Chapter 2

Two days earlier…

I cocked my head, squinting at the ice sculpture that sat in the middle of the expansive table.

“Is that an ice penis?” I said.

Laura, one of Jenna’s bridesmaids, moved more closely to the statue. It was so dim in the private room at the restaurant that neither of us could tell if the statue was actually endowed or not.

“I think so, but it’s pretty small. It could also just be its balls,” said Laura.

“Why would they sculpt a pair of balls but no penis?”

Laura shrugged. “It’s Vegas. Don’t ask questions.” She flashed a smile. “If it has a dick, it’s currently melting off.”

“Too bad that can’t happen to men in real life,” I muttered.

Laura shot me a look, but soon we were overtaken by the rest of the wedding party. Jenna and Sam hadn’t skimped one bit on this wedding: each had ten attendants, and apparently there were close to three hundred guests.

Sam’s family came from money—something to do with creating the first mechanical litter box—and this was the most extravagant wedding I’d ever attended. The thought that a box that scooped cat poop had financed this Vegas wedding never failed to make me giggle.

Soon we were seated for dinner, the groomsmen and bridesmaids sitting next to each other. I was next to Jenna, who sat at one end of the table; across from me was Sam’s college roommate, Mac. Mac was charming and, according to him, “gayer than rainbow sherbet with rainbow sprinkles on top.”

To my left was an empty chair—apparently the best man had yet to show up. I’d never met him, but according to Jenna he’d been Sam’s best friend since they’d been kids.

It didn’t matter, though. I wasn’t here to sleep with a groomsman. I mostly wanted to forget that I was supposed to already be married by now. I’d almost thought about telling Jenna I didn’t want to come, but she’d asked me to be her maid of honor for a reason. I couldn’t flake just because David had broken my heart, stomped on it, and then ground it up in the food processor he’d bought on sale at Kohl’s last Christmas.

Mac and Jenna chatted while I popped olives into my mouth, watching water drip from the naked ice sculpture. Currently, the statue’s butt was dripping water, as if his cheeks were sweating from the desert heat.

“Is that statue’s arse melting?” said a voice over my shoulder.

“Liam! You’re here!” Jenna launched from her chair, a little unsteady already from her wine consumption, and waved to Sam. “Look who finally showed up!”

To my annoyance, Liam wasn’t some troll like I’d hoped: he was handsome. His features included a sharp jaw, dark hair, and wide shoulders.

I was glad, in a shallow way, that I’d worn my favorite dress—a black number that showed off my legs and shoulders—and had done my sultry, violet makeup look that made my green eyes pop.

Makeup had always been a creative outlet for me since I was a teenager, and I wasn’t above using it to my advantage. In this case, I wanted to feel like I was on the same playing field as this godlike, male specimen. Makeup was like a suit of armor: it could cover up my flaws and vulnerability and transform me into a different, stronger person. Or at least a more attractive one.

Once upon a time, I’d wanted to become a makeup artist, but I’d put that dream aside. I preferred practicality over dreams. It was always the safer bet.

“Liam, you’ll be right here. Mari, this is Liam. She’s the maid of honor,” said Sam after he and Liam had hugged.

“Pleasure,” Liam drawled as he took my hand. His grip was firm, his hand much bigger than mine. He was so big, yet somehow managed to move with surprising grace as he pulled out his chair and sat next to me.

“I know you probably would’ve liked to sit by Sam, but we wanted everyone to talk to someone they didn’t know,” said Jenna in a rush.

Liam slanted me a glance. “It’s not a problem.”

Not only was he handsome, but his voice was tinged with an accent that I wish didn’t make me melt. But I was human, female, and American. God knows we love a good accent.

And now I was supposed to talk to Liam? I was supposed to chat with Mac. Not this man who was clearly not married and not gay, based on the way his gaze raked me. Although I wore a dress that hardly showed any cleavage, he looked at me like I had my breasts out on the table for everyone to see.

I wished I was still engaged. That always made men leave me alone. It was like I’d had a sign on that said “property of another man.” It was archaic and vaguely insulting, yet I wished for that protection right now. I was exposed. I was in a place of limbo in my life. And I was very, very unattached.

You want Liam to see you as attractive, but not too attractive? I thought. Yes, I’d admit that sometimes the most confusing person I knew was myself.

But I also couldn’t be blatantly rude, so I said, “Do you live in Seattle, too?”

“For the moment,” was his bland answer.

“I grew up there. I’ve never lived anywhere else. It’s a great place to raise a family.” I was chattering. Blushing, I forced myself to stop talking.

I was grateful when the first course arrived. I could focus on the scallops, not on the man to my left.

Liam’s elbow brushed mine as he began to eat, which was the usual hazard when you were left-handed like me. Yet instead of feeling annoyed at the contact, I felt…excited. Get it together, Mari. Are you seriously getting turned on brushing elbows with a guy?

“You’re left-handed?” said Liam.

“What?”

He looked at me holding my fork. “Switch seats with me.”

“Oh, it’s fine—”

“Switch.” He pulled out my chair, and I could’ve sworn his fingers brushed my shoulder. On purpose? Or an accident?

“Oh, Mari, I forgot. I’m sorry,” said Jenna.

“It’s fine.” Liam handed me my wineglass, our fingers definitely brushing. His smile was slow and knowing, like he knew how easily he could get a woman to toss her panties in his direction. Like I needed to throw my underwear at any man’s head right now.

“So, Mari was it? Tell me about yourself,” said Liam.

He rolled the r in my name, making it sound more exotic than it was.

I considered the question. “Like I said, I’m from Seattle. I work as a technical writer. That’s about it.”

“That’s it? You don’t do anything for fun?”

“I’m too busy to have fun these days.”

He looked me up and down. “That’s a damn shame, then.”

“Thanks.” I rolled my eyes. “Do you always insult people you’ve just met?”

He smiled, his teeth flashing. “Are you always so uptight?”

“Now you’re just being rude.”

“I prefer to say I’m honest. Besides, I doubt you’re telling the truth. I’m sure you do fun things sometimes. You just won’t tell me.”

“No, I never have fun. Ever. I’m normal and boring and not worth talking to.”

He chuckled, the sound dry and raspy. “I doubt that. I’ve never met a redhead who was any of those things.”

I snorted. I’d always resisted the idea that since my hair was red, then I should be feisty and fiery and all number of things that didn’t describe me at all. I was serene, capable. Level-headed. I sorted my books by genre and then by author. I always made my bed in the morning. I never left dirty dishes in the sink. An orderly life was a happy life.

“How about you, then? You’re obviously not from around here,” I said after our plates had been removed for the next course.

“How about you guess where you think I’m from.”

“The sixth level of hell,” I deadpanned.

“My Catholic grandmama would agree, but I prefer the second level.”

I remembered enough Dante from college to know which level that one was for: lust. The sixth was for heresy. I rolled my eyes. “Of course you would.”

“I didn’t grow up in hell, but close enough,” said Liam, his accent lengthening. “I grew up in Ireland. Near Dublin, but I moved to the States when I was twenty.”

So that was where his accent was from—no wonder I hadn’t been able to place it. Sometimes it sounded pure Irish like right now, while other times it sounded almost American. I wondered if he tried to suppress his Irish accent just to avoid the inevitable where are you from questions. Which I’d just asked, I thought in dismay.

“I’d love to go to Ireland,” I said. “I’ve never been out of the country. I was going to go to Paris this spring, but—” I could’ve bitten my tongue in half right then. I’d been planning a trip to Paris with David.

“But?” Liam prompted.

“Does it matter? It’s not happening now.”

“Don’t get your feathers ruffled. It was only a simple question.”

“My feathers have nothing to do with you.”

Liam tipped his beer back, and I couldn’t help but watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. He even managed to drink beer suavely. Why couldn’t he have the manners of a chimpanzee on a bender?

“So uptight,” he said. His eyes sparkled. “I wonder what would happen if somebody could get you to unwind for once.”

“Liam,” interrupted Jenna, “we’re so glad you were able to be Sam’s best man. He didn’t think you’d agree, but I knew that once I talked to you, you couldn’t say no.” Jenna looked toward me. “Liam hates weddings.” Her eyes widened, like he’d told her he ran over puppies for fun.

“What do you have against weddings?” I said.

“What’s the point of spending money on something that’ll end within five years? Sounds like a waste of time to me.”

“Wow, what a chip you have on your shoulder. How do you manage to walk around when it probably weighs five hundred pounds?”

Jenna clucked her tongue. “Mari, you won’t convince him. He thinks love and romance and weddings are stupid. He’s only here because Sam and I made him.”

Strangely enough, despite David’s betrayal, I still believed in love and romance and weddings. I still wanted all three. I didn’t know if I’d ever get them now, though. I didn’t know if I could let myself be vulnerable like that again. Maybe twenty years in the future. I’d enjoy the spinster life for now. I could get a cat or ten to keep me company. Really put in effort to be a true spinster.

I shot Liam a look, assessing him now that I knew one of his hang-ups. “So do you think love is just a fantasy?”

“Fantasy, hormones, load of bullshit. Whatever you want to call it.”

“You don’t love anyone, then?”

He just shrugged.

“No one. Not even Sam?”

“I’m not in love with the groom, no.”

“That’s not what I mean. You can love someone platonically. You mean you don’t love your parents, or your friends, or—”

“What’s with the inquisition? You’re upset about something that has nothing to do with you.”

Liam’s cold, dead heart had nothing to do with me—he was right about that.

I was about to say as much when the ice sculpture began to collapse from the heat of the chandelier right above it.

The statue’s butt had been melting and dripping onto a metal pan, sounding like faint rain, when suddenly, one of the statue’s ankles gave way.

“Man down!” Mac hollered.

Liam jumped up only a second before the statue would’ve crashed into Laura’s plate of mushroom risotto on the other side of me. Bridesmaids screamed; groomsmen swore. Liam caught the statue like it was a baby just in the nick of time, his jacket and shirt getting instantly soaked.

In the melee, a few glasses had been knocked over, and Jenna’s mom had swooned at the end of the table. Waitstaff and employees hurried around us and apologized profusely.

“Will you take this damned thing?” growled Liam, still cradling the dripping statue.

“Of course, sir, so sorry, sir, this has never happened before, sir.” A harried waiter took the statue, glanced in two different directions, and apparently decided to go into the kitchen with it.

In Liam’s hand, though, was a piece of ice. A rather cylindrical piece that looked almost like—

“Oh my God.” I said.

Liam held it up. “I’m holding a fucking cock, aren’t I?”

“Looks like it.” I was wheezing now.

Mac had come around to our side of the table. He slapped Liam on the shoulder as he passed us by. “Welcome to the club, my man.”