One
Dani Petrillo had one rule for the day: Do. Not. Cry.
It wasn’t that weddings themselves made her teary. At twenty-nine, she’d been to plenty of them and not once had she felt even the hint of a tingle in the back of her nose. In fact, she’d been not crying at weddings as long as she could remember. When she was nine years old, her mother dressed her in a canary yellow gown that clashed hideously with her white-blonde hair, and made her a junior bridesmaid at her second wedding. Bruce—the man who’d lived next door to them for Dani’s entire life until he’d moved in and become her step-father—was a nice enough guy, but the moment didn’t exactly move her.
Her father had remarried a year later. He started a new family with a woman named Hannah who’d come with two daughters, already adults. Dani had been dressed and dolled and trotted out for both of their weddings before they’d become strangers to her again. Step-siblings, cousins, co-workers—she’d seen plenty of friends get married, and she’d been perfectly happy for them, but she’d never been that girl who heard “Pachelbel’s Canon” and worried about her eye makeup holding up.
Neither had Cat, her best friend since age eleven, and the one wearing the white dress today. In all the hours they’d spent in Cat’s bedroom, trying on Cat’s sisters’ makeup and old prom dresses, it hadn’t occurred to them to dress up as brides. They both seemed to be missing that gene that wrapped all little girls’ fantasies in white lace and fairytale love. It was why they got along so well.
But earlier that evening, in a stone chapel filled with fresh-cut peonies and lit with hundreds of white votives, when the four-piece mariachi band dressed all in white had played “Ava Maria” and she’d caught Cat blinking back tears, Dani had been glad the makeup artist had chosen waterproof mascara for the bridal party.
And now, on the brick patio in the courtyard of a fancy boutique hotel downtown, beneath hundreds of white globe string-lights twinkling in the night sky, watching her best friend smile adoringly at her new husband, Dani’s throat felt as tight as a champagne bottle ready to pop.
Except instead of booze, it was a good ugly cry that was dying to escape.
“Time’s up,” she said, waving her hand in Cat’s face to separate it from Josh’s. (Despite that little wave of emotion, they were a lot.) “Pick your poison.”
“Noooo,” Cat whined. “That’s against the rules.”
“Sorry, Cat. ‘No Shots’ rule is boring. Choose.”
“Just one,” Josh said. At least someone was willing to have some fun. He gazed down at Cat, twisting a lock of her black-brown hair around his fingers. He looked different today without his usual surfer-dude stubble and backward baseball cap. Older. Maybe it was the navy blue tux or the fact that your wedding day is sort of the pinnacle of adulthood, but something about him seemed fundamentally changed. The whole night did. Which was why they needed shots.
“Fine.” Cat’s scowl softened, and Dani felt a jolt of victory. They didn’t call Josh The Cat Whisperer for nothing.
“This did not go well the last time,” Sonya reminded them with a judgy sip of champagne. She was referring to Josh’s thirty-fifth birthday party a few weeks back, when Cat had decided she could match Dani drink for drink and ended up swimming in the Chesapeake in cut-off shorts and her UVA hoodie. Dani wasn’t going to take the blame for that one, though. Who forgets their phone is in their pocket when they jump in the water? Although, she probably didn’t need to laugh so hard over it.
“Enough dodging. If Cat doesn’t pick, I do.” Dylan Pierce—the best man and vocal opponent of the “No Shots” rule. He slung an arm around Dani’s shoulders, his expensive cologne wafting into her space as he shot her the kind of smile that made good girls want to be bad. It was his trademark, that smile. In the two years she’d known Dylan, she’d never seen him wear any other expression. It was the kind of smile that said whatever bullshit is going on around him, he neither noticed nor cared. Oh, the world is ending? Here, let me make you a drink, sweetheart.
He was the perfect ally.
“Have a little fun, Kit Cat,” he went on, poking her arm. Dangerous tactic given the way Cat glared at him, but Dylan got away with stuff like that. With Cat it was because he was Josh’s best friend, but with most women, it was that face. Dylan could say whatever he wanted as long as he looked at you with his big puppy-dog eyes. They were this soft, mossy-green color that looked entirely subdued in the midst of his other striking features: thick, chocolate-colored hair, meticulously-shaped stubble beard, dimples that looked like they were chiseled into his cheeks. That broad, prominent nose that ended in an unexpected, impish little upturn. On any other man, it might look too big. On Dylan, it looked bold and confident… like him.
But then there were those eyes.
Dani turned back to Cat, annoyed at how long she’d been looking at him. “What’s it going to be?”
Cat bared her teeth and growled at Dani like one of those tiny toy dogs that thinks it’s intimidating. She was adorable.
“Tequila,” she relented.
“Excellent choice.” Dani turned to the poor waiter who’d been standing silently by while they hashed this out, and he hurried off to the bar. Moments later, he was passing out five little glasses of brown liquor.
“Body shots?” Dylan asked.
Dani rolled her eyes and held up her glass. “Nice try.” She turned to the newlyweds. “A toast. To Catia and Joshua, may your love sicken us all for years to come.”
“Here, here,” Sonya said.
Cat waited until Dani had tipped the shot to her mouth, then quickly shoved hers into Josh’s hand, grinning triumphantly when he downed it for her.
Wuss.
Breaking the “No Shots” rule was decidedly Dani’s best move of the night.
She’d managed to pry Cat away from Josh by flirting with the DJ and coaxing him into some old-school music—Cat was an absolute fool for Shakira. Cat did a little pirouette on the dance floor, showing off the half-moon stains under her arms, and Sonya snorted into her champagne glass.
“How do you feel, Mrs. Rideout?” Dani shouted over the music to the bride.
“I feel like this day couldn’t have been more perfect.”
Sonya beamed. “Aww. Young love.”
Cat caught Josh’s eye across the courtyard and blew him a kiss, one satin peep-toe heel kicked back behind her and a cheesy grin on her face.
She looked like a vintage movie star in that dress, the way it hugged her curves like she’d been dipped in Spanish lace. The back plunged dramatically, right down to her waist, and her dark hair fell in big, bombshell curls over both shoulders. She’d worn an old-fashioned mantilla veil for the ceremony but she’d paired it with a red lip and a subtle cat-eye liner because she would never completely submit to any tradition.