Page 57 of The Worst Best Man
“You don’t have to be afraid of the bride. There’s no zilla there,” Frankie said, warming up to a jog.
“It’s not her. It’s Wannabe Annie Leibovitz,” the lackey said, nodding in the photographer’s direction. The woman was wearing diamonds and silk as if she were one of the higher end guests. “She’s terrifying.”
“Send me that waiter,” Frankie hissed as the woman shoved her toward the photographer.
“You!” The photographer pointed an accusing finger in her direction. “Makeup!”
As if by magic, a hotel employee with a palette of gels and goops and glosses appeared in front of Frankie and started applying things to her face.
“And you!” The photographer pointed at Aiden who had trailed in, a glass of something manly in his hand. “Your hair is a little long on top for my vision. We need to cut it.”
“Or you’ll take me as I am,” he suggested calmly, his gaze finding Frankie.
“Bah!” the photographer spat out a laugh. “Fine. Stand there and look broody. Perfect,” she said when he didn’t move a muscle. She pointed at Frankie again. “You. Go there.”
“Where’s my tequila?” Frankie whispered to the assistant.
“I’ll share,” Aiden offered, holding up his glass.
She wasn’t getting through this without alcohol. She sipped, her eyes widening at the slow, smooth burn at the back of her throat.
“Scotch?” she asked, taking another sip. A team of assistants appeared and shoved her at Aiden, arranging them for the photographer.
Aiden nodded. His hand skimmed the small of her back, fingers curling around the curve of her hip.
One of the assistants snatched the glass from her hand and Frankie glared, mutinously at the man. “I must have only had the bad kind before.”
“I’ll give you a case,” Aiden promised.
Frankie looked up at him sharply. “Don’t start with me, Aide.” One of the stagers grabbed her hand and laid it flat on his chest. “Hey!” Frankie didn’t care to be arranged like a Barbie doll. Especially not when her Ken was Aiden.
“Perfect! Don’t move!” The photographer flew around them snapping away. Flashes blinding them both. “Stop looking at me. Look at each other.”
Frankie didn’t obey the command swiftly enough and Aiden nudged her chin up to meet his gaze.
“Oh, hell yes. Inferno over here,” the photographer shouted. “Give me more.”
“I want you,” Aiden announced quietly.
Frankie tried to withdraw, but he wouldn’t let her. He held her in place with those two big, capable hands.
“You wanted honesty. You don’t want games. I’m giving you that. I want you in my bed, Franchesca. I want to see you when we go home.”
“God! The smolder on you two,” the photographer crowed.
“I want you, and we both know that’s not one sided,” he pressed.
She shivered, thinking about those probing fingers under the table at dinner the night before.
“Giving in to every craving your body has is a stupid idea,” she shot back.
“Craving. What a perfect word for it.” He brought his hand up and smoothed her hair away from her face.
“Oh, yeah. I’m having orgasms over here,” the photographer shouted. “Way better than Sunburned Fake Tits and Mr. Roboto.”
“I just told you I don’t sleep with guys who treat people like shit.”
“Then I’ve changed my ways.”
