Weddings…

No offense to those who enjoy this kind of shit, but I’d rather be dragged naked through the streets behind a speeding Harley.

My brother’s wedding is better than most—at the edge of a vineyard at sunset, with lights strung in the oak trees above the reception, and a live band playing bluegrass and golden-age love songs. And Dylan and Emma are crazy about each other and can’t seem to stop having kids, so it makes sense for them to take the plunge, I guess, but the sappiness in the air is still making me queasy.

Romancing the shit out of a woman or fucking her until you’re both too weak to stand is one thing. Getting teary-eyed over the wedding vows is another.

As soon as the toasts and the first dance are over, I beat it to the parking lot, knowing I won’t be missed. The bride and groom are too busy making goo-goo eyes at each other, and everyone else is too drunk. The wedding started forty-five minutes late, and Emma’s tasting room staff was pouring hefty samples while we waited.

I, however, only had one glass. I knew a quick getaway was in my future.

But when I reach my bike, I find my baby—a vintage 1950 Harley Panhead I coaxed back to glory with my own two hands—hemmed in by two Smart cars.

“What’s Smart about an overpriced novelty baby stroller?” I grumble under my breath.

“Not to mention poor handling around corners, a less than stellar safety rating, and the fact that they look really, really stupid.” The husky voice comes from the shadows beneath a live oak. A second later, the most dangerous blonde at the party steps into the light streaming from the lamps on the porch, looking as drop-dead sexy as ever.

With her shoulder-length blond hair dyed purple at the tips, thick eyeliner that accentuates her violet eyes, and a body made for the black leather bustier and long, gauzy skirt she’s wearing, Carrie Haverford checks all of my boxes.

She’s also Emma’s sister and completely off-limits.

I don’t have many rules when it comes to women, but I don’t fuck where I eat, and I’ll have to face my brother’s sister-in-law over too many holiday dinner tables to risk a one-night stand.

Or however long we would last.

Judging by the sway of her hips as she slinks over to sit on the hood of the red car in front of my bike, it wouldn’t be long. She looks like a man-eater, this one.

Be still my raging hard-on…

I love bad girls who know what they want. They’re even better than good girls desperate to prove how bad they can be with the right guy.

“Looks like you’re stuck, bucko,” Carrie says with a sigh. “I feel for you. I’m staying in Emma’s guest cottage, so I’m also trapped in happily-ever-after-hell.”

I laugh as I slide my hands into the pockets of my tux pants, the better to keep them to myself. “You hate weddings, too?”

“Like carpet burns on my ass,” she says, filling my filthy mind with images of things I could do to her curvy body that would cause such a thing. “Marriage is just another sickness inflicted upon humanity by the development of agriculture. It’s about property, not love everlasting.” She flicks thick blond and purple locks off her forehead, revealing more of her doll-perfect face. “And people weren’t intended to be monogamous. Science proved that years ago.”

I arch a brow, intrigued. “Really? How’s that?”

“Lots of different studies, but the most compelling to me is the design of your gear shift.” Her gaze drops to the front of my pants before sliding slowly back up to meet my eyes.

“Yeah?” I murmur, getting thicker in spite of myself.

A hot body is reasonably easy to resist, but a sexy, shifty little mind like hers does me in every time.

“It’s designed to suction out other men’s deposits before making its own special delivery,” she says, eyes dancing with mine, issuing a challenge I know I have to refuse. “We were meant to be wild things who don’t give a damn if happy ever after is going to last a few hours, let alone a lifetime. The unity of the tribe was our focus, not locking one person in and weighing them down with all the expectations we used to expect a whole village to provide.”

She shrugs. “And, allegedly, back when we were tribal nomads, we were less violent, too. The sperm did the fighting, and a woman’s body chemistry controlled which got to make the baby, so there was no need for men to go to war over who controlled women and property. People could live in peace and spend their free time relaxing in waterfalls or digging grubs or whatever primitive people did for fun.”

I grunt. “Sounds a lot more sane than the current arrangement.”

Her eyes narrow as she nods. “Exactly. Why can’t everyone else see that they’re the crazy ones?” She crosses her arms with a sigh and a tragic shake of her head. “Why must they judge us, Valentine?”

I smile. “Everyone calls me Rafe. I told you that last time we met, Carrie.”

“I don’t care what everyone else does.” She stands, hips swaying temptingly beneath her skirt as she moves closer. “I would rather call you Valentine Huxley Raphael, if that’s all right.”

I curse. “Who told you?”

“Dylan, when he was drunk at the brewery grand opening.” She straightens the flower in my lapel, making me powerfully aware of how close she is and how incredible she smells. Like orange blossoms and spice. “Did you know your second name means ‘inhospitable place,’ Mr. Hunter?”

“But my first name means strong and healthy.” I tip my head, bringing my mouth closer to hers. “And my third name means ‘God has healed,’ so I figure two out of three isn’t bad. But there’s a more pressing question on my mind right now, Trouble.”

Her grin stretches wider, proving she likes it when people call her on her mischief. “Yes? What’s that, Valentine?”

“Why have you been looking up the meaning of my many ridiculous names?”

“Why? Because I want to do bad things to you in the dark, silly,” she says in a husky voice. She presses up onto tiptoe until our lips are barely an inch apart, and my pulse rushes faster. “What about you? Up for a top-secret night? You and me, nothing off-limits, and in the morning, we part ways and never say a word about it to each other or to anyone else ever again?”

I should say no.

I really, really should…

But I’ve never been good at “no” or “should,” and she’s making a compelling argument.

If we stick to Trouble’s terms, what could go wrong?

So many things. Too many to name, starting with the extremely high probability of getting caught.

As if summoned by my thoughts, a feminine voice calls Carrie’s name from the side of the house. Carrie’s eyes go wide, and she takes a quick step back, putting a “just friends” amount of distance between us seconds before Emma appears by the front porch.

“Hey, there you are! And Rafe, too. Good!” She jogs across the drive, holding the hem of her wedding dress up out of the dirt. “Come on you two. We’re getting ready to throw the bouquet and garter. We need all the single ladies and gentlemen in the garden.”

Carrie makes a grumbling sound at the back of her throat. “You don’t want me there, Em. It would be a waste of the bouquet if I caught it. You know I’m never getting married.”

“Ditto,” I say, also having exactly zero interest in holy matrimony. I can count the successfully married couples I know on two fingers, while the married and miserable, bitterly separating, or devastated and divorced crowd numbers in the dozens. The odds for marriage aren’t good, and I’m not a gambling man. I take calculated risks, not wild leaps into nets full of holes.

Emma props a fist on her hip. “I know, I know, but we only have a few single people here. We need all the warm bodies we can get. Just stand in the back and make a half-hearted effort for the pictures, okay? For me? And then you can run off to get beer and play pool or whatever it was you guys were plotting out here.”

“We have no plots,” Carrie says, in a voice so innocent I almost believe her myself. “I was on my way back to the cottage to get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

“And I was trying to head home, but my bike is penned in.” I nod over my shoulder, and Emma snorts.

“Well, that’s fixed easily enough.” She reaches out to tug a lock of her sister’s hair. “Just get the worst parallel parker in the universe to move her Mini Monster.”

I glance at Carrie, arching a brow.

She lifts a bare shoulder and lets it fall, gaze shifting guiltily to the left.

“Or I can move it for you if you’ve had too much wine,” Emma continues. “But I will only do so after you both play nice. So come with me my hopelessly un-romantics.” She backs toward the house, beckoning for us to follow. “I promise—last wedding favor of the day, and then you’re free.”

“Be there in a second,” Carrie says. “Just let me pop into the house and put on some lipstick.”

“Two minutes,” Emma warns.

“Two minutes,” Carrie and I reply at the same time. Neither of us sounds overly excited, but apparently, lukewarm acquiescence is enough for Emma. She turns, starting down the path leading around to the garden, leaving Carrie and I alone.

After a beat, I ask, “So do you really hate your car, or was that just to throw me off the scent?”

“Both.” She sighs. “And my plan would have worked, too, if it wasn’t for those meddling kids.”

I grin. “It was a solid plan.”

“It was okay, for the spur of the moment.” She gives her tire a half-hearted kick. “I can move it now if you want. Or you can. The keys are in the driver’s seat.”

“That’s all right. Now that I think about it, I’ll probably walk up the hill and sleep at my dad’s place.” I slide my hands into my pockets as I turn to face her. “No sense in driving home just to turn around and drive back again first thing tomorrow for the wedding breakfast.” I hesitate, forcing my eyes away from the enticing curves overflowing her top, willing myself to make the smart choice. “And no sense in sleeping anywhere else. Family can be friends, but anything more is a bad idea.”

“It’s called incest,” Carrie says dryly. “But that’s only if you’re related by blood, not marriage.”

“Still.” I take a step backward, away from her spicy citrus scent and tempting mouth, which I bet would taste every bit as delicious as it looks. “See you at the bouquet toss?”

She nods. “Totally. See you there.”

With a final smile, I turn and walk away, ignoring the pang of disappointment spreading through my balls.

Yes, I’m sure a night with Carrie would be hot as hell. But tomorrow morning we’d be smack dab in the “regrettable drama” part of the affair, sneaking around, trying not to get caught by our families, and wondering why we made things so unpleasant for ourselves. And even if we managed to avoid getting made, memories of the night would linger between us, festering and swelling like a balloon filled with botulism, primed to pop and spew poison all over our previously peaceful, uncomplicated family unit.

Better to walk away now.

Better to go to sleep alone and jerk off to ease this ache than to put my Carrie-Haverford-inspired hard-on to use with the woman herself.

Thanks to Emma, I dodged a bullet.

So, in the spirit of gratitude, I make an effort to catch the garter, reaching hard for the scrap of lace that ends up looped around my younger brother, Tristan’s, fingers. But that’s for the best. Tristan is going through a hard time in his love life, but he eventually wants to get married. Somehow, despite our identical upbringings, Tris ended up hopeful and open-hearted instead of jaded and convinced happily-ever-after is the biggest crock of shit society ever sold the collective unconscious.

But we both go home alone tonight, plodding up the hill in the dark to the farmhouse where we grew up, leaving the Haverford property behind.

And though I’m tempted, I don’t look back at the lights shining in the tiny cabin at the edge of Emma’s property or let my thoughts linger on the oh-so-tempting woman inside.