I roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m a bridesmaid. The maid of honor, actually.”
He grunts, polishing off the rest of his beverage. “What an idiotic tradition. This spectacle is all for show. Not to mention a horrific waste of money.”
A storm cloud seems to be thundering above his head. I get a chill from that stony look. Not that I’d ever expose my reaction. On the outside, I appear calm and detached to a fault. That’s how I got the reputation as a snarky diva, defense mechanism or not. My resting bitch face could win a gold medal at the Olympics. This dickhead has nothing on me.
I press my lips into a firm line to keep an expletive shower from pouring out. “Then why did you bother attending?”
“Josh is an old friend. I felt the need to watch him go down in flames.” His wrist flicks in that dismissive way cocky men overuse.
“How kind.”
“I aim to please.”
It’s my turn to huff. “Okay. Mr. Grey.”
A furrow creases his harsh brow. “What?”
No shock that the similar phrase and reference are lost on him, although it would be funny if he’d read the popular books. “Never mind. You don’t believe in the sanctity of marriage?”
He shoves a fist into his trouser pocket. “Only if the arrangement financially benefits both parties and there’s a bulletproof prenup.”
Bile churns in my stomach. I gulp to avoid chucking filet mignon over his loafers. “Like a business transaction?”
He nods, the movement sharper than his sculpted jawline. “Precisely. A merger of sorts.”
“Wow,” I stretch the word with feigned enthusiasm. “You’re a real piece of work.”
“Thank you.” The douche tips an imaginary hat.
“That wasn’t meant to be a compliment.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” The snarl pinching his features should look disturbing, but he’s just too damn hot.
That doesn’t mean I have to accept his appeal. “You’re casting a real doom-and-gloom vibe on this momentous occasion. Maybe you could ease up on the theatrics.”
“At least I don’t look like a dehydrated apricot.”
I don’t need to glance at my dress to confirm that the orange clashes with my hair. But I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of confirming the obvious. All he gets is my glare, narrowing further on his stupidly handsome face. “Are you offering to buy me a drink? I’ll take a dry martini with extra olives.”
“How predictable. The bar is right over there.” His shooing gesture is where I draw the line. There are only so many strikes I can handle before being mistaken for a pushover.
I sashay backward. “Well, this conversation has been enlightening. I hope to never see you again.”
His gaze devours my retreat. Whether in glee or disappointment, I’ll never know. “The sentiment is entirely mutual.”
“Enjoy the party.”
“I won’t.”
All he gets in return is my middle finger waving goodbye.
Realization strikes as I’m stomping off. The asshole never told me his name.
“I’m cursed!”
My pitiful wail is loud enough to catch more than a few stray stares from fellow patrons at Delish Dish. Melodic tweets from hovering birds replace the customary chirp of crickets in the silence that follows. I wave at the horde of gawkers and giggle when shame registers on their features. With matching frowns, they all return to eating brunch.
Two of my best friends exchange strained glances at my confession. Presley rests a palm over mine on the table between us. “What’s wrong?”
I have a forceful urge to bang my head on the plate in front of me right now. Why can’t I be satisfied with my lucrative career and generous assets? Maybe it’s because a happily ever after seems so damn unattainable. “I’m destined to be alone.”
“Um, hello.” Clea wiggles her fingers at me. “Nice to meet you, Hissy Fit. My name is Chopped Liver.”
I swipe at some stray hairs that are stuck in my eyelashes. “You know what I mean. Someone hexed me.”
“That’s only further proving your dramatics on this subject.” She tosses in a wink for good measure.
Her nonchalance won’t dissuade me. The floodgates are wide open, already spewing irrational drivel. I pride myself on being a practical person, but that doesn’t stop me from being committed to this nonsense. “Call me what you will. I’m going to grow old without experiencing love in all its decadent glory.”
Presley frowns, the smooth skin on her forehead puckering into deep caverns. “You are not.”
Too bad I’m currently lacking in spreading the positivity. “I totally am. That’s the only logical explanation for my horrific luck in the