Who knows. Maybe everyone is already married, so there are no weddings.

Or, maybe I’m an asshole and no one wants to waste the space inviting me to their thing. Their event.

Whatever, like I have time for that crap.

The wedding planner is busy matching people together, her clipboard in hand, no doubt listing the pairings of the bridal party. We move through the motions of the processional or whatever it’s called—the grand march or some shit—where we walk down the aisle, two by two, like we’re marching onto Noah’s Ark. (Noah’s Ark from the Bible, not Noah Harding, the baseball player officiant standing on the pitcher’s mound. Er, I mean, podium.)

I pull at my crotch, adjusting my shorts, while the young woman beside me tries to push her hand through the crux of my bended elbow so we can start walking to the front.

“I’m Shoshanna Lohenstein,” she tells me, batting a pair of false eyelashes. They’re too black, too long, and flutter like engorged butterflies fucking her actual eyelids.

Shoshanna. Lohenstein.

If that doesn’t sound blue-blooded and snotty, I don’t know what does.

“You’re not the maid of honor,” I state matter-of-factly, hoping like hell they haven’t changed the plans and stuck me with this Barbie doll. “Where is Madison?”

“I’m the practice stand-in—Maddie is putting out fires with the mother of the bride. She’s like, losing her mind. Maddie, not Mrs. Westbrooke.” She pats my arm. “I hope you don’t mind.”

I snort.

From what I’ve seen of Madison Newtown, when it comes to parties and planning, she runs a tight ship and has everything under control. I wonder where she’s at, because I’d rather have her standing next to me than this socialite debutante—but I don’t care enough to find out.

“Whatever.”

I stare straight ahead to deter any conversation.

The last thing I need is to encourage the Shoshanna Lohensteins of the world.

Her nails—I look down at them digging into my bicep—are painted in bright colors, sunk into my skin as if she has no intention of letting go when we get to the end of the aisle.

I’m correct; I have to peel her off before fleeing to the groom’s side. Just the tiniest bit afraid, I chance a glance over my shoulder to find her leering at me like I’m a piece of meat.

Avoid that woman at all costs tomorrow night.

I manage to avoid her eyes the remainder of the rehearsal, made slightly easier now that she’s seated in one of the pews, replaced by Madison, who returned from wherever the hell she’d gone off to.

The minutes pass by.

I watch the clock at the back of the church. Stare up at the painted rectory. Watch the florists and planners and workers decorating the church for the ceremony tomorrow.

It’s a goddamn forest in here.

Romance exploding everywhere.

Then.

The whole thing is over, and the entire group is gathering toward the back of the church to discuss who’s riding with who to the restaurant for the rehearsal dinner, a clusterfuck if I ever saw one.

I jingle my keys and make for the exit.

“Bro.” I hear someone call out, but bro could be anybody. Plenty of these dudes could have a brother here.

I keep walking, but a hand clamps down on my shoulder, stopping me.

“Bro.” It’s Buzz. “Bro, can you give Chandler a ride to dinner? She came with me but Mom wants to ride with us and go over some last-minute stuff, so I’m sending Hollis with—”

He needs to stop using the B word before I lose my mind.

“It’s fine.” I cut him off, nodding toward his fiancée’s cousin, who lingers a few feet away, clutching her purse. “We don’t have to discuss it to death.”

My brother glares at me, shooting me a warning look. Can you be nice? he mouths.

I roll my eyes. Duh. I’m always nice.

I force a smile that feels more like a wolf grin, minus the fangs.

Shit. Maybe I am being a dick.

Too late now, as I’m ushered out with the rest of the herd, the wedding planner and florists needing the room to spread out the decorations and arrangements that still need to be placed.

I thought they were going to have a low-key situation, not this fancy, frilly, pretty crap. So many florals the fragrance makes me sneeze.

“Are you allergic to the roses?” Chandler asks as we head toward my truck.

“No.”

Maybe.

Who knows. I’ve never sneezed over flowers before, but I’ve also never been in a room full of hundreds of them, so maybe I am.

I hit the remote to unlock the doors and shoot her a sidelong glance.

She doesn’t look like the type of girl who has a hot pink vibrator stashed next to the bed; then again, I don’t look like the type of dude who has to jerk off a few times a week because he cannot get laid.

Looks can be deceiving.

The smallest running back on a football field can score the most points.