“I am not.”
“I have a question,” she stated, pivoting the conversation.
“I have an answer.”
“Does it seem like Ruby keeps mean-mugging me?”
I gulped violently and prayed Kiyah didn’t hear it. Ruby was Daisy’s best friend and maid of honor, who I slept with a few years ago. It meant nothing to me—one night of impassioned sex when I was missing Kiyah that I regretted in the morning. I didn’t know what I regretted more: my hangover or sleeping with my sister’s best friend. Morally Bankrupt Casey gave me a fucking earful the next day about not shitting where I eat and how certain people were off-limits: clients, employees, anyone who can’t legally consume alcohol in the United States, friends of our siblings, friends of our parents (a fucking given), and people who were in relationships, whether they were situationships or marriages. It was solid advice, but Casey was the last person I wanted to hear it from.
“I think you’re seeing things.”
Lord, forgive me for gaslighting my wife, but I need her to show up after the wedding, and I’ll be damned if a forgettable one-night stand fucks it all up.
“Mmmm. I don’t know. She was acting a little funny towards me earlier, too. I’ll probably pull her aside and ask if something’s bothering her.”
“Don’t do that. Just leave it alone.”
“Why?” Kiyah asked with a sharp tone. I didn’t have to look at her to know she was scanning my profile with a mistrusting gaze.
“Because there’s no point. All it’ll do is cause drama. Don’t put Daisy in a situation where she must defend her best friend or sister.”
Kiyah dropped my arm like it was lava when we arrived at the altar and veered off to our assigned spots. She glowered at me from across the aisle, and I knew my fucking goose was cooked when her cheeks flamed red. She signed that I was a “lying sack of shit.” All I could do was sign back and say, “I know.” I almost signed that I loved her, but that wouldn’t have ended well with all the ASL-literate folks present. Our conversation would’ve raised some flags.
Despite how pissed off Kiyah was, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was radiant in her floor-length lilac chiffon dress. The slit in the front that exposed one of her firm thighs teased me mercilessly. And perhaps it was a weird kink of mine, but I was a sucker when she wore anything spaghetti-strapped. It had everything to do with the act of slowly peeling down the straps and that moment of grueling anticipation before exposing her breasts.
I sighed and willed my growing erection away when Kiyah sucked her cheeks in and pursed her lips like Mom did when she heard some news she didn’t appreciate.
Let the groveling commence.
* * *
“You’re moving in with Ronan,” I said doubtfully, nursing my bourbon, trying to make it stretch. To our relief, the dreadful rehearsal ended when Daisy decided the original song was perfect and that she was tripping for thinking she could find a better song. Everyone bit back their grumbles and complaints and focused on the positives—the open bar and the cold seafood display of lobsters, crabs, oysters, shrimps, and such.
“Why not?” Kieran said as he dragged his chilled shrimp through the cocktail sauce. “We’re best buds, and he has allthose rooms. He’d be an awful friend if he didn’t allow me to live with him.”
“So awful,” Casey teasingly placated before snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
“How much are you paying for rent?” I asked.
“Hm?” Kieran responded as if he didn’t hear my question.
“How much are you paying for rent?” I repeated, this time signing my question as well.
“Rent is a social construct—”
That was all he had to say to have us in stitches. Mom wasn’t lying when she said he thought differently. Not only did Kieran think differently, but he was a natural snake charmer with his words. We’d often finish a conversation, and he’d leave me scratching my head and completely mind-fucked.
“It’s a win-win situation for me,” Ronan said, coming to Kieran’s defense.
“How so?” Casey asked as his eyes trailed one of the waitresses around the room.
“Oh, Middle Bro, she’s off limits,” Kieran announced flippantly.
“What do you mean?”
“We exchanged numbers already, and I have a clandestine meeting arranged with her after dinner.”
“It’s not clandestine if you tell people,” I drawled.