Logan, my friend, you lucky bastard.
For the first time, the snake of jealousy coils in my chest and stands to attention for the woman before me. Yes, I made a pass at Winter when we first met, the same way I’d do with any attractive woman. But I never regretted our relationship turning to a solid friendship or her choosing Logan over me… at least until now. It’s a primal, irrational instinct.
I shake my head.
Get a grip, pal.
How can I be jealous of my best friend for getting married when it’s the last thing I ever want to do? Logan is about to give up his freedom; I sure as hell don’t envy him that. He must be crazy to voluntarily put metaphorical shackles on his wrists. Because that’s what the rings in my pocket are—handcuffs. But staring at the woman before me, I can’t help but wonder… Is he really crazy?
Yeah-ha, dude. Come on.
No matter how formidable the bride, getting married in this day and age is folly. It has been since the certificate wasn’t needed any longer to have sex.
Conclusion made, I plaster a cocksure grin on my face and go greet the bride-to-be.
“Snowflake,” I call.
She stares up at me, eyes widening, but before she can say anything, I’m crushing her into a bear hug. And I swear I didn’t smell her hair, which might or might not have the most delicious coconut scent.
Instead of returning the hug, Winter tries to pull away. “Excuse me? What are you doing? I don’t know you.” Her hands land on my chest, pushing. “Let me go,” she orders.
I obey, and take in her angry face, which is almost an exact replica of Winter’s. Almost being the key word here. This version has a slightly pointier chin and a narrower nose. Small, imperceptible distinctions, but that could make all the difference in the world and open an ocean of possibilities. And also explain my gut reaction to her.
“You’re not Winter,” I say. “You’re her ev—er… twin.”
Summer Knowles’ eyes narrow. “Were you about to say evil twin?”
“No.” I make big, innocent eyes.
“Yes, you were,” she puffs, and then she starts hyperventilating while rambling to no one in particular. “This is perfect, absolutely freaking fantastic. Having half of the people at this wedding hating me wasn’t enough. Oh, no. My sister had to blab personal details of my life to the other half as well. So, everyone here can hate me.”
I blink. “I don’t hate you.”
She refocuses on me and gives me a once over. “But you judge. I know who you are. You’re the missing best man.”
I bend in a half bow, saying, “In the flesh, pleased to meet you.”
“You can switch the charm off,” Summer snaps. “My sister has warned me about you.”
I straighten up and place a hand over my heart. “You wound me, and who’s judging now?” Her mouth gapes open. Ah-ha, gotcha. I take advantage of her momentary lack of speech and continue, “May I still introduce myself?” And before she can say no, I extend the hand resting over my chest. “Archibald Hill.”
She reluctantly takes it. “Summer Knowles.”
Our eyes lock, and she lets go of my hand as quickly as if holding a hot potato.
“So, where is everyone?” I ask. “Do you guys have plans for dinner?”
“You just missed them; Logan, Winter, and Tucker went into town to eat. But you might still be in time to catch up.”
“And you’re not going?”
“No,” Summer replies, glacial, and before I can ask why, she adds, “Well, it was nice meeting you. See you around.”
Without another word, Miss Uptight spins on her sinfully thin heels and walks away, hips swaying tantalizingly.
Oh, I will see you around, Summer Knowles. Nothing better to whet my appetite than a bit of a challenge.
***
Up to the fourth floor in my room, I drop off my bag, change into a clean T-shirt and sweatpants, and ten minutes later I’m already bored to death. I could call Logan and join the others in town as Summer suggested, but they must be halfway through dinner by now. Instead, I grab the remote and turn on the TV. I end up watching hockey on ESPN. The Stanley Cup final, Game 1, the Los Angeles Kings vs the Chicago Blackhawks.
This ought to be an exciting game. I might as well go downstairs and follow the match while enjoying a beer and a burger. I don’t bother changing back into proper pants, and am half-tempted to leave wearing hotel slippers, but that’s where I draw the laziness line. I pull on a pair of white sneakers and head to the resort’s sports bar.
As expected, the game is being shown on every TV screen around. What I don’t expect, however, is the company. And what a wonderful surprise, I might add. The only other patron of the bar is seated on a high stool, impossibly thin stiletto heels wedged in the metal footrest, and a now-familiar curtain of white-blond hair covering her entire back.
I grab the stool on her right, unleashing my most dashing smile. “Hello, again.”
Summer turns to me, dropping the burger she was eating on the plate, and licks barbecue sauce off her fingers. “Hi?” she says.
A question more than a greeting.
“Hockey fan?” I ask, sitting down and signaling to the bartender to come my way.
“Yes,” Summer replies curtly.
We’re interrupted by the guy behind the bar. “What can I get you?”
“A bacon cheeseburger with fries and a beer, please.” I look at Summer’s half-empty glass of red wine and ask, “You want another one?”
She studies me for a long moment and then nods almost imperceptibly.
I turn to the barman with a bright smile. “And another of the same for the lady.”
“Will you be charging this to a room?” the barman asks.
“Yeah, room 452, please.”
Summer keeps looking at me. “You know we’re in the wine capital of the country, right? Shouldn’t you try something local?”
“I’m sure the beer is going to be craft and from a fancy brewery nearby with a price tag to match.”
Summer gives me a little smirk. “You’re probably right.” She raises her wine glass. “They’re selling this for fifteen dollars a glass. Ridiculous.”
“Is it good, at least?”
“No.” She takes a sip, the hint of a smile curling her lips as she lowers the glass. “Good doesn’t cut it. This is easily the best red I’ve ever had.”
The bartender returns with her wine and my beer. The pint glass isn’t branded, but the ale inside looks richer and denser than any run-of-the-mill commercial brew. I take a sip to confirm my suspicions.
Yep!
Summer tilts her head toward me. “How about your fancy beer?”
I swirl the liquid in my mouth, pretending to be an expert taster. Mmm. If I had to describe it with one word, I’d say buttery.
Still, I wrinkle my nose, as any respectable beer snob would do, declaring, “Acceptable.”
Summer gives me another playful smile. “Hard to please much?”