The Wrong Bridesmaid
: Chapter 3

Holy fuckballs! Is Roddy actually gonna make me smack him around?

I don’t want to. He’s right—it would probably fuck up Joannie. But that doesn’t mean I won’t give him a swift kick in the ass if I have to. I’m a waitress in a place that serves Fat Pussy burgers, so I have thick skin by default and a mouth that would shock a sailor. My spine and smack talk are usually enough to get me through almost any situation.

But Roddy is in an extra-pissy mood, not that I blame him after losing so epically. He should just suck it up like the buttercup he is and move along. If he weren’t making such a big deal out of this, his buddies wouldn’t either. But they smell blood in the water . . . Roddy’s. And he’s deflecting big-time, hoping to sic them on me instead.

I bend my knees slightly, getting my weight centered, and flick an angry scowl Roddy’s way. He’s so close, I can smell the cheap beer on his breath and the sweat from a day’s work on his skin. I tighten my grip on Joan of Arc, a.k.a. Joannie, my pink pool cue that I saved up to buy. This maple cue has seen me through some tough games over the years. She’s my baby, and if Roddy ends up making me defend myself with her, I will make him pay for a proper funeral service for my best girl, and a replacement Joan of Arc 2.0 that’s bigger and better. Or at least lighter, my personal preference.

Roddy doesn’t seem the least bit frightened by my stance or scowl, though, probably too hyped on liquid courage and testosterone-fueled desperation. His balls are on the line, at least in his mind. He doesn’t make a move to reach for the cash I know he has stashed in his chest pocket.

As shitty as his refusal to pay is, it’s not the first time this has happened to me. In fact, it’s why I try to not play strangers on my home turf. They see the cute waitress, flirt a little, and think they’re going to “teach” me to play. By the time I’ve wiped the table with them, their wounded pride rears up, and more than once, I’ve had to get a bit tough with them. But they always pay up . . . eventually.

I thought I was safe playing Roddy, though. He’s a regular, after all, drinking and having a good time with his buddies here at least once a week. He damn well knows I’m good. Hell, he’s been watching me play, studying my moves for weeks. He should’ve known this would be the outcome.

“Pay up, Roddy,” I grit through clenched teeth, only loud enough for him to hear, though we’ve gotten quite an audience now. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but it’s not only two hundred bucks at risk here. Both our reputations are on the line.

For fuck’s sake, man, just do it. Reach in your pocket, take out the money, and hand it over. I’ll even let you make a few comments to salvage yourself, let you play it off if you want to save face with your buddies. I’ll save my rebuttal for after you stomp out the door like a pissed-off pit bull.

His hand moves toward his chest, and though I’m tempted to let out a sigh of relief, I hold my breath steady, staying ready. It’s a wise decision, because while Roddy is giving in, it’s on his own terms.

“Fucking take it, bitch.” He pulls out the wad of cash he flashed when we bet and throws it at me. The green bills smack me in the chest and then flutter to the floor. In a different environment, people might scurry to grab up the money like squirrels gobbling nuts.

Ha, nut-loving critters! The phrasing makes me laugh even at a time like this, but only on the inside.

But not here. Not right now.

Nobody rushes to grab a single bill because they’re mine and everyone knows it. Especially Roddy. There’s saving his rep . . . and then there’s this.

I don’t move, don’t drop a single inch toward picking up the cash, because I won’t tolerate this kind of disrespect. Pool is a game of rules, and even in a barroom match, I won’t be disrespected. And I for damn sure am not getting my head anywhere near his dick level. “Pick it up. You don’t have to hand it to me if it hurts your wittle feewings, but at least put it on the table so everyone can see you’re a man of your word.”

Okay, so maybe poking the drunk, angry bear isn’t the wisest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s definitely not the dumbest, either, despite what happens next.

Roddy knocks Joan of Arc out of my hands, and she clatters to the floor. “Pick it up yourself. It’d do you some good to spend a few minutes on your knees. I’m out of here.”

Oh, hell to the nah nah nah.

He spins, already throwing a hand up at his buddies to signal it’s time to leave. His arrogance gives me the perfect opportunity. With a primal scream that draws from an ancestry of women who don’t put up with anyone’s shit, I jump onto Roddy’s back like the worst piggy ever, gripping him with my knees and clawing at his wide shoulders.

“Pick it up!” I shout over and over. “Pick it up, pick it up!”

Roddy pitches forward but catches himself, thankfully not throwing me ass over his head. “Get offa me, you crazy bitch!”

We tussle, him trying to get me off his back and me using my weight to get him closer to the ground so he’ll pick up the money. Around us, cheers and shouts ring out, mostly on my side.

“You show him, Hazel!”

“Ride that bastard, cowgirl!”

“That ain’t no way to treat a lady!”

“You call that a lady?”

Okay, so that last one might not’ve been in my favor, but if defending myself makes me unladylike, then un-fucking-ladylike I’ll be.

I’m making progress, or at least I think I am, when a booming voice orders, “Enough!”

Viselike arms wrap around my waist, pulling me from Roddy. Thinking one of Roddy’s friends has suddenly grown a pair and intervened, I flail and fight back.

I drive back with an elbow, but the contact is weak, glancing off the thick shoulder behind me. I kick my feet, aiming for shins, and connect with a knee, judging by the grunt behind me.

I will take this to my deathbed, and never even whisper this secret to my best friend, but wrestling around with the thick-bodied, hard-muscled man behind me is the most excitement I’ve had in ages. I can’t see his face, but the feel of his strength is sexy in a dominant, powerful way.

And that’s enough of that nonsense, Hazel Sullivan. You ain’t that type of girl.

“Put me down!” I bite out, also considering biting my captor. Maybe on that bicep I can feel flexing as he holds me securely.

“Only if you calm down. Both of you.”

I hear a snort from our audience as they get their comments in. “That one ain’t too bright, is he? Everyone knows not to tell a woman to calm down unless you want her to go nuclear.” Nuclear is said like newk-eww-lerr, with long drawls on each syllable.

At least that one’s right. I give it all I’ve got, wiggling for my life. Fine, and also maybe to see if I can feel abs behind me . . . or something more. But I’m not admitting that, even to myself. But before I can do more than wriggle, my feet replace the floor. Instantly, I step away, whirling to face my captor.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I spit out, the accusation fortunately preformed by my brain and already sent to my mouth, because as soon as I see him, my brain turns into complete static.

A tall, broad-shouldered, trim-waisted, sexy model stands before me. Seriously, he looks like he just walked off the pages of Modern Logging. Is that even a thing? If not, it should be, and this asshole should grace the cover of the premier edition. His blond hair is stylishly messy in that way that should take forever but, since he’s a guy, is likely actual bedhead. His jawline is chiseled and shaded by day-old stubble that makes him look rugged instead of pretty. And his eyes, blue diamonds that are sparkling with delight.

“Helping you,” he explains with a healthy dose of “duh” woven through the words.

Ah, there it is.

He’s one of those types. White knights. The saviors who want to rush in to save the little damsel in distress, all the while laughing at her inability to take care of herself. He’s nothing but trouble with a bonus side dish of asshole.

“I don’t need your help. Or anyone else’s,” I return, waving my hand to urge him back to his beer or whatever. “So skedaddle along back to wherever it is you came from, Prince Charming. I’ve got this handled.”

“Wyatt?” Roddy says behind me.

Hell, I’d almost forgotten about that particular jerkwad.

“The one and only,” the walking sex god says dryly. “I’d shake your hand, but I think we have another issue to take care of first.” He glances down at the cash on the floor pointedly. “Why don’t we all pick it up together, put it on the table, and call it good?”

Roddy looks at me and shrugs, suddenly willing to give in now that another guy is running the show.

That pisses me off anew, but I try to not cut my nose off to spite my face. “I get the two hundred either way.”

Okay, maybe just a tiny slice.

The three of us slowly bend down, gathering up the scattered bills. To his credit, Roddy shoves the wad he’s collected into my hand instead of dropping it on the table. As I put the bills into my pocket, Roddy picks up Joannie, laying her on the table and rolling her forward and backward to make sure she’s still good. My breath catches in my throat, both from his hands being on my prized pool cue and in hope that she rolls cleanly.

“Looks okay, but lemme know if not.” It’s all the apology Roddy offers, so all the acceptance I give is a dip of my chin. He looks past me and startles. “Think I better call it a night, I guess.”

I lift a brow and glare over my shoulder. Sex God Wyatt is standing like a bodyguard, feet firmly planted to the floor, arms crossed over his chest, and a hard look on his face. Turning back to Roddy, I say, “Probably for the best. Looks like I have a line forming of assholes to deal with.”

Roddy’s lips twitch. “You saying stuff like that makes me want to stick around and see someone else get his ass handed to him.” Still fighting off a grin, he holds his hand out to Wyatt. “Good luck with this one, man. Glad to see ya.”

I have no idea what Roddy’s talking about. I’m perfectly pleasant when I’m not being disrespected.

Wyatt shakes Roddy’s hand, and then Roddy heads out with his two friends in tow. They’re already teasing him about both losing the game and getting beat down by me, which serves him right.

I turn back to Wyatt, ready to handle whatever his business is fast and quick. Cold and hard, I inform him, “I didn’t need your help. I had it perfectly under control.”

“Roddy’s a big guy,” Wyatt replies easily, seeming not offended in the least by my ungratefulness. “Looked like he was about to walk away from the bet to me. Or worse.”

I roll my eyes. Roddy might know this hunk, but this hunk definitely does not know me. “Puh-leeze. Roddy wouldn’t have laid a finger on me. He’s been a regular for years. He gets a little hotheaded sometimes, but nothing I can’t handle. Especially with Joan of Arc backing me up.” I pick up my cue, brandishing the pink maple like a lightsaber, complete with sound effects, causing a few nearby people to step out of the way of my swinging arc. Wyatt chuckles at my antics, and the deep, full rumble tickles something within my core, making the fine hairs on the back of my neck rise.

My body’s traitorous response to his voice annoys me. I’m not exactly celibate, not even close to it. I get hit on by people here at Puss N Boots so often that I could easily get laid more than a hooker working Main Street during a parade. But the flip side of that is that I see too many no-good cheaters walk through these doors and have seen the fallout of a betrayal firsthand, because Aunt Etta hasn’t been the same since she swore off men after catching her fiancé cheating on her on the eve of their wedding. And that was so many years ago, we measure it in decades at this point.

So I make it a habit to be selective. To the point of . . . wait, how long has it been? I try to think back, but when I start counting months in the double digits, I decide to examine that later. Much later. And alone.

“Your pool cue is named Joan of Arc?”

“Nope, we’re not doing this,” I reply to his question, holding up a palm to stop his get-to-know-you small talk.

His smile blooms, white and bright. He’s not just lumberjack-magazine sexy; he’s a toothpaste commercial too. “We’re not? It kinda seems like we are . . . I’m here, you’re here, we’re talking.” He shrugs one shoulder, daring me to disagree with the obvious.

Point taken, I spin in place. Game. Over. “Bye.”

My plan is to beeline to another pool table, play a stress-free, no-stakes game to relax and forget about Mr. Modern Logging–Sex God–Prince Charming–Asshole.

“You forgot something.” The deep voice behind me stops me in my tracks, and I groan in annoyance. So help me if I turn around and he says something stupid like “saying thank you” or “your phone number.” I will have to teach him a lesson the same way I was willing to teach Roddy one.

But when I look over my shoulder, Wyatt is holding up a ten-dollar bill. I grit my teeth and trace the few steps back. When I grab at the money, he lifts it high, using his height against me. “Let’s play a game. Double or nothing.”

I jump, snatching the money from his hand. Fuck, I hate it when tall guys do that. I know it’s just to make my boobs bounce. “Except this is already my money.”

The jump puts me even closer to him, though, and a waft of his cologne works its way into my nose and lights up my brain. It’s woodsy and spicy, reminding me of leather and pine trees, a combination that suddenly seems sexy as fuck. My nipples perk up and my ovaries stretch from their long slumber, hopping up like a pair of joyful jelly beans, both of them demanding a little extra attention.

What the hell is wrong with me? Am I ovulating or something? I’ve heard that can make you hornier. Or maybe Wyatt has some megawatt pheromones that are wreaking havoc on me?

“Then let’s play for bragging rights,” he suggests, which is honestly a bigger gamble than a few bucks. My reputation’s worth more than money around Puss N Boots.

“Let’s don’t and say we did. Besides, I don’t play newcomers,” I explain, adding, “for your protection. Grumpy losers are bad for business.” I gesture toward the door, where Roddy stomped out moments ago.

“Newcomers?” he echoes, his brows pulling together. And then he grins. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Should I?” I scan him again, making note of the thick thighs, narrow waist, broad shoulders, tanned skin, and gorgeous face. There is something vaguely familiar about him, but if I’d seen him before, I definitely wouldn’t have forgotten him.

Instead of answering, he repeats, “Let’s play.”

Nope, no way, nuh-uh. These are all the responses that run through my mind, but my mouth doesn’t get the memo, and to my surprise, I hear myself say, “Okay.”

Shit, why did I say that? Now I’m going to have to actually spend more time with the devil, and dancing is not what’s on my mind, unless you count the horizontal mambo. Trying to save a little face, I quickly sputter, “Your funeral. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Pretty sure you warned me, Roddy warned me, and Charlene over there is currently warning me too.” He hooks a thumb through the air, and I follow it to see Charlene still busting ass with the rush but keeping one eye on Wyatt and me. It’s the stink eye she reserves for the worst of customers.

I hold off from going straight into my “I was right” victory dance, taking the time to ask, “You know Charlene?”

There’s the tiniest bit of disappointment in my gut, and it’s threaded through my voice. She’s like an irresistible force of nature. She wants a man, she gets a man. That’s it. Like gravity, or taxes, or death, she just is.

“Nope. In fact, I just met her when she took my order. Though she did offer a go-round.” He laughs lightly, and I can imagine what Charlene offered.

“And you said?”

“Thank you, but no thank you?” he says, though there’s a hint of confusion in his answer. I guess he’s not used to being questioned boldly about another woman. But I don’t want to step on Charlene’s toes. Sisters before misters and all. Not that she’s my literal sister, but she’s like one.

“Alright then.” I shouldn’t agree to play with him. I know it from my fingertips to my toes, but I’ve never claimed to make the right decisions 100 percent of the time. I don’t claim it for even 50 percent of the time! I aim for a solid 33 percent responsible, another 33 dumb, and one more 33 percent fun. The last 1 percent? That’s for absolute, purely ridiculous outrageousness. It’s what I call balance.

We wait for the next available table, then get set up. I’ll give Wyatt credit, he racks like a newbie should, but at the same time nice and tight. He knows what he’s doing as he selects a cue, and I pat Joannie. “I’m good. You need a breakdown of the rules or anything? I don’t want you bitchin’ and moanin’ about me cheating when I win,” I tell him, referring to Roddy’s hissy fit.

Wyatt shakes his head, taking chalk and rubbing it on the tip of his cue. The movement is practiced and experienced. Curiously, I ask, “Are you sharkin’ me?”

“Nope,” he says, “but do you mind if I break?”

I swear to God if he pockets the eight ball and I lose outright, I will slam his face to the felt. But I gesture with one hand, giving him not the floor but the table.

He positions himself where he wants and takes a strong stance behind the cue ball, and my eyes go to his butt as he leans down. Total dump truck of an ass, I think. In fact, I’m so focused on it, I almost miss him pumping his cue forward to strike the ball.

Crack!

The cue ball slams into the ball set with incredible force, sending balls all over the table. Two of them replace their way into pockets. Luckily, one is a stripe while the other is solid. It’s still anyone’s table to run.

Wyatt takes another shot successfully, sinking the one and claiming solids, and then one more before missing.

Good game so far, Wyatt. But it’s all over now. You won’t get another shot. With the balls or me.

I try to quell my giddiness as I size up my shot and quickly weigh my options.

I’m lined up on the nine ball, aiming straight for the left corner pocket. It’s an easy shot, one that I could make with my eyes closed. I’ll have to make sure I use the right English to set my next shot up, though.

I get into position, angling myself, but I pause, my skin prickling. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Wyatt looming off to the side, like a giant sentinel watching me. I don’t know why, but it’s so very distracting the way he’s staring at me, which is particularly frustrating because I’m usually good at canceling out any distractions when playing, no matter who I’m playing.

But there’s something about Wyatt that is throwing me off my game.

“Good form,” I vaguely hear him say.

Focus, Hazel, focus! He’s trying to distract you to get in your head.

Putting my eyes straight on my target and leveling my gaze, I hit the cue ball, and it flies forward, hitting the yellow-and-white ball toward the pocket . . . but double-bangs off the corners before rolling away, missing.

I stare in disbelief, hot embarrassment burning my cheeks. How could I miss that? I could’ve made that shot when I was ten years old! The fact that I obviously screwed up only because of Wyatt eye fucking me has me shook.

Serves you right for being so cocky, I tell myself angrily.

“Sorry to interrupt y’all’s lovely game,” a voice says from behind me, and I turn to see my best friend’s fiancé, Winston, walking up to clamp a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder, “but I have to steal my big brother away, I’m afraid.”

“Give us a few, we’re in a match,” Wyatt growls. “And it was just starting to get good.”

Brother? It hits me like a ton of bricks.

Wyatt. Ford. As in, of the Ford family. Jed and Bill Ford.

That’s why he looks vaguely familiar. I can see the similarities between them now.

“Winston, did you say this guy is your brother?” I want to be sure before I go off half-cocked again. I like Winston . . . now. At first, when Avery came back from school, talking my head off about this guy she was dating, I was happy for her. Then she told me his name, and my happiness for my friend evaporated into thin air. In fact, it led to the biggest fight we’ve ever had. But Winston has proven himself to be completely different from his uncle. He loves Avery and is totally gone for her—hook, line, and sinker. And if he loves her that much, then I’ll give him a pass on his shitty family. He didn’t choose them, after all.

But Wyatt?

I feel duped for some reason. It’s not like we exchanged last names, phone numbers, preferred positions, and post-fuck snack recipes, but c’mon, he knows the weight his name carries around here. Hell, I’m surprised he didn’t lead with that since those four little letters are probably enough to get him a legs-open invitation from some women.

“Guilty as charged. He’s home for the wedding,” Winston tells me. To Wyatt, he says, “As I was trying to tell you before you charged off, Hazel is Avery’s best friend and she’s in the wedding, so you’ll see her there.”

“You’re in the wedding?” Wyatt repeats, sounding just as surprised as I feel.

“Yeah,” I drawl out, not liking his tone. “Don’t worry, I clean up real purdy and won’t embarrass your kinfolk by leaving my POS car on the front lawn or picking my teeth with a shrimp fork.” I have no idea if a shrimp fork is even small enough to get between my teeth, but the point stands. I’m not in the same class as these two. Not in the same world.

And if there was ever a man for me, his last name would not be Ford, because he would not be related to the man who is turning my hometown into a battleground and who broke my Aunt Etta’s heart.

“The little plastic swords from the appetizers are better toothpick substitutes,” Wyatt suggests casually, almost sounding . . . amused?

I scowl, not liking this back-and-forth. Why can’t he just take the burn and slink away like most guys do? Is that so damn hard?

Winston looks from Wyatt to me. “Uh, okay . . . so there’s that. But we do need to leave, Wyatt. Avery wants me to bring her dinner.”

That’s enough to stop the mental formulation of my next attack plan. “Is she okay? Why hasn’t she already had dinner? It’s late.”

Avery is a giver through and through, and if she’s asking for dinner, it means she’s at the end of her rope.

“She’s fine. Grandpa just wanted Tayvious’s chili, so I offered to take him a bowl. And I can’t very well take him dinner without taking Avery some, right? So I got her a big burger. I’m gonna have Wyatt drop me off, and I’ll stay over to make sure she eats.” He pauses, then corrects himself: “Make sure they both eat.”

Avery’s grandpa is still a lively, slick one. His mind’s sharp as Tay Tay’s favorite knife, but without the nastiness a lot of old folks get when their bodies start to betray them. But he needs a lot of care, enough that Avery spends the majority of her time supervising him. It sounds like she’s got Winston to help with that now too.

“Yeah, of course. Tell her to call me if she needs anything.” It’s a safer conversation than the one Wyatt’s eyes are trying to have with me—one filled with confusion at my whiplash cold shoulder. “Bye!”

I try to make it sound breezy and casual, but I’m pretty sure I fail.

The brothers turn and make their way out. And though I try to fight it, I can’t help but watch Wyatt as he walks away, his stride strong and powerful, his well-defined ass looking magnificent in those jeans of his.

More than one woman in the room has her eye on him, too, some of them literally looking like they’re in heat with their tongues hanging out. Charlene herself looks like she’s about to pull the seltzer hose from underneath the bar and start hosing people down, starting with herself.

It’s at that moment I make a firm decision.

Whatever happens, and whatever I do, I’ll be sure to keep far, far away from Wyatt Ford. No matter what, I have to avoid him at all costs . . . wedding or otherwise.