Page 8 of The Worst Best Man
Aiden slowed abruptly to slip around a pick-up truck stopping at a roadside coconut stand. He drove rarely in Manhattan and had been delighted to find that traffic laws were more suggestions than actual laws on the island. It took him back to his racing days. The one time in his life that he’d ever really felt carefree.
“Jesus, Aide,” Frankie said, gripping the handle as they entered the next roundabout.
The nickname, freely given, felt strange to him… warm, familiar. “Welcome to Barbados,” he offered, slipping out the other side of the traffic circle.
She let go of the handle to harness her hair that was blowing wildly in all directions. She coiled it on top of her head and secured it with an elastic band. He let his gaze travel down her body. The pink tank top and white cotton shorts showed off the lovely olive tone of her legs. She had Mediterranean in her lineage. He’d bet money on it. No blonde skeleton was Franchesca Baranski.
“Eyes on the road, buddy,” she said dryly.
“I was just wondering if it was casual day.”
“This is the one and only outfit of the whole trip that didn’t have to be coordinated with the bridesmonsters, and you won’t ruin my enjoyment of it.”
“Coordinating outfits?” He was so glad he wasn’t a woman.
“Price you pay for having friends,” Frankie said. “But I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that.”
And that was why Aiden kept his circle small. Miniscule really. He wasn’t social, didn’t enjoy attention or parties. He liked making money, rising to a challenge, finding the most creative solution to obstinate obstacles.
“Wow. Look at that water.” She pointed an unpolished finger to their left and leaned closer to him to get a better view. The highway paralleled the turquoise of the Caribbean Sea. He caught the scent of her hair, something exotic, spiced. And for one glorious second, the image of Frankie naked and sprawled across his bed materialized, unbidden in his mind’s eye.
“Picture perfect,” Aiden agreed.
“Have you ever been here before?” Frankie asked, digging through her bag. Triumphantly, she pulled out a tube of sunscreen.
“Are you making small talk?” he asked.
“Figured we wouldn’t fight as much over ‘pretty ocean’ and ‘come here often?’” She squeezed the lotion onto the pads of her fingers and rubbed it onto her face. Aiden wondered when was the last time he’d seen a woman in anything other than full makeup and perfectly coiffed hair. The women he dated preferred to leave “natural” a closely guarded secret.
“Oh, I think we can find contention on any topic,” Aiden predicted.
She hummed an answer and didn’t elaborate.
“What?” he asked.
“I’mtryingto be polite. We’re here for Pru and Chip, and I’m not going to spoil their wedding by fighting with you.”
“You really don’t like me, do you?” Aiden asked with a grin.
“Nope. But that doesn’t mean I have to be an asshole about it. Some of us were raised better than that.” It was a jab at him, but rather than piss him off, it amused him.
“How were you raised?” he prodded.
“Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “We’re not going to play getting to know you. We don’t like each other, and we don’t need to. You do your thing, I’ll do mine. We’ll get through our formal portraits and our bridal party dance, and then we never need to see each other again.”
Aiden laughed. The sound of it foreign to his own ears. “I don’tnotlike you.”
“I’m not biting, Kilbourn. So, you just demolition derby us to the resort in silence, and I’ll sit here and pretend you’re a cute Australian surfer.”
“I’m not trying to start a fight—”
“Uh-uh. No words. Drive. Quietly.”
He grinned, shaking his head, and let her have her way. They zoomed along the skinny highway, swerving around potholes and stopping for the occasional pedestrian. They passed sandy white beaches with swaying palms and sunburned tourists. The street narrowed as he steered them into Bridgetown. They whizzed by store fronts and sidewalk produce stands, past a handful of luxury brand stores, and on by the cruise ship port.
Frankie’s attention was glued to the water view.
It was beautiful. The kind of blue that only existed on postcards. And the constant tropical breeze made the mid-eighties feel balmy, not oppressive. Not that he’d enjoy it. The long weekend was chock full of the downsides of wealth and privilege. Social obligation, familial responsibility, and—because he was closer to Chip than his own half-brother—gratuitous celebration. Was a marriage really worth this kind of fanfare? Shouldn’t the bride and groom want it to be something more private, more meaningful? He accelerated up a short hill, frowning.
