Page 2 of The Worst Best Man
“Chip. Pru.” The voice was a full octave deeper than Chip’s. Smooth, cultured. Frankie considered asking him to read the grocery list she had stashed in her hand-me-down clutch just so she could listen to him pronounce edamame.
“Aiden!” The good breeding kicked in automatically, and Chip turned to his best friend to make the introductions. “Frankie, this is Aiden Kilbourn, my best man. Aiden, this is Franchesca Baranski, the maid of honor.”
“Frankie,” Aiden said, extending his hand. “That’s an interesting name.”
Frankie gripped and shook. “We’ve got a Taffany and a Davenport in the bridal party, and I’m the one with an interesting name?”
His already cool expression chilled a few degrees. Obviously, he wasn’t used to being educated by an underling. “I was merely making an observation.”
“You were pre-judging,” she countered.
“Sometimes a judgment begs to be made.”
She was still holding his hand. Annoyance had her tightening her grip. He returned the squeeze, and Frankie dropped his hand unceremoniously.
“So, Aiden,” Pru began brightly. “I metFranchescamy first semester at NYU. She’s brilliant—full-ride scholarship—and she graduated a semester early with a 4.0. Franchesca works part-time for a nonprofit while pursuing her MBA.”
Frankie shot daggers at Pru. She didn’t need her best friend trying to talk her up to a snobbish ass.
“Aiden is COO of his family’s business. Mergers and acquisitions,” Chip supplied. “I don’t remember his GPA from Yale. But it wasn’t as good as yours, Frankie.”
She was about to excuse herself and track down another tray of champagne when the DJ changed it up. The first beats of “Uptown Funk” brought half of Manhattan’s elite rushing to the dance floor like someone had announced the new Birkin bag was available.
Pru’s hand clamped down on her arm. “It’s our song!” she squealed. “Let’s go!”
Frankie allowed Pru to tow her toward the dance floor. They slid seamlessly into their choreographed dance crafted two years earlier after one of Frankie’s moderately disappointing breakups. They’d polished off two entire pizzas with three bottles of wine and spent the rest of the evening choreographing the perfect ass shaker.
“I couldn’t tell if you two were fighting or flirting,” Pru yelled over the music.
“Flirting? You’re joking, right? I’m way out of his league.”
Chapter Two
Aiden had a headache by the time he’d crossed the marble lobby of the Regency Hotel, one of the bride’s family’s holdings. And he knew an evening spent in the company of the Brat Pack of groomsmen and a few dozen people looking to marry him off, secure his investment, or beg some free advice would only make it worse.
But it was the price he paid for privilege. He handed the empty champagne flute to a passing server and wished for scotch. But drinking away his headache wouldn’t do anyone any favors tonight.
“How about Margeaux?” Chip asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the model tall, waif-slim blonde. She wore a gold gown with a slit practically to her chin. She was ruthlessly styled, hair perfect, makeup impeccable. She never ate or smiled in public.
“How about not on your life? She looks like the equivalent of an ice cube in bed.” Since Chip had found his lasting happiness with Pruitt, he’d made it his mission to drag his best friend Aiden along with him for the ride.
“Yeah, she’s horrible,” Chip agreed. “But Pru was her maid of honor so…” he winced. “I’m going to do you a favor and skip over Taffany.”
“Thanks,” Aiden said dryly. The woman rebranded herself as Taffany after a second cousin named her baby Tiffany. She was the quintessential party girl. A week didn’t go by when she wasn’t plastered across the gossip blogs flashing her crotch in dresses short enough to be shirts and falling out of rock stars’ SUVs in front of clubs.
“How about Cressida?” Chip offered, pointing his glass at yet another blonde. This one’s breasts couldn’t be bothered to stay within the confines of her couture corset. The rest of her was a tan skeleton. She was frowning fiercely and pacing in a short six-foot radius as she yelled into her cellphone in German.
“She seems nice,” Aiden observed sarcastically.
“She seems like she’d cut your balls off and then ransom you for them,” Chip said cheerfully.
“How about Frankie?” Aiden asked, warming to the game. His gaze flicked to her on the dance floor. Her hair was dark, thick, heavy with curls. Her body was lushly curved as highlighted by the simple gold slip gown she wore. Her wide mouth was curved in a generous smile as she laughed at something Pruitt said.
“Oh, she’s too good for you,” Chip said. “She’s smart and sarcastic. She’d be too much work for you.”
“I see what you’re doing,” Aiden said. He flagged down a server and ordered a Macallan. One wouldn’t hurt. One might take the edge off a bit.
“What am I doing? I’m trying to save you from a woman who clearly isn’t your type.”
