Something Borrowed I

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The champagne was warm.

That was my first sign tonight was a disaster.

I'd spent six months planning my sister's wedding—the flowers, the seating chart, the temperature of the goddamn champagne!—and now, at 10:47 PM, I stood in the middle of the reception hall with a flute of tepid bubbles and a smile so fake my cheeks ached.

Emma was dancing with her new husband. Radiant. Happy. Settled.

"Ughh," I gulped down the hot champagne ignoring the burning sensation it left on my wet tongue.

I was jealous.

Not of the dress, though it was stunning. Not of the attention, though she glowed under it like she'd been born for this moment.

No. I was jealous that she'd chosen. She'd picked safe. Predictable. The man who would never break her heart because he was too boring to try.

"So silly." I looked at my sister spinning in her husband's arms and thought: That could have been me.

But instead, I was the maid of honor. The organizer. The one who made everything perfect for everyone else while my own life sat on a shelf gathering dust.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

A voice came from behind me. Low. Rough. Like whiskey over gravel.

I didn't turn around. I knew that voice. I'd been avoiding it all night.

"Two pennies," I said, still watching Emma. "Not worth the copper."

Leo stepped up beside me. Best man. My sister's new brother-in-law.

Tall—six-two, easy—with dark hair that curled at his collar and a jaw sharp enough to cut glass. His tux was expensive but rumpled, like he'd been fighting it all night. His bow tie hung undone around his neck.

He looked like a man who'd given up pretending.

Which was dangerous. Because I'd been pretending all night.

"Your sister looks happy," he said.

"She is."

"The cake's a disaster."

I finally turned. "The cake is fine."

"Half of it's melting. The groom's face looks like a sad potato."

I glanced at the dessert table. The buttercream was sliding. The groom's fondant face had developed a droop that was frankly tragic.

I started to laugh—a real laugh, the first all night—and then stopped myself.

Because Leo was watching me with those dark, knowing eyes, and the way he looked at me made me feel like I was standing in a crowded room completely naked.

"You've been running all night," he said, his voice dropping. "Fixing. Smiling. Handling everyone's chaos, pretending ."

"Glk," I gulped hard. How did he know I’ve been pretending. "That's my job." I needed to be firm so he would go away.

"Maybe, but who's handling you?"

The question landed in my chest like a stone. I opened my mouth to deflect—to make a joke, to wave him off—but nothing came out.

Leo stepped closer. Just half a step. But I could smell him—cedar and bourbon and something underneath that was purely him.

His hand came up, slow, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face.

"I've been watching you for years," he said, his breathe landing softly on my skin. "At every family thing. Every holiday."

"Leo—"

"You always take care of everyone else." His fingers tucked the hair behind my ear, lingering on my neck. "Who takes care of you?"

I should have stepped back.

I didn't.

"Are you happy for her?" he asked.

The truth slipped out before I could stop it. "No."

His smile was slow. Dangerous. "Come with me."

He didn't ask. His hand found mine—warm, calloused, fingers lacing through mine like they belonged there. He pulled me through the crowd, past my parents, past the dancing, past the melting cake.

No one noticed. Everyone was watching Emma.

We slipped through a door marked PRIVATE. The storage room behind the bar.

The second the door clicked shut, the music faded to a muffled thump—bass and laughter through the walls. The room was small. Cramped. Shelves of liquor bottles and folded linens. A single yellow bulb overhead cast everything in warm, hazy light.

Leo turned. His body backed me against the door.

The wood was cool against my bare shoulders. His chest was hot, pressed against mine. I could feel the fabric of his tuxedo, the weight of him, the way his breath came faster now.

His hand came up to the door beside my head. The other found my hip.

And he looked at me.

Not the way people looked at the maid of honor. Not the way someone looked at their sister-in-law.

He looked at me like I was the last glass of water in the desert.

"You have no idea," he said, voice barely a rasp, "how long I've wanted to do this."

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Show-."

His mouth found mine.

Not fast. Slow. Like he wanted to taste every part of it. His lips brushed mine once, twice—just the barest pressure—and my breath caught.

Then he pressed harder. His tongue slid along my bottom lip, asking, and I opened for him like I'd been starving.

He tasted like bourbon and mint. His hand on my hip tightened, pulling me flush against him. I could feel him through the tuxedo pants—hard, thick, pressing against my thigh.

I moaned into his mouth. A small, broken sound.

He pulled back, just an inch. His forehead against mine. His breath hot on my lips.

"Shh," he breathed. "They'll hear."

I didn't care. But the danger of it—the risk—made me wetter than any slow seduction ever could.

His mouth moved from mine. Down my jaw. Finding the spot just below my ear. He sucked on it. Lingered. His teeth grazed my skin, and I shivered.

"Your sister is out there," he said, his voice vibrating against my neck. "My brother. Dancing. Celebrating. And I've got you pressed against a door, and I can feel your heart going crazy."

"She always gets what she wants," I whimpered against his skin.

"Not this time." His tongue traced down my neck. "Not you."