, you will not,” I replied, a lot less subtly. “This is Libby’s big day, and the First Dance is an important tradition at weddings in the UK, so I…”
“Hey, they have the same dumb shit in the States,” he interrupted me, making his thoughts on marriage and weddings abundantly clear. “So what? If my brother wants to make a jackass of himself, he can – he’s the one getting married. I’m just the best man, which makes me a jackass-free zone.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I countered sharply, making my thoughts on his crappy attitude abundantly clear. “Because in this instance, the First Dance tradition also includes the maid of honor and the best man introducing the other couples to the dance floor.”
He swore under his breath, but I soldiered on regardless. “Libby and Jamie are practicing a whole routine to Ed Sheeran’s Perfect.” I swallowed to prevent my gag reflex from engaging, the way it had when Libby had informed me of their music choice with a breathless huff of pleasure last week. Far be it from me – or Mr Testosterone – to rain on Libby’s cheese-fest. “All they require us to do is join them for the next slow dance when the DJ fades into the song.”
“A slow dance?” His eyes went squinty around the edges. “No way am I doing that.”
“What is your problem?” My forehead tightened as the scowl won. Forget subtle, the guy was obviously far too closely related to Cro-Magnon man to even process subtlety. “This isn’t about you. It’s about Libby and Jamie. All you have to do is sway in time to the music for one song. If you’re worried about making a tit of yourself, I can lead,” I added, aware the suggestion was liable to trip his I’m-the-one-with-a-dick-here switch but unable to stop myself in the face of so much provocation.
“I know how to slow dance, sweetheart,” came the predictably macho response. He rested a muscular forearm on the pub’s sticky table, invading my personal space and making me far too aware of the dimple in his chin and the flecks of silver in the piercing blue of his irises. “My point is I’m not slow dancing with you.”
I set my margarita down on the table with a snap, sucked in a calming breath to stop myself from hyperventilating – which unfortunately filled my lungs with the enticing scent of sandalwood soap – and struggled to get a stranglehold on my patience.
“Okay, I’m starting to sense a certain amount of hostility towards me personally,” I said, forcing my voice out of the shrill register. “And I’m not sure where it’s coming from? As I’ve never met you before,” I lied, hoping he didn’t notice the small quiver in my voice. Or remember our previous encounter.
Because unfortunately, I had met Connor McCoy before, but I was fairly confident he would have forgotten me.
I’d always been smart, focussed, ambitious and goal-orientated, and I was not afraid to show it. Slightly more regular sex would be nice, but I didn’t need a man to complete my life – which made me completely invisible to guys like Connor McCoy, who thrived on female attention.
For once, I was grateful for my invisibility, when he sent me a blank look and didn’t call me out on my lie.
CONNOR:
I stared at the woman opposite me. I knew exactly where my hostility was coming from. But I would rather shoot off my left nut than admit it, especially to her.
Why the hell wouldn’t she let this slow-dance crap drop? I’d agreed to wear a monkey suit. I’d agreed to stand at the front of a church like a prize douche and witness something I’d always thought was overrated – and I suspected my kid brother would regret before the ink was dry on the marriage certificate. I’d even agreed to give a speech, despite having no clue what to say… But there was no way I was taking this uptight British chick in my arms, on or off a dance floor.
Because I’d met Libby’s best friend, Sabrina Millard, before. For approximately ten minutes, five years ago. And the memory was still burned into my frontal lobe like battery acid.
It had been the end of the spring semester, and I was in the UK on business. I’d agreed to collect Jamie and his stuff from the co-ed dorm in Manchester University he was sharing with his pretty English girlfriend Libby and her BFF and drive him back to London, because I hadn’t seen my kid brother in years. But while Jamie and Libby had been saying a lengthy goodbye on the sidewalk – involving a lot of tongue – Sabrina had insisted on directing me on how to pack Jamie’s stuff into the space-challenged muscle car I’d rented at Manchester airport. I could vividly remember her issuing instructions as if she were a drill sergeant on speed and me some dumb rookie cadet, while wearing a shorty red dress over DM boots which should have made her look like a stormtrooper. But didn’t.
I’d been avoiding meeting up with her again, ever since Jamie had told me she was going to be the maid of honor. For the simple reason the woman’s outspoken, pushy personality grated on my last nerve – and turned me on to the point of madness.
Sabrina had a definite touch of the dominatrix about her – which naturally made me want to dominate her right back. The way her Emily Blunt accent could go from clipped to frosty and her magnificent cleavage swelled to mind-boggling proportions when she was in full take-no-shit mode called to my inner caveman – and never failed to kick off the hot sweet ache in my crotch which made my palms itch to spank her generous butt, even now.
The male libido is a strange and beautiful thing, so I wasn’t surprised about being aroused by a woman I couldn’t stand. But as I had never cared for vanilla sex – and I would have bet my right nut Sabrina had never had a single sex-for-the-hell-of-it experience in her whole, well-ordered life – nailing her was out.
Which made slow dancing with the woman at my brother’s wedding yet more aggravation I didn’t need. If I got that close to her, there was a real risk I’d end up sporting wood. She’d notice and she’d say something – because Sabrina did not strike me as the type to let sleeping hard-ons lie – and if that happened, I’m not sure I’d be able to resist the urge to show her who was boss.
There’d be a scene at Jamie’s wedding – a scene which Jamie’s mom Elizabeth and our old man Daniel would feed off like zombies feasting on a rotting corpse. Not that I gave a shit what either one of them thought about me anymore. But it would remind me way too forcefully of being that scared, screwed up fourteen-year-old runaway who’d arrived on their doorstep with a birth certificate in my pack and some dumb notion about hunting up the father I’d never met.
I clenched my fingers into a fist to quell the itch in my palm.
“Unnecessary hostility…?” I scoffed, because letting Sabrina get away with busting my balls went against all my instincts. “So now this is all about you? Maybe I just don’t want to make a jackass of myself for my brother’s benefit.”
“Fine, well, I’m glad it’s not me.” She let out a lengthy sigh – the long-suffering kind that my stepmom was a master of. “But I really don’t understand why you assume your brother is doing this to humiliate you. Honestly, it’s not like that. The First Dance is all Libby’s idea. When it comes to being part of the wedding party you just have to park your ego at the door and do what has to be done for the people you love.”
Her voice softened and her mossy green eyes went kind of glassy – making it obvious her speech was heartfelt. A weird flutter hit my solar plexus. Love was way too strong a word for what me and Jamie shared. To be honest, I still wasn’t sure why Jamie had asked me to be his best man – or why I’d agreed to do it. But even so, her comment intrigued me.
“You sound like you’ve done this before?” I said, wondering how many times she’s gotten stuck being the bride’s wing woman. And whether she resented it. Maybe that explained her snotty attitude.
“You have no idea.” She sighed and sent me the first unguarded smile I’d ever seen on her face. The hot sweet ache in my crotch pulsed, and it struck me she ought to let those smiles loose more often.
“That bad, huh?” The loud buzz of conversation in the bar dimmed as I got fixated on the curve of her bottom lip.
“Put it this way, when I get married, I’ll be opting for Vegas and an Elvis impersonator rather than having to organize all this rubbish.”
“Seriously? I figured you’d be all over this white wedding crap like a rash.”
She shuddered. “Oh pur-leese. It’s the marriage that’s important. Not the trimmings.”
Yeah right, I thought. But I didn’t contradict her, just this once, because I was fascinated by the passionate glow in the mossy green.
“And do I look like the sort of person who would throw away thousands of pounds on an event that I’d be far too stressed to enjoy?” she continued. “Did you know that five percent of marriages end after the honeymoon simply because of the stress of the wedding day?”
“Can’t argue with the stats.” Or the fact the blood had drained out of my head when she started quoting data at me with that furrow of concentration on her brow.
“So, are we good with the First Dance thing?” she asked. “Because, apart from remembering the rings, giving a crude speech detailing the most embarrassing things Jamie has ever done in his entire life and making sure he doesn’t vomit before Libby gets to the altar, that’s your job over and done with.”
“That’s all?” I huffed, just for the hell of it. “No one told me about the no barfing clause, does that entitle me to hazard pay?”
She laughed, and the throaty rumble echoed in my lap. “Just be glad you don’t have to wear six-inch heels and a dress which dips at the back right down to the curve of your bum cheeks!”
Shit. Why did she have to go and mention her ass?
I rubbed my palms on the rough fabric of my jeans to stop the renewed twitching. But I couldn’t resist leaning to one side so I could direct my gaze at said ass.
“Your butt cheeks, huh? Suddenly, this gig is looking up.”
It was a pick-up line – and a cheesy one at that – but she gave me the opening so I was surprised when her pale face flushed a bright glowing red right up to her hairline. Exactly like it had five years ago in Manchester when I’d told her where I was going to shove my brother’s baseball bat if she didn’t stop directing me on how to pack my own trunk.
I’d never seen a woman blush like that, even then – and I’d found it strangely compelling. Like I was getting a glimpse into her soul she couldn’t prevent. What was uncomfortable, and just plain weird, was that I was finding those hot red cheeks a heck of a lot more compelling now.
SABRINA:
Why the bloody hell did you mention the stripper dress?
I blinked rapidly, trapped in the tractor beam of Connor McCoy’s seductive stare, and hoped the heat throbbing in my cheeks – and not just the ones on my face – wasn’t visible in the low lighting.
“Yes, well…” I stroked the stem of my margarita glass then took a steadying sip to regain some of my usual chill – and focus on the task in hand instead of the fact all the oxygen had been sucked out of my lungs with a single crummy chat-up line.
Libby had warned me about her soon-to-be brother-in-law’s phenomenal success with women, but until this precise moment I really hadn’t thought I’d be susceptible. It was somewhat lowering to realize that despite my intellect and my extremely low tolerance for cheesy chat-up lines, I was not completely immune to the moves of this practiced player. Taking the softly-softly approach and trying to find some common ground had obviously been a mistake when I was dealing with a wolf who would pounce on any passing pussy.
Even one he probably had no desire to eat.
He continued to watch me in that focused, silent way that made the skin on my spine tingle as if it was being stroked with a vibrator.
“So, you’ll do the Second Dance with me?” I asked, struggling for business-like.
Instead of giving me an answer, he lifted the beer bottle to his lips and took a leisurely swallow, his gaze now riveted to my burning cheeks.
The blush went radioactive as I pictured myself as the gazelle in this scenario – and it occurred to me that slow dancing with this guy could be fraught with dangers I had not considered and was not remotely prepared for. Like the fact the large square hand holding his bottle would have free range of my naked back thanks to the arse-kissing dress Libby had chosen for me.
The imaginary vibrator caressing my spine hit maximum pulse and stroked downwards. I stiffened.
He lowered his bottle and the soft smack of glass on wood made me jump.
“Okay, I guess you can count me in.” His wide mouth curved on one side in a crooked smile that looked almost boyish – for a wolf. “How bad can it be?”
“Fabulous, I appreciate your co-operation,” I said, thinking no such thing.
Because from the dark, challenging look in those lake-blue eyes I got the definite impression being cooperative was the very last thing on Connor McCoy’s to-do list.
