Page 41 of Seven Year Itch
I quickly take off the cream jacket. “It’s hot as hell in this coat.”
“It’s a linen jacket.” Max frowns over at me.
“I’m sweating my balls off.”
Wyatt eyes me with a threatening look. “Do I need to throw you in the ocean before the wedding to get you to cool the fuck down? You’ve been a pain in the ass all afternoon.”
“Yeah, what is your problem?” Luke adds, taking Wyatt’s side. “These suits breathe really nicely.”
“Maybe you guys aren’t hot because you’re staying in a nice, air-conditioned house, while I’m stuck in a wide-open palapa with the spawn of Satan trying to boil me alive!”
“Dakota isn’t that bad,” Max scoffs and shakes his head at me.
I huff out a laugh. “Then, you share a room with her.”
A slow smile spreads across Luke’s face. “You’re just pissy because she won’t fuck you.”
“Oh, like Addison is fucking you?”
His eyes turn to slits. “We’re just friends.”
“And who’s decision was that?”
Luke steps up so we’re standing toe-to-toe. “Are you looking for a fight today?”
“All right, knock it off,” Wyatt thunders stepping between us and pressing his hands to both of our chests. “You were the morons who demanded plus-ones.”
“Dakota isnotmy plus-one,” I snap, my shoulders tight as I point back to the house where the ladies are all getting ready. “Someone sabotaged my plus-one plans, and now I’m stuck with her.”
“If you had some semblance of control, you wouldn’t have asked to bring someone anyways,” Max says with a harrumph, adjusting the cuff link on his sleeve.
“Stop acting all holier-than-thou, Max. You and Wyatt are no picnics to be around these days.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean you’re both shoving your happy love bubbles in all our faces, and it’s a fucking lot, okay? It’s enough to make a guy puke.”
“My fiancée and daughter make you want to puke?” Wyatt steps up close and bumps chests with me.
“They’re fine, it’s you that makes me want to yack.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Wyatt lunges for my neck as Luke and Max dive into the mix, trying to break up our brawl.
“Boys!” a loud voice shrieks from the distance, and we all freeze in place, knowing that tone all too well.
We turn and see our mother standing there in her powder-blue Mother of the Groom dress. Her short blond hair is curled, her makeup is done, and her flat sandals thwack loudly on the cobblestone sidewalk as she marches toward us.
“Wyatt, let go of your brother’s throat,” she snaps, swatting him on the arm.
I inhale a deep breath as I relax my shoulders and crack my neck.
She turns her pinched lips to me. “Calder, what did you do?”
“Me? You think I’m the problem?”
“You’re usually the problem.” She closes her eyes and sighs heavily. “What did you say?”
My teeth crack as I clench my jaw, refusing to answer the question that she obviously already knows the answer to.
