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Asher
“You know my track record. No one wants to marry a broke artist who’s bad at romance.”
“You’re not bad at romance,” I say gently. You just pick dickheads who don’t appreciate you. She looks to her brother and Reina with a happy sigh, then turns back to me with a helpless little shrug—like she wants what they have but doesn’t think she’ll ever have it.
Something comes over me—maybe it’s the champagne, or maybe it’s just that weddings make you think about, well, weddings. Whatever it is, I say casually, “Don’t worry. If it comes down to it, I’ll marry you.”
She pauses, then arches a skeptical brow. “You’re suggesting a marriage pact, Callahan?”
Seems I am.
I don’t back down from a challenge—not one thrown at me or one I throw down. Besides, she seems to need certainty right now. “Sure,” I say. “If you ever need a husband, I’m your guy.”
A laugh bursts from her, but then she schools her expression. “Fine,” she says primly, adopting a regal air. “Since you made such a heartfelt proposal, I accept your marriage pact.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” I say.
“You do that.”
Then I dip the f*ck out of her here on the dance floor. Her back bows and her foot pops up, but she holds on tight, laughing brightly. The sound of her laughter knocks something else loose inside my head as I tug her back to standing. Possibly a few brain cells that slept through the last eight years of friendship. Because…Maeve is pretty and charming and f*cking adorable. How did I miss what’s been right in front of me?
Her laugh, like wind chimes, sounds prettier than it has before. Her perfume, like wildflowers on a sultry summer day, hits differently now. Her lush lips are suddenly impossible to look away from. How much champagne did I have tonight? A couple of glasses? But even so, I’m not a lightweight. I’m more than six feet tall, and I’m sturdy as f*ck.
As I try to count my cocktails, I glimpse one of the bride’s uncles dancing near the band. He’s cutting the rug, twirling his wife, but when he pulls her back into his arms—bam.
He bumps right into Maeve’s back. She pitches forward in my arms, slamming against my chest, her chin tipped up, her eyes wide. “Oh!”
She’s breathless.
And she’s also suddenly a very dangerous four inches closer to me. I’m barely aware of anyone else on the dance floor, under the tent, in the whole damn city. I look down at my best friend’s sister, mesmerized without warning. It’s like I’ve never quite seen her clearly until tonight—from the hair to the lips to the laughter to the dance, to her this close to me. “I’ve got you,” I say softly, holding her hips tighter, keeping her near.
She glances down, too, but doesn’t pull away. “You…do have me, Asher.”
She sounds surprised. Maybe confused. That makes two of us. I swallow roughly and simply echo, “I do.”
I don’t move.
She doesn’t either.
Her body fits mine in a whole new way. Our hips flush, her breasts pressed to me—everything temptingly aligned. Her raspberry lips are so close that I can tell it’s not the makeup making her look so pretty tonight.
She is pretty.
Did it take me crossing these final four inches to notice Maeve like this?
No idea, but I’m noticing Maeve like this now. Oh hell, am I noticing my friend.
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