My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish
Weddings. Both the joy and bane of my existence.
Stressed doesn’t begin to describe the level of tightness working its way through my body on a daily basis right now. My shoulders are constantly knotted, sometimes to the point of seizing up. My stomach revolts at the idea of food, mostly because there’s not enough time to eat and stay caught up. My mind spins with orders, ideas, and replayed conversations with customers so much that I haven’t slept in weeks.
I’ve always been a hard worker, but it’s literally become all I do. While everyone around me is partnering off and finding the love of their life—with a little help from me, if I do say so myself—I’m going home to an empty apartment, reheating leftovers from the Chinese place that delivered beef with broccoli two nights ago, and curling up on the couch alone. At ten p.m. after working a fourteen-hour day.
That’s why I even considered my current course of action tonight. Weddings are about meeting people, right? And that tall, dark, and fuckable bad boy over by the buffet is someone I need to meet.
Am I really going to fuck him? Of course not.
But does pointedly mentioning him and then working my way across the room toward him keep everyone else from worrying about poor, lonely Abigail who can’t find a man? Yes, it does. I can feel their eyes on my back, my whole family fretting about me, but I forget about their concern as I focus on my next mission.
He’s like a delicious reward for all the blood, sweat, and tears I put into making sure the flowers for this wedding were perfect. Nothing but the best for my sister, Courtney Andrews. She deserves it, and I made sure I delivered.
I let my eyes drink him in from head to toe as I swerve this way and that through the crowd. His thick black hair is perfectly flopped over in that casual way that takes skill to appear effortless, and arched dark brows frame his brown eyes which scrutinize the food as if it has personally offended him. His olive skin is tanned and marked with tattoos at the collar of his white shirt. I want to lick along those swirling lines, tasting his skin as I follow the ink down to where it disappears behind the buttons of his tailored shirt.
This is so not like me.
I’m no saint, no innocent virgin, but I’m not exactly a one-night stand type, either. I guess I fall somewhere in between pearl-clutching ‘I would never’ and ‘What was your name again?’. But my plan for a little fun flirting is quickly shaping into something else in my mind.
Sometimes, there are only so many ways you can scratch your own itch. Other times, you can sense that someone can rock your world and leave you a panting, sweaty pile of satisfied goo.
Violet, my bestie and sister-in-law, said he’s her cousin and is new in town. Well then, call me the Welcome Wagon because I’m honestly considering rolling out some red carpet and inviting him to a private party in my pants.
God, Abi! You sound like a horny, sex-starved Desperate Housewife!
I do. There’s no sense in denying it, not even to myself. But I’ve earned a break, a chance to cut loose and go wild. Within reason.
I have a reputation for being more than a bit crazy, but the truth is, it’s only in some ways. Mouth? Zero filter. Fucks? None given. But even I have a line I won’t cross. But maybe I could pretend that’s not the case for just one night and then get back to the grindstone because the deadlines don’t stop and the creative ideas in my head are loud and demanding taskmasters.
“Hi,” I say as I sidle up next to him. My voice is breathy and too high, so I take a sip of my champagne to soothe the dryness of my throat.
“Hello.” As those eyes turn on me, I see the flaring of heat ignite there and am glad this isn’t one-sided. Not that I expected it to be. I know what I look like, what my assets are, and how to play them up. Though my back is already straight and my shoulders back to highlight my breasts, I turn slightly to show them off.
Come to Mama, I think as excitement courses through my veins and heat pools in my core. This bridesmaid’s gown, with its chiffon sash, might not be a sexy club dress,