Two wedding crashers, p.1
Two Wedding Crashers, p.1Meghan Quinn
Table of Contents
Two Wedding Crashers
The Dating by Numbers Series: Book Two
Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC
Cover design by Meghan Quinn
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This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.
Copyright © 2018 Meghan Quinn
All rights reserved.
I. The Meet “Not So” Cute
II. Rule Number 7: Blend in by Sticking Out
III. Red Pandas and Assless Chaps
IV. The Truth
Dude, you have to come. It’s going to be the party of the century.” Chris takes a sip from his beer and watches the dance floor, his elbows leaning on the bar behind him.
I bring my water to my lips before I say, “That’s great and all, but I wasn’t invited.”
“You don’t need an invitation.”
“Chris.” I give him a pointed look. “It’s a wedding. It’s not like a birthday or company party that I can get away with going to, but a wedding has seating arrangements and actual invitations.”
“Semantics. Just hang out at the bar the whole time and pick off people’s plates when they’re not looking. Hell, I think it’s a buffet, so you can grab a plate and eat in the bathroom.”
“As much as scarfing down a wedding meal next to a urinal is appealing, I think I’ll pass.”
The music switches from a fast-paced salsa, to a slow, seductive melody. Couples on the dance floor immediately fall in step with the song, their moves unhurried and fluid. Hell, what I wouldn’t give to be on that dance floor. As a guy, dancing alone to a sexy song reads a little strange, so I keep myself firmly planted next to my good friend, Chris, who works behind the scenes at Going in Blind. He was the one who set up my profile six months ago, the one who keeps egging me on to try it again. But after the night I ran into Noely at the restaurant, right before she chased after someone else, it’s been downhill from there. The girl I went on a date with that night was . . . blah. Zero personality. She tried to impress me with her cleavage-showing ways, which granted, I enjoyed because I am a man.
But there was nothing there—no spark, no urge to take her on my bike—so I said good night and went on my way. I wasn’t ready. Noely had been right. I still had things to sort through. Noely was so goddamn gorgeous, so my physical attraction to her made complete sense. She’d been warm and funny, and I wish I’d been ready in some respects. But I get it now. I understand what she meant about emotional connection. She certainly set the benchmark though. Physically, of course. But she’d become my friend, and I knew that ultimately I really wanted that.
Since then, I’ve spent time learning about being single, and even though it’s been good for me, to focus on the things that matter the most, supporting and building my charities, I’ve felt like I’ve been missing something.
And I think I know what it is.
Can you guess?
Fuck, I miss sex. The last time I had anything remotely close to sex was with Noely. I’m pretty sure my balls have turned to dust by now; one wrong move and they’re going to evaporate into the air for good.
Why haven’t I been fucking my way through Malibu you ask? Because no one has snagged my attention. There has been no interest on my end, which is insane since I’m so fucking horny. I feel like my penis is going to fall off.
“Just think about it, man. You need a vacation. The wedding is in the Florida Keys at this fancy-ass resort that overlooks the ocean. You can crash the wedding, eat with your urinal, get your dance on, and have some crazy, no-strings-attached sex with one of the bridesmaids. There are at least three that are single.”
No strings-attached sex, huh . . .
“Crash someone’s wedding? You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.” He takes another sip of his drink. “Justine and I booked two rooms in case we decided to take the kids, but if you go, we’ll make it a parents-only weekend and leave the kids at my mom’s.” Turning toward me, looking sadly desperate, he says, “Please, dude. Please crash this wedding. Please take that extra room so I can have wild island sex with my wife. Do me this favor and grant me this one wish.”
“Can’t you find someone else to take the room?”
“Nope, I tried. And you know Justine. She’s not going to eat the money on the room. So right now, we’re taking the kids.”
I run my hand over my hair, unsure. This is crazy. I’m not Vince Vaughn or Owen Wilson, primed and ready with a fucking bro code on how to crash a wedding. But, a mini vacation does sound good. And honestly, Chris has been there for me through the hard times. He and Justine do actually deserve this time away too.
“Dude!” Chris pulls me into a hug and then holds my shoulders as he stares at me. “I can’t even tell you how excited I am.”
“I need the details first.”
With a knowing smile, says, “Oh, you’re fucking coming. It’s a done deal.”
Unfortunately, I th
Look out, unsuspecting couple. I’m about to crash your wedding.
The Meet “Not So” Cute
I don’t know what love is anymore.” I flop across Victoria’s stiff-as-a-board couch and drape my arm over my eyes.
“No shoes on my settee, please. How many times do I have to remind you?” Victoria, one of my best friends, huffs, while setting a tray of tea on the coffee table in front of me.
“This isn’t the time for your fine china and delicate finger sandwiches.” I turn on the couch and prop my head up. Jamming my finger into the settee with force, I say, “This is the time for vodka! This is the time we crack open that expensive bottle you have and do all the shots. No, not shots. Just hook me up with a funnel and start pouring straight down my gullet.” I open my mouth, tip my head back, and point down my throat.
Victoria sits across from me and starts making a cup of tea, using teeny tiny tongs to pick up the sugar cubes. “One lump or two?”
“Did you not hear me? Vodka, Victoria. I need all the vodka.”
“Inebriation is not a solution to your problem, Rylee.” She plops two cubes into the cup and then pours tea on top. She’s always served tea this way. She says the less splash the better. She holds the cup out to me and waits for me to pick it up.
“Alcohol won’t solve my problem but at least I’ll be less stressed.”
“Until you start violating my toilet with last night’s dinner.” Victoria shakes her head, her nose turned up in the air. “I refuse to be a part of your drunken debauchery once again.”
I reluctantly take the tea and sit up, keeping my shoes away from the fifty-year-old velvety fabric. “I puke once in your house and you’re going to hold that against me?”
“Puke is such a vile word.” She shakes her head, an absolute distaste in her mouth from repeating me. “And not only did you get sick in my house, but it was before that, when you were dancing around in my petticoat without permission.”
Can you tell Victoria is stuck in the 1800s? My dearest friend is an author, just like me, but instead of writing raunchy, give-it-to-me-big-dick-daddy sex, she delights readers with non-fiction historical memoirs. I’ve read a few, talk about detail and research, this girl has it down pat. But after every book I read, I always ask, where’s the sex, where’s the romance? I know, I know, not every book is about love, but Benjamin Franklin most definitely poked his dick around—that’s no secret—so it wouldn’t hurt to write in some good old-fashioned bifocal banging. Am I right?
That’s just my opinion.
Victoria thinks otherwise.
“Well, if you weren’t so stingy with your petticoats then maybe I wouldn’t have to dance in them without your permission.” Taking a sip of my tea, I continue, “That’s beside the point. We need to focus on the real problem, here.”
Victoria’s front door swings open and Zoey, the third leg to our tripod, waltzes in wearing her designer sunglasses, hair a complete disaster, and carrying two bags on each arm. “I’m here. I’m here and I brought all the things.” She slams the door shut with her foot and flops on the settee next to me, her bags spilling across the floor. “I have booze, onion dip, Lay’s chips, Hot Pockets, and Post-it Notes in a variety of colors.” She rubs her hands together and looks between Victoria and myself. “Let’s plot, ladies.”
“I made finger sandwiches,” Victoria points out. “Cucumber and tuna, so we don’t need those microwaveable meat pockets.”
“There is always a need for a Hot Pocket, especially when our friend is out of ideas.” Zoey rips her sunglasses off her face and turns toward me, her face stern and serious. “How bad is it? Are we talking a little blip in the road or are we talking”—she swallows hard—“the big WB?”
Lips pressed together, eyes shut, I let out a long breath. “Total and complete WB.”
The room stills, the air around us heavy as Zoey barely whispers, “Writer’s block.”
The word hangs there between us, the heaviness so incredibly foreboding none of us really know how to respond.
Zoey, or Z. Platt, is a children’s author. She has a very popular series about Dilly the Dinosaur and the trouble he gets into. She’s published with Penguin and cranks out five books a year while being mom of the year to her six children—yes, six—and before you ask, she does the illustrations as well. They are so beyond cute. So in a nutshell, she is freaking talented.
So being that Victoria and Zoey are both authors, they get it. They understand the weight of my words. They’ve been there before and when it happens, we rally behind each other. Despite our different writing genres, we always rally.
Victoria eyes her sandwiches, her face twisting with concern. “I’m not sure cucumber sandwiches on pumpernickel bread is going to help in this situation.”
“I told you!” I flop my body back on the couch, careful not to spill my delicious tea. “You guys, I have no idea what I’m going to do. My publisher needs eighty thousand words from me in four weeks and I have nothing, literally nothing. No ideas, no characters, no plot, not even one idea of a hot sex scene.”
Victoria and Zoey both gasp.
“I know, like I said, I don’t know what love is anymore.” I flop my non-tea holding hand across the settee.
“We can fix this; we got this.” Waving at the tea and sandwiches, Zoey says, “Vic, clear this shit off the table, warm up those pockets, and bring some shot glasses. We have some plotting to do.”
I need a trope. I can’t just write about the Wright Brothers.”
“Why not? They’re attractive in their own way.” Victoria tips a bottle of vodka, pouring out more shots. This would be round five.
“Attractive in their own way, what does that even mean?”
Victoria shrugs. “Mustaches.”
“Mustaches are NOT book-boyfriend material. Mustaches belong to the creepy boss the heroine has to deal with, or the wise old grandpa who tells the hero to follow his heart and get the girl, not the guy who’s supposed to plow his rock-hard cock into the tightest canal he’s ever experienced. Can you even imagine what a mustache would be like on a thirty-year-old?” I shake my head, envisioning it in my head. “There she is, the heroine, lying on the bed, completely naked, legs spread, breasts heaving, nipples hard, waiting for the man she’s been dreaming of to finally take her up against the headboard, and in walks Zane, or Blaine, or Blake, whatever you want to call him, sporting a chunk of hair above his upper lip and nothing else, looking like the epitome of an eighties porn star. A thirty-year-old in today’s society with a mustache saying: ‘I’m going to eat your pussy so hard you’re going to come all over my tongue,’ doesn’t really scream sexy to me. It screams . . . sexual predator.” Thirty-year-olds and mustaches, just no, even if your name is Zac Efron. NO. Shave it, man. Shave it off.
“Mustaches are dignified,” Victoria says.
“For older men.”
Victoria huffs her disapproval.
“How about we drop the facial hair talk for now, table that, and come back to it later and think about an actual plot.” Zoey holds a pen in her hand and a pile of Post-it Notes, ready to write down our ideas. The only thing we’ve written down and stuck to the wall is one Post-it Note that says, “Sex.” Yup, since it’s a romance novel, that’s a given, but it made us feel good putting one thing on the wall.
“What about a stepbrother romance? My friend was raving about one the other day,” Zoey says, looking excited about her contribution.
“Already did one. Remember Tag and Brittany?”
“Oh yeah, Tag fucked Brittany so hard on that log in the campground. That was hot.”
“What about a librarian?” Victoria asks, making a good suggestion.
“Yeah, a librarian,” Zoey cheers and snags a shot glass. “To librarians, those smart bitches and their books. God bl
Getting into it now, Victoria adds, “Yes, she can be a librarian who falls in love with a traveling salesman who comes into town on a whim selling musical instruments.”
“Should I name him Professor Hill?” I deadpan.
Nodding her head vigorously, Zoey says, “Oh great name. Hot. Professor Hill, do me on those books. Come on my pages, Professor Hill. I want to be fucked on words, right on these inked-up pages. I can see it so vividly.” Zoey’s eyes look wild as she licks her lips.
“Zoey.” I interrupt her fantasies to lay down the bad news. “Victoria just described the plot for The Music Man.”
“Wha—” Zoey throws her arms in the air out of pure frustration. “Victoria, for Christ’s sake, that’s the third time tonight. For the love of God, use your imagination.”
Victoria shrugs and takes a shot, only her second. “I write non-fiction, so sue me.”
“First it’s Gone With the Wind, then it was Casablanca, now The Music Man.” Zoey points her finger at Victoria. “I’m disappointed in you.”
“It’s not her fault. Don’t turn on each other,” I wave my arms around, as if I’m breaking up a fight. Sighing, I lean back and bring my shot glass to my mouth where I lick the vodka, as if I’m a cat lapping up milk. “This is pointless,” I say over my licks. “I’m all dried up, a shriveled vagina with zero ideas.”
Two Wedding Crashers by Meghan Quinn / History & Fiction have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes