Page 18 of Sister of the Bride

Evie shrugs. “Too bad. He’shot. Like, George Clooney in season one ofERhot, with the floppy hair and the muscles under the scrubs. I’d let him inspect my tonsils any day of the week.”

“I hope that’s a euphemism for making out and not some weird strep test fetish,” I reply.

“You guys have never…” Evie waggles her eyebrows in the universal sign forget down and dirty.

“No! No,” I say, sticking out my tongue to keep from repeating it six or seven more times. “I’ve known Toby way too long. We’re just friends.”

“Are you sure? Because he looks like Shawn Mendes’s dirty older brother.”

I grimace, but my mind also snags on the description. Because…okay, maybe a little bit? Heisvery tall, well over six feet, and he’s got those wily curls that sort of flop over his eyes and ears of their own volition. He’s got warm brown eyes and a wide smile, and yeah, I can see it. But dirty? What does she mean by dirty?ThatI don’t get. To me, Toby will always be this gangly little cinnamon roll who I’ve known since I was five. Has Toby gotten hot? Objectively, yes. Is Evie right that he looks like season-one Clooney in his scrubs? Sure, okay, I see it. Have I had a handful of inappropriate dreams since he moved back to Boston? I admit nothing. And besides,inappropriateis the operative word. It’s not like I ever have those thoughts when I’m awake and in charge of where the good shipMental Imagesteers. I’m no more responsible for that than when I dream that my limbs are spaghetti and Ben Affleck is trying to dip me in marinara.

So I have a hot best friend. So what! That doesn’t change the reality here, which is that Toby and I are just friends. Always have been, always will be, and neither of us wants to change that.

Anddirty? Toby, my Labrador retriever of a best friend, is definitelynotdirty.

The door to the kitchen pops open and Trevor, another server, sticks his head out. “Table four asked about dessert menus,” he says to Evie.

“Shit. There goes my tip,” Evie says. Because everyone knows that if your table flags down a server who’s not you, it’s because they think you’re not paying attention.

“Comp them some affogati,” I say before she disappears through the door. “That should redeem you.”

“Thank you!” she calls, and before the door clangs shut, Toby emerges through it with a white bakery box tied up in red ribbon. Nonna loves a nice presentation, but Toby immediately grabs one of the tails and yanks, leaning against the wall next to me to crack open the box. He pulls out a perfectly piped cannoli with mini chocolate chips on the ends and a snowy dusting of powdered sugar on top and consumes half of it in one bite. He tilts his head back, and a moan escapes his throat as he chews, this rough, deep sound that makes me forget for a second that it’s coming from Toby. It also reminds me that it’s been a few weeks since I got laid, and clearly that’s making my imagination do weird, wild things. Maybe I should give Everett another shot? I could provide him with a map to my clitoris, which is about a quarter of an inch north of where he thought it was.

I glance over as Toby chews, trying not to notice the way his Adam’s apple works as he swallows. I let my eyes wander along his rounded biceps and corded forearms, and right as they reach his waist, he reaches up in this ridiculous catlike stretch that exposes a couple of inches of his stomach beneath his scrub top andoh my god, when did Toby start hitting the gym? Those are real-life abs, the kind you can’t get accidentally, especially not with the way Toby eats. (I wouldn’t be shocked if he ate all the cannoliandthe box.) Heworkedfor those. I have to force my eyes away to keep from following the trail of chestnut hair that disappears beneath the low-slung waistband of his scrubs, and holy shit, why am I having hot and horny thoughts aboutToby?

I blame Evie. Seriously, Shawn Mendes’s dirty older brother? And Polly too. She’s the one who planted the seeds of that pesky on-call room dream I’ve had twice now. I don’t have feelings for Toby; everyonearound mehas feelings for Toby, apparently, and they need to stop splashing that shit all over me.

I drag my eyes back up to his face and see that he’s clearly caught me staring. I open my mouth to explain, but he just offers me the box. “You want one?” he asks, because of course he thinks I’m lusting after the cannoli.

Which is good, because for a moment there I wasdefinitelylusting after Toby, and thatcannothappen.

Chapter9

Toby

What kind of car does an egg drive?

A yolkswagen!

Pippin

You know how I feel about puns

“Okay, so what do these people do, exactly?” I ask as I crowd onto the wide granite stoop of the Bryan family home with Mom, Nonna, and Polly. It’s time to meet the in-laws, and I’m suddenly wicked nervous. I didn’t realize the Bryans were rich.

Like,stupidrich.

I mean, the expansive stone mansion, with its leaded windows and gas lamps flanking a front door big enough to drive a Mini Cooper through, sits on a sloping green lawn the size of an NFL regulation football field. And when you live in a city like Boston, large-yard rich is a whole different kind of rich.

“Mackenzie’s dad is an attorney,” Polly replies, reaching for the doorbell.

“For the mob?” I ask, turning to take in the full scope of the emerald-green grass, which looks like it’s been cut with a ruler and scissors.

Polly takes a deep breath and blows it out like she’s steeling herself to leap off a cliff. “No, he’s a partner at a big-deal corporate law firm, and her mom is a psychologist who’s written a bunch of bestselling books.”

Something pings in the back of my brain, and when the pieces snap together, my jaw drops open. “Wait, is Mackenzie’s momDr. Nora?”

“Yes,” Polly replies, as if it’s meaningless, like I just asked if Mackenzie’s mom is a Sagittarius.

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