I have to bite back a grin at her reaction.

It was priceless. I wait to respond while she tosses back the entire mini-wine bottle in one gulp. Once it's empty, I take it and toss it in the trash container.

“Wish I was kidding, Sugar. Can't totally blame your ma for being a stickler for the fine print, though.” I hand her a second bottle. “It really doesn’t matter. I'd planned on taking you before she called, all up in arms about you having second thoughts.”

I truly hadn't changed my mind about that.

If anything, her mother’s phone call just confirms the inevitable.

No one strong-arms me or mine, including Wendy. In fact, it pisses me off the way her family treats her.

Like she’s some homely little girl with no chance of ever having a date. From what I’ve seen, she’s the one working day and night to keep their business afloat.

I wasn't as insulted as I should've been by her ma's warning. Because I'm hellbent on proving Sammy, Will, and especially her drama queen sister wrong.

I'll show the whole fucking world how datable and sexy Sugar and Spice is, or I'll die trying.

“But it does matter, Hunter. Ben’s job has nothing to do with Rochelle’s wedding. At least it shouldn’t. It isn't fair.” She huffs out a breath and droops her head back against the seat. “God. I can’t believe she called and said that.”

I drink her in with my eyes, draining the rest of my beer. This woman deserves better, especially for her love life. And I'm on a mission to bring it, all wrapped up tight in a neat bow, controlling mothers and bratty sisters be damned.

“No, wait, on second thought...I can believe it. That’s why this fiasco is so frustrating. Hunter, I'm –”

“Don't apologize,” I growl, even if she's right. It is a fiasco, one I shouldn’t even want to be involved in. Still, Wendy helped me out with Ben, and I can help her with this. “Your mother just wants your sister’s wedding to be perfect. She isn't being rational.”

“No kidding! It doesn’t give her any right to drag you in on it.”

“No, and it doesn’t give her the right to drag you over barbed wire, either. That’s why I wanted to talk to you out here.”

She shakes her head. “I just won’t go. Period. It’s as easy as that. Let Rochelle hate me forever.”

“Nah, Sugar, you can't use the nuclear option. Your entire family will be upset then. Here's what you'll do instead: go. Show them up. Have the goddamn time of your life.”

She turns her head slowly, leveling a gaze full of suspicion on me. “What are you playing at here?”

I like that about her. How she always sees through the lines. “I’ve never done anything like this before, but I'm sure we can pull it off. Just give me a day or two to think –”

“Hold up. Pull what off?”

“Exactly what your mother wants, Wendy. You showing up with a date. Then having the best fucking night of your life.” I’m not joking.

I'm determined. It's exactly what'll happen. By the end of the night, Wendy, the little sister, the one who's never had a serious boyfriend, who rarely ever dated, who'd be mortified if she knew everything her mother told me, will get the recognition she deserves.

Maybe I'm just insane enough to think I can tip the cosmic scales. Deliver a little justice. Take Sister Karma's gavel and lay down the law.

Because Wendy's the one working day and night while her sis throws fits over not having butterflies and birds released at her wedding. Because Wendy doesn't seem to have a selfish bone in her sweet little body. Because said sweet little body does terrible things to me at night when I'm alone, under the covers, and maybe I'll stop jerking myself raw if I can finally have a taste of her, even for one night.

Yeah, that's another ticking time bomb, but so what? This is about more than Ben's job and her neurotic family, if I'm being brutally honest.

It's about whatever insane black magic she cast on me the first time we traded barbs.

“I won’t let you down, and I'm not letting this go. Promise, Sugar.”

“But –”

“Sugar, stop. Stop yourself before you waste another word trying to keep me from showing you a good time.”

“Hunter...”

I glare at her, giving her my best evil eye, shaking my head, transmitting three words: I said, no.

I mean it, too.

Fuck, I haven’t been this keyed up about anything in a long time that doesn't involve Cory's mysterious death.

This is something I can crack. Strategy. Working to make something happen that no one thinks will and shocking their pants off in the process.

When I look up, she's still shaking her head, that gold-blonde hair flying everywhere, calling to my fingertips so bad they burn.

“Whatever, then. I just don't want to be let down or even more embarrassed.” She huffs out another breath. “Hunter, this is crazy.”

The way she’s biting her bottom lip confirm my thoughts. She's still fighting, the little minx, but the idea is growing on her.

She shakes her head again. “But, you know, we'll have to pretend –”

“Yeah, we will.” I take a chug off my beer. “And we can. It won’t be that hard.”

Her bottom lip turns white from how hard she’s biting on it. She’s toying with the idea, but she isn’t quite ready to commit. If only she knew I'd committed a hundred percent before we even stepped in this car.

I push the button to roll down the limo's privacy visor and give Silas the address to her parents' house.

She's frowning, watching, looking at me intently. “What now? Do I dare ask?”

“It's time to show you how easy this will be.” I gesture toward the pie with my beer bottle. “Practice makes perfect. So, that's why we're going to drop that pie off and tell your folks we can’t stay because Silas is driving us around the city on a private holiday light tour.” I open the fridge beneath the bar and show her the contents. “Their tongues will be hanging out, dragging on the damn floor, and we'll be long gone. Off on our own snacking on caviar and shrimp, and French bread and imported cheese aged in a cave by Trappist monks, and –”

“Stop!” Finally, she breaks. I see her beautiful face completely lit, laughing her head off, even if she's still shaking it furiously. “A holiday light tour in a limo? You're insane. That’s something Rochelle would want.”

“Exactly. But our boy, Marco, hasn’t done that for her, has he?”

“He could've. I'm not sure. Don't tell me you do?”

I chuckle, closing the fridge. “You’d be amazed by what I know.”

She would be, honestly, and I’m thankful she hasn't realized Landmark has its own in-house intelligence that could make the NSA a little jealous. I’m also glad that her mother told me as much as she has. “Marco hasn’t, and I believe he’ll be a little put out, if he's the kind of guy I think he is. So will your sister.”

She presses a hand to her lips, trying to hide the smile that's sneaking up on her. Parting her fingers slightly, she says, “Come on. It's too mean.”

I shrug. “Meaner than firing Ben because I didn’t take you to the wedding?”

“No. That’s downright nasty.”

I reach for a fresh beer, crack it open, and hold it up. “So you’re game to show them we mean business?”

She looks at me, then my beer. A shine slowly fills her eyes before she taps her wine against it with a clink. “Okay. Fine. Game on.”

“Cheers, Sugar.”

“Cheers, ass. Even if you are a sweet one, sometimes,” she says, drinking in my grin.

Then I watch her empty half the mini-bottle in one long drink.

This is gonna be good.

I haven’t been up to a challenge in a long time, and the deeper this one gets, the more I’m liking it. By the time I’m done, her mother will figure out no one uses my son as a pawn.

Or Wendy.

Silas parks in the driveway of her parents' house. It's a nice sized brownstone in a fairly decent neighborhood. I instantly know who owns the white Mercedes.

I haven’t even met this Marco, or her sister, but I'm already scoffing, and highly doubt it'll change.

Wendy’s nervous. I can tell by the way she presses a hand to her stomach.

I lean over and though I only meant for it to be a quick kiss, as soon as my lips meet hers, the beast awakens.

Long dormant desires flare to life. Her lips are motionless at first, but then, after a tiny quiver, they dance under mine like Sleeping Beauty waking up. Except this kiss isn't anything as chaste as a damn fairy tale smooch.

I give her teeth. I give her tongue. I pull her bottom lip into my mouth and then I take over, fucking in and out against her tongue, showing her exactly how hard I could lay her down.

My fingers go numb. They're hungry. Eager to reach down, push her knees apart, and then struggle under her clothes. They know they'd find her hot little pussy slick and ready.

Fuck. No. Not yet.

I jerk away just in time. We're both breathing heavy then.

“What the hell was that?” she whispers.

She may not have meant me to hear, but I did. “Practice, babe.”

I step out of the car, take her hand, help her outside, then reach in to grab the pie off the seat.

“You’re crazy,” she whispers as we walk toward the house. “No, this is crazy. Maybe I'm the crazy one for going along. This won't work, Hunter. On second thought, let's just forget everything and –”

“It can work, it will, and you're not going anywhere.” I loop an arm through hers, gently pulling her forward. “When I first saw that lump of brown cake, I’d have never thought it could turn into a unicorn. You'll wow me again tonight, Wendy, and yourself, too.”

She gives me a long look, and then shakes her head. “This isn’t even close to being in the same realm.”

“Wrong. The realm you're talking about is only in your mind,” I say as we step onto the porch. “Trust me. Follow my lead. We'll give them a show they won't forget, and you'll be thankful after I show you who you really are.”

“Jeez! I didn’t know you were a philosopher, too.” Her laugh is genuine.

So is mine, and we're both laughing when the door opens.

“Hunter?” Sammy Agnes hides her surprise behind a smile. “My, I didn’t expect –”

“I know. Surprise.” I say it so deadpan a mafia don would be proud. I hand her the pie. “I decided to grab Wendy on a whim after work.”

“Oh, how lovely! Well, come in, come in.” Sammy steps aside.

I slide my arm off Wendy’s shoulder and grab her hand as she steps over the threshold. I keep ahold of her hand as we both walk in far enough for Sammy to close the door.

I also get my first glimpse of Marco and Rochelle. They both have brown hair, brown eyes, and scornful looks like they can't believe this odd intrusion into their world.

She’s wearing a white pantsuit. He’s got white pants with a black shirt on. They're both near the window of the living room, pretending they weren't gawking at the limo in the driveway.

Or maybe not.

Rochelle, taller than her sister and nearly pencil thin, puckers her face as she glares at Wendy. “What are you doing riding around in a limousine?”

I squeeze Wendy’s hand. “Surprised her with a private holiday light tour tonight. Figured it'd be relaxing after twelve hours of hard work.”

“A holiday light tour?” Rochelle repeats as she slowly looks at Marco and then back at us. “Who are you, anyway? The stand-in?”

I can't tell whether her mother hasn’t told Rochelle about me, or if she's just a natural bitch.

Probably a good thing if Sammy at least had enough sense to keep our deal on the down low. I glance in her direction.

Sammy just lifts a brow, watching, amused with the whole situation. I take that as a good sign. Maybe she's just overbearing then, and not playing favorite daughter a hundred percent of the time.

“I’m Hunter Forsythe,” I say, extending a hand to Marco first. “Wendy’s...friend.”

I purposefully pause before saying friend, and release her hand to wrap my arm around her shoulder again, to indicate that we're more than just friends. This subtle hiss of air escaping Rochelle's lips says she’s caught my meaning.

“Ah, yes,” Sammy says. “Forgive me. You two haven’t met Hunter. Hunter, this is Marco Rollins, and Wendy’s sister, Rochelle. Hunter will be joining us as Wendy's date.”

Marco shakes my hand, but his gaze goes from my head to my toes, and then to Wendy. He’s not sneering, but he’s not impressed either.

“Pleasure, Marco,” I say, while he mutters something unintelligible that sounds like yuh-huh. I see him checking out my clothes.

I've seen this happen before, when the arrogant upper middle class meets the truly rich. I don't flaunt my wealth, but I wear designer brands that make me look good. Probably the very same Marco likes, only he's likely going into debt or spending whole paychecks to do it. For me, it's a line I don't even read on my statement.

I nod to Rochelle. “I sent my black suit out to be cleaned. Looking forward to the big day.”

Her eyes widen and her jaw drops. “Hold on. If you're some guy she hired, we need to talk about this. Mom, I –”

“Rochelle-Jean!” Sammy clucks a warning with her middle name for emphasis. “Be nice. Hunter's not some kind of bum Wendy found off the street. These two have a history, even if they needed a little, shall we say, extra push.”

She winks at me. Wendy's eyes pop. My blood should be boiling, but I just laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Sammy thinks she's twisting my balls, but she may have done me a bigger favor than she knows.

I'm about to fire back when I see Wendy looking past me. Suddenly, we have an audience, several more smiling people I've never seen.

Then there's just Sammy talking again, ignoring Rochelle's weak protests, “Oh, and, Hunter, dear, this is Will’s brother, Sam, and his wife, Charlotte, and cousin Eddy, and...”

Sammy introduces me to half a dozen other relatives. They all appear almost as shocked that Wendy has a boyfriend as Rochelle did, which only feeds my ire.

So does the way Wendy trembles. For fuck's sake.

Don’t any of them see Rochelle doesn’t hold a candle to her? Not in looks or personality? She's like the candle itself, the only thing that's real and bright in a room full of dim, dusty lamps, trying their damnedest to burn but only showing their filth.

The only one who seems genuine in all this is her old man, Will.

“Hunter,” he says, walking in the room from what must be the kitchen since he’s carrying a dish towel. “Great to see you again! Are you joining us tonight?”

“No, sorry, Will, we can’t. Big plans. Wendy just wanted to drop off the pie and say hello, so here we are.” I gesture toward the door behind us with a nod. “Car's waiting for us. We've got ourselves some Christmas lights to see, and if I'm not mistaken, the ones downtown will be firing up in another hour or so.”

“Oh my God, Wendy! You’re riding around in a limo dressed like that?” Rochelle's squeal ripples over several quieter conversations.

I give Rochelle a solid once-over glare. From her skinny pointed white shoes to her skinny face, she's all bones and bitter words.

“What part of surprised her, didn’t you hear, honey?” I ask, tugging Wendy tighter to my side.

“Hunter, no. We'd better get going,” she says quietly, pulling gently on the end of my jacket.

I can see how her sister would drive her nuts. She's so entitled, it's maddening.

Marco seems no better. He's actually unmistakably sneering now, passive-aggressively punching thumbs at his phone when he isn't looking up at me.

It’s enough to make me want to throat punch him. I haven’t done that to anyone in years.

Fuck, maybe she's right. Time to go. Before I say something I can't take back.

One thing's for sure: I'm not keen on their wedding wear idea. I have half a mind to go out and buy the gaudiest red – or even better, gold – suit for their black only wedding. Heads would turn so fast they'd pop right off.

No one attempts to delay us more, just wishes us well as we head out the door.

Not that I'd expected it, but it would've been nice if they'd shown enough respect for Wendy to at least suggest we stay longer.

Silas is at the car door, waiting patiently, holding it open as we arrive. I tell him he can start driving the tour route as Wendy climbs in.

Once I’m in and Silas is back in the driver's seat, she looks at me and speaks.

“That...that was painful. Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but this isn’t going to work.”

“Yes, it will.”

“No way. You saw them, Hunter. None of them believe that you...you and me would ever...” She leans her head back against the seat, refusing to finish that sentence.

“That we'd what?”

“Not you, maybe. More like they don't believe that I could ever –” She stops herself and hisses a sigh. “Have a man of your caliber.”

Now, I'm pissed.

It's incredible how such a smart woman can't see what's right in front of her.

It's insane. She could have any man she wants. Her family has just made her believe she can’t, but she could. I don’t want her to continue thinking this way. Not at all.

“My caliber? What sort is that?” I snort. “When I joined the Marines, I didn’t have a pot to piss in. The small amount of life insurance money my parents had wasn’t enough to pay the mortgage on their house, and it was split two ways with my brother. My aunt made it work, though, using her own money, and we lived there until after graduation.”

Her eyes flutter again when I mention the word brother.

Fuck.

I want to tell her about Cory, about how both of us owed Aunt Margo for helping us through those months that are nothing more than a blur now. But I can’t risk telling anyone about him, or it might get back to Ben.

He knows I had a brother who died, but thinks it was long before he was born. And Ben has no idea I'm not his maker, even if we technically share half the same DNA, with Cory being my twin and all.

Still, if he ever found out...I shudder to imagine the consequences.

“I joined the service because it was the only way I could afford to get an education, and once I got out, I started my company. Built up through years of hard work. Nothing happened overnight.”

“Yeah, Landmark Defense Systems. A weapons' company, isn't it?”

I nod. “We make innovative systems, mostly for the Navy these days. Have contracts with Uncle Sam and several allied nations now, but we didn’t in the beginning.”

Oh, don't I know it. We wouldn't have gotten shit without Cory. He did the legwork, won our first big contract before we even had a functioning prototype in place.

“It must be a big company,” she says. “My dad said it’s on the Nasdaq.”

“It is. Went public a few years ago.” That was Cory’s dream, and I fulfilled it, but wish like hell that he was still here to know his hard work paid off.

“And now you're worth what? Millions and millions.”

“Sure. I’m not ashamed of that,” I say, shrugging.

“You shouldn’t be,” she says. “You should be proud. Very proud of what you’ve accomplished. That's not my point.” There's sincerity shining in her dark eyes. On her face. “It’s just...well, it isn't convincing. No one in my family will ever believe a millionaire would look at me twice. They'll think you're an actor or I'm a charity case or something even more ridiculous. They'll think –”

“Enough,” I say sharply, stopping her mid-thought. “Sugar, it doesn’t matter how much money a person has. Opposites attract all the damn time.”

She sighs. “Yes, it does. My Uncle Sam has a favorite saying – you can fall in love with a rich man as easily as you can a poor one. Finding one's the hard part. We're asking for the impossible. They're all so excited that Rochelle is marrying Marco. His family owned several beach resorts. His grandfather, I think it was, and sold them to some big company and made millions.”

“So, Marco doesn’t work?”

“Not that I know of. Oh, and he doesn’t think Rochelle should either.”

I nod, having run into his type many times. “They're going to live off family money their entire lives?”

“I guess so. Marco has something to do with the stock market, that’s what he’s always talking about anyway.”

“That’s how you know Landmark is on the Nasdaq?”

“No, my dad dabbles in the stock market, too. He told me. Said he was going to invest the profits we made in it.”

“Playing the markets can be a risky game.”

She nods. “That’s what Dad says. He’s been very frugal about it, but they're hit and miss. The investments he made once on my behalf paid for a good chunk of my college. Even allowed me to study abroad. The other times...” She makes a face, sliding one finger against her throat.

“Abroad, huh? That's where you learned to bake like that?”

“Europe.” A bit of shine returns to her eyes, happier times. “I cooked at Buckingham Palace. Made the pastries for the Queen’s birthday one year.”

“Damn, that's sweet. Congrats, Sugar. Nobody can ever take that away from you.”

She looks stunned. I'm not sure why.

“What’s wrong? That’s really something to be proud of. I'm not just stroking your ego.”

“I-I am proud of it.” She shakes her head. “It's just, maybe you’re the first person who ever congratulated me about it. Thank you.”

That hits a nerve. One that tells me I’m going to fight like hell to make our date for her sister’s wedding all the more memorable.

But for now, more pleasant things are coming into view.

“Look,” I point out the window on her side of the car. Silas is driving down a street where every house is lit up with holiday lights.

It's the full show. Strings hanging off houses in every color and configuration, blinking plastic reindeer, Santas and snowmen flapping their mechanical arms in a friendly wave that says, fuck yeah, it's Christmas!

She scoots closer to the door. I slide in, too, and roll down the window for a better look.

The next two hours fly by as we drive past house after house, listening to Christmas music, and talk.

We talk about things I'd long forgotten. Like Christmas mornings when my parents were alive, including that year Cory and I got awesome new bikes. He’d broken his arm trying to learn to ride, and he'd been so mad that I’d learned how while he’d been stuck wearing his cast that he refused to try and ride his again.

That boy didn’t learn to ride a bike until years later. I smile at the memory, remembering how stubborn he could be. Served him, and us, very well in later years.

Sugar tells me about how Rochelle demanded a pony one year, so her parents had bought her riding lessons.

Predictably, Rochelle insisted it wasn't the same and refused to go, so Wendy did instead.

“I was scared the first time I climbed on a horse. So scared, Hunter, but I knew my parents must've spent a small fortune on those lessons, so I went riding once a week for four months, which made Rochelle mad because I said it was fun. Sure meant it, too. By the time the lessons were over, I was really enjoying them.”

“Did your parents buy you more?” I ask.

“No. It was fun, but we were on a budget. Besides, I liked baking a whole lot more.”

“Even when you were little?”

“Maybe.” Her face heats, painting her cheeks in an adorable flush that does terrible things to my body. There was a wistfulness in her voice. “First thing I can ever remember playing with was mud. I'd brought one of Mother's rolling pins outside and had myself a grand old time whipping up Minnesota muck pancakes. I think I was grounded for a week after I turned it back in, dirty, laid it right on the kitchen counter.”

She's laughing, and so am I. Hell, I’ve never been around a woman that brings out the things in me that she does. It's nice to hear her carefree for once.

I want her to sound like that all the time when she’s talking to me. Dreamy and soft.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am crazy. Right now, I’ll take crazy in spades because there's no denying what I want.

I want her. Greedily. Every sweet morsel of Sugar and Spice. Any damn way I can have her whole.

She’s looking up at me again. The raging desire to kiss her hits so hard I nearly jolt in my seat.

Fuck. Cool down.

I have to take it slow. If I push her too hard, too fast, she’ll back right out, and I can’t have that. For her sake, too.

The intercom beeps and a second later, Silas announces we’ve arrived. I’d told him to take us to the bakery after the tour so she could retrieve her car.

I push the button and tell him that we’ll wait a few minutes for Wendy’s car to warm up. She pushes her auto start button and the headlights blink on.

“Thanks, Hunter, this was pretty nice. Even if I'm not a huge fan of surprises. I’ve never gone on a light tour before.”

I hold her coat as she slips her arms in. “Glad you liked it, Wendy.”

“Do you and Ben do this every year?”

“We used to, when he was little, but we haven’t the past few years.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

“He got too old for it. Too distracted. Had more fun hanging out with friends from his old school.” It sounds like an excuse, and it might be. The rules of parenting change every year. Every day.

“You should do it with him again,” she says. “Make it a tradition for old time's sake that he’ll remember forever. Someday, maybe you'll even do it with his kids.”

“Shit, woman, I'm not ready to be a grandfather yet.” I wink. That gets me another round of laughter I'm half-convinced she must've stolen from an angel.

I nod, though, actually liking the idea. Someday.

“Well, I'm guessing my car must be warm by now. It doesn’t take long.” She fidgets, standing there, looking so vulnerable, so beautiful, I want to sink my teeth into her.

If I had an excuse to keep her longer, I would, but I know better. So I just open the door.

Silas instantly exits and holds it open. I take her hand and walk her to her car, trying to think of something to say here, too.

“Thanks again,” she says, opening her car door.

“I’ll pick you up on Saturday.”

She climbs in her car. “We can meet at the hotel. I’ll need to be there by noon to set up the cake.”

“Okay. You know I’ll help with that.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll have to change my clothes afterward and –”

“I said, I’ll help.” I shut her car door before she can object any further, and then tell Silas we’ll wait until she exits the parking lot before leaving.

I watch her as she gives me a shy little wave through the window. I'm lucky the windows are tinted and it's night. Too dark for her to make out how I'm grinning like I just got a royal flush in poker.

The next day, long after I’ve dropped Ben off at work, my phone rings.

I don’t recognize the number, so let it go to voice mail. It's from Rochelle, stating she miscounted her RSVPs, and there simply isn’t room for me to attend the wedding with Wendy. “Terribly sorry,” she adds.

Terribly sorry, my ass.

I laugh, then delete the message.

Might have to call a local place that rents Halloween stuff and find out about that gold suit after all.

I got Wendy’s cell number from Ben, so I send her a text, wondering if her sister has told her the same thing.

It’s Hunter, Sugar. How're you doing today?

Fine. Busy as usual, she types back. Ben’s doing an awesome job. Best new hire I've had. Maybe ever.

I nod, grateful to hear it, then reply, Good. Have you heard from your sister today?

No...why? She follows it up with one of those emojis that looks like something starting to sweat.

Satisfied, I type, No reason.

Hunter? She sends back. It’s her bachelorette party tonight. If there's something going on...

Damn. That concerns me. First, I type, You going?

I don't send it. A second later, I delete it and send, Where? You need an escape?

A spa. We're all having facials, manicures and pedicures, and then having our hair done as a trial run.

I snort, practically able to feel the estrogen through my phone. Sounds like the most boring bachelorette party ever.

A smiley emoji appears, along with I know!

So how about that rescue? My thumb mashes the screen.

I can think of about a hundred different things – and positions – I can show her that are infinitely more exciting.

Lol. Very funny. And tempting. But you know my mother would have a cow.

Then just tell her you're a vegetarian, I'm typing back, but before I can my phone pings again.

Got cookies to get out of the oven. Later!

Later, I send back with a sigh.

I stare at the phone, wondering how long it takes to get cookies out to cool. Eventually, I set the phone on my desk and pull up the website for the hotel where the wedding is on my computer.

I dial the number and book a room for next Saturday night, paying extra so I can check in early. Wendy will be working on the cake all morning, I'm sure, and this will give her a place to get ready.

No sooner than I hang up the phone, I hear a voice, roaring down the hallway like the world's drunkest ghost, closing in.

“Hunter-maaaaaan! You here?”

I click out of the hotel site while answering, “In my office.”

“Where’s Ben?” Sloan asks, tossing a large envelope on my desk. “Merry Christmas. Got some big ones today, Hunt.”

There are certain things only I can sign. Namely, checks over two hundred thousand dollars.

He’s suggested we up that so I’m not bothered by such minutiae, but I’m not ready to go that far into full retirement, or hand off huge money to accounting without my oversight.

The plan is, once Ben goes to college, then I’ll start working more again. Weekly, at least, rather than as needed.

“Ben's working. Loves his new job,” I tell him, putting the envelope in my desk drawer. “What are you doing next Saturday?”

He frowns, and then shrugs. “Nothing. Why?”

“I need you to stay with Ben. Saturday morning through Sunday around noon or so. Think you can cover?”

“Damn right I can. Where ya'll going?”

I cough, bracing myself for the heap of Sloan-sized shit that's surely coming in response. “Just a wedding?”

“Wedding!” His eyes narrow. “Whose?”

“You don’t know them. It'll be a quick thing, just a favor, really.” I lean back, watching him as he opens his mouth to say something stupid. “Don't do it, Sloan. Just tell me something...there’s a hockey game Saturday night. Is our box open?”

We have VIP suites at all the local sports facilities and offer them out to employees regularly. Special perk for Landmark being a major donor.

“Whatever, it's your funeral. Same difference as the wedding shit, am I right? I’ll check on the box and take Ben if it is. That'll be fun.” He slaps the top of my desk. “Gotta go! Just needed to drop that off. What time Saturday morning?”

“Ten at the latest.”

“Okay, Bud. See you later. What would you do without me?”

I grin, shaking my head. For once, he's got me there.

Wendy and I text a few times the following week, and I stop into the bakery to see her a couple times. Quick visits because she’s busy. So is Midnight Morning and the places next door.

Makes me wonder when and where all these shoppers work to get the money they're throwing around like confetti.

By the time Sloan arrives on Saturday morning, I have my suit in the Yukon, nicely pressed, along with an overnight bag. Ben knows I’m taking Wendy to her sister’s wedding and asks to tell her hi as I’m leaving.

Sloan follows me to the garage. “Who's this Wendy, my man?” He wags a brow.

“Nobody important,” I growl, an obvious lie. “Look, I need to be out of here at a certain –”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, not so fast. I'm not busting your balls. I'm honestly wondering, you after something with this chick, or what? Because if it's serious you can tell me to lay the fuck off, man. You don't need to hide it from me. Fuck, it's something beautiful if you think you've finally, after all these years, found yourself a –”

“Sloan!” I ignore his insinuation and open the driver’s door. “Wendy is Ben’s boss. Nothing more.”

Of course, that doesn't settle him. He's too good at picking up on me lying through my teeth and wants to know more.

Normally, I'd fish out a beer and tell him, but not this time.

I climb in and start the truck. “Thanks for staying with Ben today. You're doing me a solid.”

“Anytime, Mr. Mysterio! Fair warning, when you come the fuck back, I need details. How many times you had her, how hot she is, was it in the kitchen, and –”

“C'mon, Sloan,” I snarl, trying not to laugh, even though I'm also pissed off.

He's always been great at that. Winding people up and somehow making them think it's no big deal.

“All right, already. You go, dude. I'll look for the Chinese water torture manual in the meantime, so I'll be good and ready to pry it out of you when you're back.”

“Behave yourself. Have fun with Ben,” I tell him, waving one more time as I slam the door shut and open the garage.

He nods, and I start backing out. It's a quick drive to the bakery.

It’s closed today for the wedding and Sugar is probably the only person there. Ben was a little bummed by that this morning.

I park in the back, next to her car, and walk up to the door.

She opens it as I arrive. When I see her, my whole spine goes electric.

Who the fuck? Oh, but it's her all right. There's no mistaking that sweet moon of Wendy's face for anything, even if I've never seen her like this.

The worst part is, she hasn't even changed for the wedding yet.

Her hair glows in a shiny blonde ponytail and she’s wearing a button-up shirt, with the top couple notches left undone. I see myself pulling the tie out of her hair and throwing it across the room, letting everything hang down real graceful around her shoulders while I finish unbuttoning that shirt with my teeth.

My eyes go to those tits. They're perky, they're palm-sized, they're sirens. They make me want to suck and lick and bite. I have an insane flash of my cock between them, thrusting like mad, my head back in full roar as I spill everything I'm worth all over her beautiful skin.

I wish to holy hell there wasn't a bra in the way. Then I'd know if those sweet nips pebble just from seeing me.

My cock twitches, begging me to push her through the door and bend her over.

I know I'm more animal than man. And there's no excuse. Even if being a full-time parent hasn’t left much time for dating or sex, and that has me wound tight as a fucking spring.

“Hey,” she says. “I saw you pull in. The cake’s almost done. I’m just putting the flowers on it.”

“Tell me what I can do to help.”

Her smile, her gratitude, it's all downright sexy. “I already told you before. Nothing. But you can watch and have yourself a bite to eat, if you'd like. I made some sandwiches. It’s going to be a long haul before we get dinner at the wedding.”

She glances at my jeans then. I draw in a breath, cock still throbbing, wondering if I've been caught.

Fuck.

“Is that...what you're wearing?”

“No. Got my suit hung up real tidy in the truck. I rented us a room to get ready in after setting up the cake. We'll change there.”

Her cheeks flush and I see her teeth graze her lip. Then I'm just gone, back in my headspace, where damn near everything begins and ends with her under me. Naked. Moaning. Screaming.

“A suite. So there’s plenty of room,” I tell her.

She nods, still red as a cherry tomato, and turns around. I love how nervous she is. I just wish I could take it all away with my hands and beard and tongue all over her.

I follow her into the room where she’d made the unicorn cake. It's still on the table. Five layers of squares, covered in the same smooth white stuff she’d used on the unicorn.

Fondant, she’d called it.

That’s also what the flowers are made of. Each one is several small petals that she expertly arranges to look like a bouquet that's draped over one side of the cake.

“Looks like another winner,” I say, shaking my head. “How the hell do you do it?”

“It's nothing, really, but thanks.” She’s adding petals while talking. “Rochelle wanted it plain, so...plain old white it is.”

“Sometimes the plainest things are the prettiest.” I’m looking at her, careful how I say it.

She’s far from plain. Even with her hair in a ponytail, dressed in her work shirt, wearing no makeup, she’s the prettiest woman I know. And don’t know. “How long have you been here?”

“Since around six.”

“Shit. Did you bake the cake this morning?”

“No, last night. Just came in to make sure everything was right and to add the final touches.” She nods toward the delicate layers. “Each one of those squares has four layers, with flavored frosting between them.”

“Bull. Thought you told me this was plain?”

She shrugs, smiling coyly. “I couldn’t let it be that plain. Not taste-wise.”

I’m not much help to her. Mostly, I stand and watch her work, eating the chicken salad-bacon sandwiches she's made. They're basic, down to earth, and hearty. Damn good.

Then I back my Yukon up to the door when she says it’s time to load it up. We use a cart to roll the cake outside and slide it into the back of my SUV.

“I’ll follow you to the hotel.”

“No, you won’t,” I say. “I’m not driving this thing around town alone. Needs it's owner to keep it looking nice and pretty.”

I'm only half-joking. I haven’t been so nervous about driving since I was a kid, but this is no joke.

That cake is huge. A tower and a work of art. I couldn't even buy my way out of it if anything dire happened.

“Unlock your car, let's get your stuff, and go.”

For once, she barely puts up a fight. I wait for her in the driver's seat, warming up the car, trying to fight my never-ending hard-on. I catch myself grinding my teeth about a split second before she climbs in.

If I'm careful, that cake will make it to the wedding in one piece. I just wish I could say the same about my own two balls, which are turning every inch of my body blue.

And it's not stopping as long as I've got Wendy Agnes up close and personal.

The drive to the hotel is one of the longest in my life, even though it's only a few miles.

By the time I park in the back, behind the building and near a service door, my jaw aches from gritting my teeth while taking every corner, scared shitless the cake will capsize if we go around the bend too fast.

“Finally. That was a fucking nightmare,” I say, shutting off the ignition.

Wendy laughs. With honey-brown eyes sparkling, she pats my arm. “Tell me about it.”

“Ben owes you more than a door and mirror. He needs to comp your patience, too. If a kid had jumped out in front of me just now, I'm sure I would've wrung his neck.”

“Sure, Hunter.” She rolls her eyes because we both know it isn't true. Then she pops her door open. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

She carefully collects a rolling cart that we transfer the cake to and then wheel it down hallways and into a large banquet room where workers are draping tables with black tablecloths.

“Is the service in here, too?” I ask, looking at the strings of miniature lights twisted inside the white material draped across the ceiling.

“Yup. It's the place.” She points to an archway set up in the center of the room. “The guests will be at the tables, in their assigned seats, as planned.”

I take in the scene, imagining what this place will look like later. The sweetheart table they've got at the front of the room for the bride and groom looks like a throne.

“Christ. Your sister gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, 'center of attention,' doesn’t she?” I say as we slowly push the cart holding the cake, which is now taller than her across the room.

“It's her wedding.” Wendy flashes a forced smile that never falters. Even when she asks, “Bet you're sorry you got dragged into this one.”

“Don't gamble, Sugar, because you'd be out some money.” I wink at her. “I’m just eager to see how it all plays out.”

Still smiling, she shakes her head. “Come on. You've already won your gold star for participation, you don't need to act like you're actually enjoying this. Now help me transfer the cake onto this table. Then you'd better go move your vehicle before you get a ticket for being in a no parking zone.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“Actually...this might take a while to set up. I still have to add flowers to the base.” She waves a hand at me. “Go. Or you will have a ticket. Trust me. I know. We've dropped off plenty of stuff for events here before.”

I laugh and go move the truck. Then I check in at the hotel and carry our bags up to the room before going back to the ballroom.

The tablecloths are all in place once I return, and as I walk past them, I pause to get a better look at what the workers are up to now.

Is that...fish? What the fuck?

I blink, but it's still there. Apparently, they're really putting live goldfish in tall glass vases on the center of each table.

Wendy, still stationed at the cake table, looks up as I approach and point behind me. “Fish?”

She shrugs, looking down. “Best substitute we could find since the birds and butterflies were off.”

Fuck me. I don’t even want to know more.

“Cake looks awesome. That's one thing you won't hear anybody shit-talk while we're here.” I'm dead serious, too.

It's another masterpiece. She’s not only put a row of flowers around the bottom, she’s sprinkled tiny black hearts around the base.

“It's decent, thank God. If it weren't, I'd be afraid to think what might –”

She’s cut short by a scream. A bloodcurdling one.

Here comes the bride.

Rochelle, decked out in a white robe and with curlers in her hair, runs across the room, straight toward the tables like some kind of charging bull.

“Oh my God, no. No! This can’t be.”

Wendy smiles at me, then rushes after her sister. “What's wrong?” I hear her murmuring.

I’m not sure why, but I follow, just enough to eavesdrop.

“My fish...they're...they're dead! At least three, four, five...” Rochelle gives Wendy a traumatic look, still counting on one hand. “Holy hell. There has to be three in each vase and now there’s not enough!”

She whips around and grabs one of the workers by the arm, a young man who looks terrified. “Who did this? Who killed my fish?”

“Rochelle, calm down!” Wendy says, lifting her sister’s hands off the young man.

“Calm down? Are you out of your mind? How can I ever calm down when some stupid, incompetent moron is killing my fish? Ruining my wedding!”

Enough. I've officially fucking had it.

I want to pull Wendy away from this crazy bitch, and I want to do it now.

But Rochelle has eye makeup on one eye and not the other, making her look even more disturbed. I know deep down I'd better leave this to sisters to hash out, rather than throwing myself in the middle.

“No one's killing your fish. Or ruining your wedding,” Wendy says. “Accidents happen. We planned for a few, remember?”

“Not this! There’s...Jesus, there's not nearly enough to have three in each vase. I have to have three in each one, Wendy. You know how to count? Three! And...and the photographer will be here in an hour! God. An hour!”

“Okay. Deep breaths.” Wendy puts an arm around her sister, stroking her back. “I’ll take care of this, don't you worry. It’ll be fine. You go finish getting ready with your friends.”

Other women dressed in robes arrive, and I step out of the way as they gather around, clucking like minions. They finally convince Rochelle to go with them.

“You’ll take care of it, Wendy?” Rochelle asks. Tears have made her makeup run, making her look worse. “You really will?”

“You heard me the first time.” Wendy waves a hand. “Go. Get ready. Marco's waiting.”

“Three, three, there has to be three,” Rochelle moans back at us as they lead her out.

“I know. I’ll make sure there are three in each vase.” Somehow, Wendy is still smiling.

I’m not. I'm floored.

Her sister may just be the most psychotic, rampaging nut I've ever met, and that's saying something considering all the meltdowns I've seen at conferences over the years. Whenever the drinks start to flow and emotions get high, you'd be amazed how unhinged even the most buttoned down corporate suits can become.

Wendy’s smile is still there for a second as she looks at me, before it turns into a grimace. “So, um....would you mind giving me a ride to buy some stupid goldfish?”

“Not even a bit,” I say, even though that's not what will happen. I wave one of the workers over. “You, how many fish have died? Answer quick and I'll make it worth your while.”

His face lights up as he looks me over, and I tap my wallet through my pocket for emphasis.

“Damn, oh, I don’t know, sir,” the young man stammers. “Let's see...”

It’s the same guy Rochelle latched onto, and he still hasn't recovered. Bad choice, maybe.

Still shaking in his shoes, he says, “Give me a second and I'll find out! I can go get my boss. He had an inventory of the fish, the chairs, the tables – everything!”

“Do it,” I say. As the boy shoots around us, I ask Wendy. “Why three?”

“God only knows. Supposedly, it’s symbolic in some weird way. There’s a mall only a few miles away. I’m sure they’ll have goldfish. I know, I know, Rochelle said these were specially imported, farm raised for their delicate color, supposedly, but...they're fish. Freaking goldfish. Let's just go buy a couple dozen and dump them in. How hard could it be?”

Not even as hard as this shit already is.

The disgust in her voice makes me smile, anyway. There's something endearing about her trying to pacify her sister after seeing the woman in nuclear meltdown.

I loop an arm around her shoulders and tug her against my side. I can relate to what she’s going through, as insane as it is.

No matter what, a person loves their siblings and does whatever they can for them. I know that better than most people.

“Mr. Forsythe! My, my. I wasn’t aware that you were connected to this wedding.”

I turn, giving the woman approaching a polite nod, even though I don’t recognize her. She’s middle-aged, a brunette with long legs and bright red lipstick.

“I manage your company’s Christmas party every year.” She holds out a hand. “Melody Swanson.”

I'm racking my brain. Total blank.

“You do a wonderful job each year,” I tell her. Honestly, besides attending and making a big pep speech, I have very little to do with the company events. I nod toward the tables. “It appears as if we have a fish issue. Any advice?”

“I’ve heard! It seems that, well...even though it was explained we wouldn't be responsible for any live decorations, the fish were dropped off last night and left inside the plastic bags. All night. One of my staff found a tub and dumped them in this morning, but there were already several casualties, I'm afraid. And several more by the hour.” She shakes her head. “I do apologize, but it was noted in advance. Thoroughly. To both the bride and groom. Numerous times.”

I hear Wendy sigh, nodding in vigorous agreement.

“I’m sure it was, and we certainly don’t hold you accountable in any way, Ms. Swanson. However, currently, we do need several goldfish. No two ways about it. At least enough for three in every vase. You can make it happen, can't you?” I remove my arm from around Wendy in order to pull out my billfold. Handing the woman my black, metallic credit card, I say, “I understand the difficulty and the short notice. I’ll look at it as a personal favor and be very appreciative.”

She takes the card and nods, wrenching it in her hands. “Well...I’m sure I can make that happen. For you, Mr. Forsythe. I’ll leave your card at the front desk after I've found a suitable supplier.” After nodding at both Wendy and I, she walks over to talk to the workers.

“We could just buy some goldfish, you know,” Wendy says.

“Yeah, Sugar, we could. But if the photographer shows up in an hour, you need to go get ready.”

I remember that from Cory’s wedding, the day he married Juno. All the pictures that were taken. Endless poses, the kind that make your face feel frostbit from smiling too much.

I still have copies somewhere in a box in the garage.

Wendy lets out another pent-up sigh. “I should protest, but I’m not going to. Screw it, Hunter, you're right. We'll let her take care of it.” Her smile grows as she adds, “I really hate fish.”