Ugh, I can’t stand cleat chasers.

At another table, one of Buzz’s groomsmen shouts over the music as a pair of highlighter yellow nails graze my exposed forearm. I shiver, and not from delight.

“I wasn’t dressing as part of the theme,” I counter, annoyed.

“Then why are you dressed like a mountain man?”

Dammit! “I’m not dressed like a—”

I clamp my mouth shut. It’s pointless to argue with someone who’s half baked, skin literally baked, and hell-bent on flirting. I could be wearing a garbage bag and this chick would be hitting on me. She knows I’m Tripp Wallace, knows I’m a football player, knows I’m loaded.

“You’re not very talkative.” The girl tries again when I don’t bite on her earlier nonsense about mountain men. “Are you the strong silent type?”

I grunt, hoping she takes the hint and walks away to join her friends. They’re standing in a cluster watching us, heads bent like players in the pre-game huddle, about to take the field.

I don’t want to know what anyone is saying—whatever it is, it’s about me and this chick, and it can’t be good.

After several moments of awkward silence—and me ignoring her—she finally gives up and leaves me alone, going back to her group of friends.

Thank god.

“Dude, come join us again for one last game—we’re bouncing afterwards,” Noah Harding shouts to me over the loud music and the sounds of axes hitting boards and falling to the ground. People laughing. Talking. Shouting. Singing. So much merriment my goddamn head is about to explode.

The last thing I want to do is join my brother and his friends for another humiliating round of axe throwing, but if it means I can hopefully ditch this place quicker, then Noah doesn’t have to tell me twice.

I chug the last of my beer and begrudgingly head over to the cages—Babe the Blue Ox still hanging at my side.TwoChandlerMy cousin is getting married.

Not just my cousin—my favorite cousin, and I’m so happy for her.

It’s not easy being a part of the illustrious Westbrooke family; always in the spotlight, always putting on a show, always on your best behavior. Which is the reason I learned to smile. To say all the right things, do all the things I’ve been brought up to do.

Obedient. Graceful. Classy.

Serene. Shy.

Those are only a few of the words that have been used to describe me in the past. Words I’ve come to hate, though none of them are bad.

Witty, clever, independent, funny—those are the words I’d rather be called.

Smart. Resourceful. Creative. Capable.

But Hollis handles being a Westbrooke beautifully. A few years older than me, I’ve always admired her independence. Her drive. Her carefree, self-starting attitude and willingness to do things her way.

Therefore, I too plotted my own course.

My stint in Europe following my master’s program wasn’t to shirk any duty or a lack of work ethic; it was to escape the suffocating influence of my family, escape the pressure and expectation of the job I’ve been raised to step into now that I have two degrees.

I’d rather end up like Hollis than like her brother and sister, Lucien and Fiona.

Yes, I am going to work at the stadium once I’m unpacked and moved into my new house—but I’m doing it on my terms: under a contract that I negotiated, until I no longer love it.

You only have one life to live, and now that I’m an adult, I’m living it for myself.

Sure, the progression to independence has taken me a little longer than my cousin, who said no to everything the family offered straight out of high school—but I’m getting there.

Slowly but surely, I’m becoming my own person, freed from my gilded cage.

My eyes stray to Fiona and Hollis, both holding court at the wine tasting slash sex toy event her best friend Madison arranged, a white BRIDE sash hanging horizontally across her chest. She’s wearing a white long-sleeved jumpsuit, a white wig cut into a flirty, chin-length bob, and a tiara.

The rest of us? Pink.

Pink dresses, pink wigs, pink sashes.

It’s classic bridal party and bachelorette attire, half classy, half trashy—celebratory so it’s all oddly appropriate.

To quote the bride: Wear pink to make the boys wink.

I feel flirty and cute in my platform wedges and blush midi dress that’s far more appropriate for warmer weather. I feel sexy for the first time in who knows how long, but I highly doubt any boys will be winking my way tonight.

I give my light pink Barbie wig a fluff. Despite the playful getup, I still scream “good girl”.

In the center of the room is the hostess, an outgoing saleswoman named Ginger, with a vibrator in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. She’s loud, proud, and not the least bit embarrassed.

“…has stimulation for those of you who can’t climax from penetration, which is between ten and forty percent of you,” she’s saying, and my brows go up. “Fun fact, orgasms get better with age, so if any of you ladies are pushing forty, your best years are yet to come.” She laughs. “Come. Get it?”