ONE
“IT’S RUINED!”
The shrill wail was the first thing Alexander DuMont heard upon stepping into The Seaside after fighting his way through a roiling sea of paparazzi. He didn’t recognize the voice; Arianna Barrington was the likeliest culprit, but he couldn’t be sure, as he’d never met the woman.
Sol’s cajoling lilt spilled down the hall and into the reception area shortly thereafter, ending the mystery.
“It’ll be fine, kitten. We’ll come up with something. I promise.”
“I’m sorry the woman’s dead, but did she have to go and ruin my wedding first?”
“Maybe she got hit by a bus because she ruined your wedding. God works in mysterious ways. Come here, kitten.”
Sol, you dick.
Alex’s finger grazed his temple, his eyes narrowing. Driving eight hours to New Orleans had seemed like a good idea at the time—his aversion to flying wasn’t quite phobic, but he got uncomfortable enough on planes that he avoided them at all costs. The Dallas rush-hour traffic, he could handle. The bad drive-through coffee, he could handle. The speeding ticket on the Louisiana border he could also handle, albeit not with a smile on his face. He hadn’t lost his cool until a half hour away from The Seaside, when his SUV blew a tire and damn near skidded off the road. According to the tow truck driver, Troy, the SUV’s axle may have also broken, but they’d call him and let him know how much it’d be to repair and at what point it’d be ready for pickup.
At least Troy had been good enough to drop Alex off at The Seaside instead of abandoning him on the side of the highway.
Why am I here again? Oh, right. Sol.
His brother’s call for help had come in at suppertime the day before.
“Can you come any sooner, Alex? Something’s happened,” Sol groused.
“What? Are you all right?”
“I don’t think so. Our wedding planner sold our wedding details to the press,” Sol said. “We’re getting crushed by paparazzi already, and kitten’s terrified they’re going to be like ants on a picnic the day of. I wish we had time to rebook everything, do it all over secretly, but we don’t. It’s prime wedding season. Every florist, photographer, and caterer between here and Metairie is accounted for, so we have to work with who we have, but we don’t know who any of them are. Did I mention that part? We’ve spent tens of thousands and have no clue who our vendors are?”
“Why not?” Alex said. “Did your planner scam you?”
“Oh no. No, she definitely booked things, according to her secretary. I just don’t know where or with whom. She kept horrible records, apparently.”
“So go see her. Sit in her office until she gets back. Demand answers. You’re not shy.”
“I can’t,” Sol said.
“Why not?”
“Because, Alex, right after she sold the details of the wedding to some asshole in New York, she was hit by a bus. You’d think if she was going to fuck me over, she’d have the decency to stay alive long enough for me to yell at her for it,” he said.
Alex hadn’t expected that.
“Hell. Okay, well, that’s . . . that’s rough. But remember, a woman’s dead. Don’t be glib.”
“It’s all I have to offer right now, Alex. Arianna’s miserable, there are a billion florists in New Orleans, and I’m trying to call each of them to see if they’re ours, and I’m getting nowhere. Can you come help me sort this? You’re my best man. Come be best and manly?”
Alex frowned. “Fine. I suppose.”
“Oh thank God. Seriously, though, we’re fucked. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
The memory of Sol’s panicked laughter stabbed at Alex’s brain. It’s why he’d come early—to help. For all that Sol could and did to make him crazy with fair regularity, he was his brother, and Alex was his best man, and if that meant running around New Orleans like a lunatic so Sol could marry the woman of his dreams in an orderly fashion, so be it.
Of course, Alex knew next to nothing about Arianna other than what he’d read on the Internet. She was pretty and roly-poly and fresh-faced in her pictures, and though there were some murmurings about a gardener and a sex tape, she was otherwise low key—for a Barrington, anyway. Her father was a notorious lobbyist jerk with a mountain of scandals behind him, but pinning that on the daughter wasn’t fair.
“Checking in?” asked the statuesque blonde behind the counter. Alex eyed her. Tall, thin, green eyes, very large hair. She was new, Amanda’s replacement, and as Alex hadn’t been home to New Orleans in two years now? Three?—she wouldn’t know him as family.
Time flies when you’re having fun.
“I’m Alex DuMont.”
If that was supposed to elicit some kind of friendly response, it didn’t. Somehow, the woman only looked surlier. “I’m Dora. Your brother’s in the back. I’ll call a bellhop to have your luggage put in your room.”
“Thank you.”
She didn’t answer, dismissing him with a curt jerk of her head toward the conference rooms. Alex eyeballed her as he passed the desk, wondering how anyone would want to stay in the hotel if the greeter at the desk was as pleasant as Cerberus, but that was a question for Sol on another day.
“Kitten, don’t cry. We’ll figure it o— Alex!”
Inside the first conference room, Sol had his wiry arms wrapped around a quivering pile of maybe-cute, but it was hard to tell with the red eyes, red nose, and torrent of snot pouring down her face. She was not a pretty crier, Arianna Barrington, which was an unkind thing to think, and really none of his business, but the unbidden thought planted itself before he could stop it.
It reminded him that he needed to check the confession schedule at Saint Louis’s. He was due for some soul maintenance, a biweekly task that kept him honest with himself about his various shortcomings, which were many and certainly exacerbated by unexpected changes of plan.
I’ve been a cranky jerk since he called me.
I need to do better.
“I . . . here.” Alex reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief. Sol snatched it and pressed it to the young woman’s face.
“Blow,” Sol instructed. She did, and there was a sound like a goose being murdered followed by a barrage of sniffles. Sol kissed her atop her head. “She’s devastated. The paparazzi are unrelenting. I should have known better. Brutus reminded me to ask for the confidentiality paperwork, but I forgot and . . . I’m so glad you could come early. Truly, Alex. You’re a lifesaver.”
The smile on Sol’s face was beatific. The DuMont boys resembled one another in some ways—similar noses, similarly shaped faces—but there were marked differences, too. Where Sol—and by extension, Nash, because they were identical twins—was thin and graceful like their mother, Alex was a mountain, thick through the chest and shoulders, like their father had been. Sol was platinum blond and wore it long enough he could tie it at his neck, while Alex’s hair was golden and kept short. Sol topped off at six foot three; Alex was six feet exactly. They were both arresting men, but in different ways. Sol was leading-man-from-the-movies beautiful with high cheekbones and a lush mouth. Alex was . . . Sol’s ex, Maddy, had called him Thor once as a joke. He was too clean shaven to be a Norse god, but in another life? Plausible.
“I bet you could twist me into a pretzel,” Maddy had said. “Just pull me apart like taffy with your bare hands. Wanna try it?”
Alex was pretty sure she’d been offering sex, and while she was a glorious creature of bountiful charms, he’d passed. Alex was devout, and random fumblings were forbidden, never mind random fumblings with your former sister-in-law. Besides, since then she’d shacked up with his best friend, Darren, and they’d been playing house everywhere from New Orleans to Dallas.
“Arianna. I’m so sorry to meet you under these conditions,” Alex said in opening. “I can’t imagine your strain.”
“A-Alex. Call me Rain, please. Sol’s told me a lot about you. So glad you could come. I have no idea what we’re going to do. There will be people all over our venue and . . . I’m complaining. I’m sorry.” She pulled away from Sol’s chest to greet Alex, and much to his surprise, wrapped her arms around his middle to squeeze. He was used to the casual indifference of society women, their air kisses that never actually touched your cheeks because they didn’t want to smear their lipstick, but this was earnest affection. She was warm and inviting and very real.
In spite of the . . . oh God.
“You have a . . . on your nose. At the end.” Alex motioned with his finger toward her nostril. If the presence of the offensive booger upset her, she didn’t let it show, simply snatching the handkerchief out of Sol’s hand and dabbing at her miniature green atrocity.
“We probably have to cancel the reception hall. It was so beautiful, too. I just . . . Darlene is a turd stain. Wait. Aren’t you a deacon? I shouldn’t say turd stain in front of a deacon. I’m being awful.”
She looked so twitterpated Alex couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not a deacon, but I suppose it’s a possibility if I can ever find a good night manager and a couple more hours in the day.” He squeezed her shoulder, albeit awkwardly, but she didn’t seem to mind. “And we all have our moments. Your planner was thoughtless. I understand the frustration. Why are you canceling the venue?”
“It’s open air, so no place to hide from the press. I could hire extra security, I suppose,” Sol offered, sweeping his fiancée and her enormous pink diamond engagement ring off her feet. They collapsed together on an overstuffed love seat, Arianna nestled against his shoulder like Sol’s personal doll. “But that does nothing to ward off the helicopter photographers.”
“Why not have it here? The ballroom’s big enough,” Alex said before making his way to the coffee station. Real New Orleans chicory brew was a dream come true to a tired man force-fed a steady diet of burned Starbucks.
“It’s booked, and I won’t have another bride suffering like I am,” Rain replied. “Sol said we could cancel it, but I couldn’t live with myself. Plus lawsuits.”
“You could postpone the wedding?”
“I don’t want to,” Sol said. “Everyone’s flying in. Hell, you’re here already, and we’re waiting to hear back from Rain’s maid of honor. She’s coming in from South Africa, I think?”
Rain nodded. “Yes. She’s been in Cape Town on a photo shoot. She’ll be here soon.”
Anything else Alex thought to say was lost to a commotion out front. Shouting, kerfuffle, chaos. It was a standard part of Sol’s day, maybe, but Alex’s routine was much quieter. He winced, sipping his coffee, before the gauntest man alive strode into the room. Cylan was Sol’s best friend, accountant, and as far as Alex was concerned, the better candidate for the job of being Sol’s best man. Alex had said as much, too, but Sol wasn’t having it.
“Because you’re my brother and I want my brother to be my best man. Is that so much to ask?” Sol had said on the phone.
“So Cylan said no, huh?”
“Of course Cylan said no. Said he’d done it before for the Maddy wedding and then there’d been that really awkward . . . he kneed me in the junk right before pictures. I can’t risk round two, Alex. I can’t be dick clobbered on cupcake’s Very Special Day.”
Alex had forgotten about that, but it was proof positive Cylan was smarter than the rest of them.
“So why not ask Nash? He’s your twin.”
“Because Nash sucks, Alex. If I wanted that much suck in my life, I’d make a porno. No.”
A master of prose, Sol was not.
And so Alex had agreed, and now he stood in the conference room with Sol, his fiancée, and a fairly aggravated-looking Cylan Dowell. “We need someone to man the front for a little while,” Cylan announced. “The security team is doing what they can, but the press is getting more aggressive and I need a quick break.”
“Are you okay?” Rain asked. “Why are you doing security, anyway?”
Cylan scowled. “I’m overseeing the shift swap until Vaughan gets back from the doctor. He had to have that thing looked at.”
Alex didn’t know what that thing might be, but considering what Sol had told him about Arianna’s brother Vaughan, and the way Cylan said what he’d said, that thing could be anything from broken knuckles from a fistfight to an STD, because he didn’t like to keep his pants on.
Either way, Alex wasn’t asking any questions. Cylan wasn’t offering answers. He did, however, look at Alex and say, “We had a breach the other day when the morning shift was going out and the afternoon shift was coming in. I’m just making sure we don’t have any more breaks in the line.” Cylan paused, frowned, and shuffled his weight between his feet. “And I’m fine. I had Tito’s for lunch. I need a twenty-minute break.”
Sol snickered. “Oh, you and your Tex melts.”
Rain looked confused. “What about Tex melts?”
“Cylan has to poop, kitten. He is, as they say, full of shit.”
“I hate you,” Cylan said. “So much. You have no idea how much I hate you.”
“. . . I’ll man the front.” Alex abandoned his drained coffee cup on the end table. It was a good excuse to get away from Sol’s shit-eating grin, which was annoying on a good day and enough to make a man hang himself on a bad one. Between Alex’s hours-long drive from Dallas during traffic and taking a reporter’s elbow right in the ribs upon arriving at The Seaside, it was not shaping up to be a good day. “Take your break, Cylan.”
“Thank you, Alex. You always were the better DuMont.” Cylan practically danced his way to the door. “Hotel guests have passes, press doesn’t, and if it’s a new check-in, the customers clear it with Palo on the right. He has the list. All press is a no. We’re on full lockdown until new arrangements have been made for the wedding, and even then it’ll be . . . more later.”
“They won’t get in,” Alex promised to Cylan’s fleeing back. “I’ll see to it.”