I reach Total Body Fitness, a little reluctant to end this conversation. It’s so easy to talk to her. Always has been. “Hey,” I say, gentler.
“Hey to you.”
“I’m glad you’re coming back to town,” I say, speaking from my heart, not my need to serve up sarcasm. “It’s been a while.”
“It has been. Too long, Crosby,” she says, her voice warm and tender.
And there we go. We’re us again. Like we’ve always been. Two good friends. A man and a woman who’ve known each other forever.
“And I appreciate you being my plus-one. It’ll be good to see you,” I say.
“And it’ll be good for me to keep you from dating,” she says.
“True. That is true,” I say with a smile. I’m about to push open the door to the gym when an idea flashes before me. “Do I get to see this blue dress beforehand? You know, if I need to get you a corsage.”
“It’s a wedding. It’s not prom. But a corsage and boutonniere do sound kind of fun.” She takes a beat, humming. “Actually, Mariana is big on flowers. She always wants people to have the flowers they like best. And I’m pretty sure my mom said the other bridesmaids were going to have them and they were picking out their own, so yes, let’s do it.”
“I’m on it. Let’s do it up. You better send me a picture of your dress so I know exactly what color to get when I go to the florist’s shop,” I say.
“Consider it done.”
We say goodbye, and I head into the gym, more excited than I expected to be to go to my best friend’s wedding.
And not simply because I’m happy as hell to see my best friend get hitched.
There’s a spring in my step as I imagine his sister in a blue dress.
How it might dip between her breasts. How it might swing on her hips. Land on her knees.
But that’s dangerous. I shouldn’t think of her like that.
Even so, when a picture lands on my phone as I’m working my quads, my breath hitches.
The air rushes from my lungs.
And it’s not from the extra weight. It’s not from the workout.
It’s from this goddamn dress and the way she looks in it.
She didn’t merely send me a shot of her dress, artfully laid out on the bed.
She sent me a picture of her in a boutique somewhere in Vegas, trying on the dress. It’s a mirror selfie, and it is smoking.
Nadia’s all done up, her lips pursed like she’s about to blow a kiss, and she is wearing the fuck out of a sapphire-blue dress that clings to her trim, toned body.
This dress defies any notion of hideous bridesmaid’s attire.
This dress is all sex appeal and secrets.
It looks like exactly the type of dress that’s going to make it hard for me to sit next to Nadia Harlowe.
But that’s the kind of thinking I can’t entertain.
Instead, I entertain the triceps machine and do my best to push the forbidden thoughts of this woman out of my head.
4
Nadia
One week later, Eric picks me up at the airport.
“It’s the blushing groom,” I say as I sail past security into a big-brother hug.
“Yes, that’s me,” he says, wrapping his arm around me, then letting go. “I’m all nervous and atwitter before the wedding.”
“Aww.” I pat his shoulder. “Do you want me to make sure you get a foot rub and a massage before the big day? So you can relax?” I ask, hoisting my purse onto my shoulder as he takes my carry-on and we weave through the crowds.
“That sounds perfect. Why don’t you and I spend a day at the spa? Get our hair done.” He slides a hand through his dark-brown hair, the same shade as mine. “We’ll relax and get hot stone treatments or something.”
“Perfect. I want to make sure you’re totally relaxed before you walk down the aisle,” I say, squeezing his arm playfully as we make our way through the SFO airport.
He shakes his head, amused. “You do know that Mariana is actually walking down the aisle toward me?”
“Oh my God, I had no idea. Thanks for clarifying,” I add.
Eric raises his gaze ceilingward, then says, over-the-top aggrieved, “My fiancée, my older sister, and my younger sister give me a hard time every single day.”
“Of course we do. And you wouldn’t want it any other way,” I say, bopping his nose.
“Speaking of walking down the aisle, Mariana wants you and Crosby to walk together.”
That piques my interest.
Makes my skin tingle a little bit.
Just from the mention of his name.
Exactly the reaction I can’t have.
“Why’s that?” I ask, focusing on the wedding plan, not the tingles plan. “Crosby is the best man, and Mariana’s sister is the maid of honor.”
Eric holds up a making-a-point finger. “But Mariana’s sister’s husband is a groomsman, and Mariana thought they’d enjoy walking together, so she put you and Crosby together.”
I smile widely. “What Mariana wants, Mariana shall have.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the secret to a happy marriage. But,” he says, his tone downshifting to serious as we reach the exit, “no dating him.”
A cough bursts from me. “Did you seriously just warn me not to date your best friend? Doesn’t it usually go the other way around?”
Eric shakes his head, his dark-brown eyes intense. “Crosby is in time-out right now. I’m personally in charge of making sure all women stay far, far away from him.”
I scoff. “I have no interest in dating Crosby or anyone.”
That’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.
“Good. Because it’s my duty to keep him on the wagon. No dating, no women, no nothing.”
“Trust me, not dating Crosby will be just like . . . how it’s always been. Crosby and I are friends.”
“Good. Then you’ll do your part to keep him woman-free too,” he says.
“Of course,” I say quickly, because he’s definitely a friend, so I’m definitely down with the program.
As we slide into the town car, I tell myself that heeding Eric’s warning will be as easy as a quarterback lobbing a pass to a wide-open receiver.
And the receiver running it in for a touchdown.
Except there will be no scoring with Crosby.
Mark my words.
At the night-before-the wedding dinner the next Friday, I walk into the private room at one of San Francisco’s swankiest celebrity chef restaurants, my eyes scanning the place for all the people I love—my mom, my sister, my brother, his bride, and all my extended family.
Warmth spreads through me at the sight of all this family. I say hi to my mom, sister, brother, and Mariana, looking gorgeous with her waves of brown hair, and her olive skin.
There’s no sign of Crosby, until a hand clasps my shoulder.
And the faint scent of pine mixed with soap wafts past my nose.
For a sliver of a second, I close my eyes.
Then I open them, turn around, and ignore the hell out of the swoopy sensations in my stomach.
Crosby’s here, looking as handsome as he did at the LGO Excellence in Sports Awards Gala.