Page 9 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

"We need to fix this."

"Agreed." He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up in ways that shouldn't be distracting but are. "But first, I need pants. And you need..."

A knock at the door cuts him off.

"Housekeeping!"

"No!" we both shout.

But it's too late. The door swings open to reveal not housekeeping, but a man in an expensive suit whose expression shifts from annoyance to pure delight.

"Connor?" He leans against the doorframe. "Please tell me that wedding picture you sent me last night wasn’t real."

Connor groans. "Alex..."

"Because it looks an awful lot like my Best Man just married..." The man – Alex – peers at me. "Wait. Aren't you Will fiancée?"

The room goes very, very still.

"Will's... you know Will?" My voice sounds far away.

"Will Drake?" Alex's grin gets wider. "My cousin? The one whose bachelor party just got dramatically canceled? That Will?"

Dammit. I should have recognized him sooner.

This is Alexander Drake. Billionaire CEO. Seattle golden boy.

And the family member whose wedding I was supposed to attend with Will later this spring. That is, before my engagement blew up.

"Fuck me," I whisper.

"Pretty sure Connor already did," Alex mumbles under his breath.

Connor throws a pillow at his head, which Alex catches.

"This isn't..." I start, then stop because what isn't it? A disaster? A cosmic joke? The kind of coincidence that makes me wonder if the universe is actually just a really dedicated screenwriter with a terrible sense of humor?

"We need coffee," Connor announces. "And lawyers. Definitely lawyers."

"What you need," Alex says, tossing aside the pillow Connorthrew, "is a really good explanation for why I feel like I’m in the middle of a really bad Jerry Springer episode.”

Connor hums. “In our defense, are there any actually ‘good’ Jerry Springer episodes? Just saying…”

Silence settles in the room. Until another knock makes us all jump.

"Special delivery for the happy couple!"

Before any of us can move, a man in a gold lamé suit pushes past Alex, wheeling in a cart loaded with...

"Are those his and hers Elvis robes?" I ask faintly.

"Complete with your commemorative wedding photo album!" Gold Lamé confirms cheerfully. "You two were one of my favorite ceremonies last night. The way you changed the lyrics of 'Can't Help Falling in Love' to include a verse about PR crisis management? Inspired!"

I look at Connor. He looks at me. We both look at Alex, who's now watching our horror unfold with the kind of joy usually reserved for children on Christmas morning.

"So," Gold Lamé continues, oblivious, "when would you like to schedule your follow-up interview? The reality show producers are very interested in your story. The PR executive who caught her fiancé cheating, only to marry his cousin's Best Man? It's ratings gold!"

"Reality show?" I repeat weakly.

---