When I don’t say anything, Gage continues.
“She broke it off with the guy she’d been seeing a few nights ago. Not that he was worthy of her, but she’s been down in the dumps ever since,” Gage explains. “You could go hang out with her for the rest of the night, use her to fight off any other female who might approach. Ivy’s always liked you, though I don’t know why since you’re such a jackass.” He pauses, his eyes narrowed. “I realize you enjoy chasing everything in a skirt, but I know you won’t take advantage of my sister. Right?”
The pointed look he gives me rings loud and clear. I want to promise him I won’t take advantage of her. But he’s talking about Ivy . . . and I always want what I can’t have.
Especially her.
“She doesn’t count anyway,” Matt says with a chuckle. “After all, it’s just Ivy.”
“Right. Just Ivy.” I nod as I look around, hoping to spot her. She’s here. I saw her earlier, though she avoided me. Most of the time, I choose to aggravate the shit out of her rather than let on how I really feel. “You mean she doesn’t count toward that crazy-ass bet you just made me?’
“Yeah, she totally doesn’t count. Besides, Gage would kill you,” Matt says matter-of-factly. “There are approximately twenty-five women spying on us at this very moment, all of them sorority sisters or whatever of the bride. They’re dying for you to even look their way, Archer. First one that talks to you, I guarantee you’ll marry.”
“Bullshit,” I mumble. My friend has lost his damn mind.
“Whatever.” Matt laughs as does Gage, but I ignore them.
Glancing across the room, I see her. Ivy. Sitting at a table alone, watching couples sway together on the dance floor to some sappy love song. Her long, brown hair is wavy when she usually wears it straight, and I’m tempted to run my hands through it, see if it feels as silky soft as it looks. Her dress is a rich, dark blue and strapless, revealing plenty of smooth, creamy flesh that my fingers literally itch to touch.
The wistful longing on her face is obvious and I’m compelled to go to her. Ask her to dance. Pull her in close, feel her curves mold against me as I breathe in her sweet scent.
Damn.
Yeah. She’d probably tell me to go to hell before she’d dance with me.
“I don’t want to touch her,” I say, which is a lie because I would f**king love to touch her. “You can trust me.”
More lies. Gage should kick me in the nuts just for thinking about his sister. Let alone actually doing something to her. With her. Over her, under her, any way I can get her. She’s the only one who could tempt me to break the crazy bet I just made. Who could make me want to go against everything I’ve ever believed in since I was a kid.
But I won’t. I refuse to give in. She’s not for me.
No matter how badly I want her to be.
Ivy
THERE’S NOTHING WORSE than going to a wedding alone, especially when I’d had a date approximately forty-eight hours ago. Before I realized the guy I was seeing was also still seeing the woman he claimed he’d broke up with well over six months ago.
How did I find out this amazingly bad news? The supposed ex called my cell and chewed me out while I was looking over wallpaper samples with a client. Talk about humiliating. Talk about my life turning into a Jerry Springer episode. She made me feel like a cheating whore-bag out to steal her man, the very last thing I am. I am not a man-stealer. I know some women are attracted to men in relationships but not me. Taken men are too much trouble, thank you very much.
I hung up on the still-ranting, supposed ex-girlfriend and promptly called Marc, letting him know I couldn’t see him any longer. He’d hardly protested—no surprise. What a jerk.
So now I sit here alone. At the single and dateless table, because when I called the bride and told her I wasn’t bringing my date after all, Cecily flipped out. Claimed I would mess up her carefully orchestrated seating arrangement and oh my God, couldn’t you just bring your date anyway and deal?
I think my saying an emphatic no resulted in me ending up at the desperate and single section as punishment.
Sighing, I prop my elbow on the edge of the table and rest my chin on my fist, watching all the couples dancing, the bride and groom in the center of the floor, grinning up at each other like fools. They look happy. Everyone looks happy.
I’m jealous of all the happiness surrounding me. Weddings remind me I’m alone. For once, I wish I could find someone. I’ve had a string of bad luck with men my entire dating life. I pick wrong, my mom has told me more than once. She describes me as a fixer. I take the broken guys and try to put them back together again. “Humpty Dumpty syndrome” is what she calls it.
Gee, thanks, Mom.
My brother says I’m too young to want to settle down, but I’m nothing like him. He just wants to screw around and stay single forever. Gage doesn’t know what I want. Do I though? I’m not sure. I thought I did. I thought Marc had potential.
Turns out he went splat all over the ground. Definitely couldn’t put him back together again.
Maybe I shouldn’t take everything so damn seriously. Maybe I should let loose and do something completely and totally crazy. Like find some random guy and make out with him in a dark corner. I miss having a man cup my face and kiss me slowly. Thoroughly. Unfortunately, Marc wasn’t that great of a kisser. Too much thrusting tongue, though I firmly believed I could help him correct that annoying habit.