Page 58 of The Worst Best Man
She gave him her best “shut the fuck up” look.
“I’ll be whatever it is you want me to be.”
“Aiden! How is that not playing games?”
“I’m trying to be honest with you.”
“Then try this on for size,” she suggested. “‘Frankie, I like you. A lot. And I want to fuck you, and I promise to make it worth your while.’”
“I want to do more than fuck you,” he admitted.
Frankie shook her head. “I know what you do. You play with women like toys until something newer and shinier comes along.”
“I don’t do long-term relationships,” Aiden agreed. “But I won’t play with you. I’ll be good to you.”
“While it lasts,” she shot back. “I’m not interested in being someone’s toy. And what makes you think I’d want a relationship with you anyway?”
“Then spend tonight with me.”
“Just tonight?”
“Let me have you tonight. All night. Then decide.”
“Jesus, Kilbourn. You want me to fuck you and then decide if I want to be your plaything?”
He looked pained. “I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Newsflash. You don’t buy me, asshole. You earn me.”
The camera shutter clicked incessantly. “Why don’t you grab her leg and hook it over your hip,” the photographer suggested to Aiden.
“I think we’re done here,” Frankie said, pushing out of Aiden’s arms. She needed tequila to cool the slow burn in her blood. Every damn time he put his hands on her, she couldn’t think of anything else but how good it felt.
She couldn’t trust him. Wouldn’t trust him. She had standards. She wasn’t some walking horn dog like Margeaux. And she wasn’t an idiot like Taffany. She knew exactly what she’d be getting into, and it wasn’t just Aiden’s bed.
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The party moved to the expansive stone terrace for dinner and more drinks. Frankie noted that Pru looked a little shell-shocked over Chip’s description of recent events. But she was a Stockton-Randolph now. Appearances had to be kept.
Still, Frankie watched her closely for signs of migraines or minor freak-outs. And while she watched Pru, Aiden watched her.
She avoided him. But it wasn’t easy. There was the group photography. The bridal party dance. And she couldn’t completely ignore him now that he was giving a toast.
He rose from the chair on Chip’s right, the microphone in his hand. The long bridal party table was swagged in ivory cloth and tens of thousands of dollars of cream-colored flowers. Strands of silver and gold crystals dripped from the table top down to the floor. Frankie half expected Gatsby himself to stroll out with a goblet of champagne.
And Aiden Kilbourn in a bespoke tux looked as if he belonged here.
He didn’t need to quiet the crowd. When Aiden spoke, everyone listened.
Frankie tried not to look at him, but it was like telling an elementary school student not to look directly into the sun during an eclipse. It just made her want to look more.
“Chip and I met on the polo field several years ago when my rather aggressive pony tried to take a bite out of his shoulder,” Aiden began warmly. “He was quite nice about it as Chip is about everything. I, on the other hand, am more like my pony.”
The crowd chuckled, and Frankie rolled her eyes.
“Despite that, we became friends. I thought my influence would harden him. Make him more aggressive to better suit me. However, it didn’t work out quite that way. Despite my best efforts, Chip remained kind-hearted, friendly. And I found myself softening a bit. Chip reminded me that there is more to life than conquering the world. There’s living and loving to be done. And he and Pruitt are a shining example of exactly that.”
Chip grinned up at Aiden.
