The only thing worse than showing up late for the wedding you’re supposed to shoot? Showing up late and finding the groom banging a bridesmaid in the bathroom.

I freeze with my hand on the door, not believing what I’m seeing. Mr. Newlywed and Miss Teal Taffeta are so busy going at it they don’t even notice me. He’s got her up on the sink counter, and if adultery was an Olympic sport, I’d have to give them at least a 6 on the difficulty scale. And with that poofy bridesmaid dress practically swallowing him whole? A solid 7 out of 10, for sure.

Minus 15 for the whole “nasty cheaters” side of things, I mean.

I’m just thinking about sidling on past to reach a stall when his pale ass bobs over the waist of his tuxedo pants. I reel back. Okay, I don’t need to pee that bad.

I stage a hasty retreat, back into the garlands and glitter strewn around the Central Park Boathouse. Now that’s a much prettier view. We’re set up by the building, with five crystal-bedecked white tents overlooking the lake. Even the trees are dripping with crystals, alongside bundles of white roses by the dozen, as the wedding guests sit down for their lavish meal. This has to be the most fancypants wedding I’ve ever been to, but I’m not a guest—I’m on the job today, ready to capture these beautiful memories in pictures that will last a lifetime.

Minus the banging, of course. 

I look around for my boss for the day, aka the most in-demand wedding photographer on the East Coast. I’ve become Frederico’s go-to person when his usual assistant decides to play hooky, and despite the fact he’s a fiery bundle of Spanish artistic temperament, when he called me up this morning I couldn’t afford to turn the gig down. Literally. I just signed over the last of my savings to cover this month’s rent check.

Question: Will the happy couple still pay for wedding pictures if they’ve already broken up before the end of the celebration?

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got a conscience. I just watched Mr. Newlywed say his vows. Captured photographic evidence of it, too. So with that image from the bathroom burned into my mind, I’m scrambling to think of what to do. Whether I should tell someone. How I should tell someone. Is an anonymous note a possibility? Because you know what they say about shooting the messenger and all . . .

I go looking for Frederico to solve this particular moral dilemma, but when I check the nearest storage tent—

Holy hell, there’s the bride pressed up against one of the tables, tongue-wrestling some dude with a man bun.

I pause in shock, but there’s no mistaking her. I mean, the big white dress is a pretty major giveaway. The big white dress she’s letting Man Bun push his hands up under, all the way to her—

Yup. Something blue. 

What’s with these people?

You know what? I don’t want to know. Maybe they have the openest of open relationships. Maybe two really scummy people just got hitched. Either way, it’s none of my business. They seem happy enough . . . completely separate from each other. Who am I to interfere?

Or get in the way of my paycheck.

I backtrack, straight into a puddle of mud. Ugh. I pry my slingbacks out with a sigh. 

Somehow, I thought being a pro photographer was going to be a lot more glamorous than this. I guess that’s what I get for putting my career dreams on hold. I’d been working as an executive assistant for a few years; I always told myself it was temporary, but one day, I took a look around and realized my dreams weren’t any closer than when I graduated. I took the plunge, quit my day job . . . and now I’m stuck at the bottom of the ladder starting over again. One rung at a time.

But there are some benefits along the way. My gaze falls on the catering tent, and my stomach lets out an almighty rumble. I skipped lunch shooting the bridal party prep, and everyone is busy right now stuffing their faces under the main awning. Since nobody wants photographs of themselves with a mouthful of steak, maybe this is the perfect moment to sneak a tasty little snack.

I slink over and peek past the draped lengths of sparkly gauze. The servers are still whisking out the hot food, but there’s a big spread of drool-worthy desserts just waiting on one of the tables. My stomach gets louder. I slip past the gauze and snag a chocolate cupcake.

The buttercream icing melts in my mouth. Fuck, that is a perfect mouth-gasm right there. I gulp it down and look at the table again. The lemon ones look irresistible too. 

You’re never supposed to eat just one cupcake, right?

I’m just raising my second illicit treat to my lips when a man ducks into the tent. “Busted!” 

I freeze. The guy laughs. “Sorry, you just looked so guilty. Mmm, chocolate . . .” He strolls over, grabs a cake, and shoots me a smile so warm I’m surprised the icing doesn’t melt in my hand.

Speaking of drool-worthy? Exhibit A is right in front of me. With that tawny hair and the sexy hint of scruff on his square jaw, he looks like Chris Pine in that tux, only twice as hot. 

Where the hell did he come from, and can I get a first-class ticket there?

“Relax,” he says, with a low rich voice that could melt all sorts of other things. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” He winks and licks the frosting right off the top in a way that should be illegal. “So, who are you hiding from?”

“I’m not hiding,” I protest. “Well, maybe just a little. I’m supposed to be shooting the happy couple, but—” I stop myself, realizing just in time that I was planning to be discreet.

But Mr. Hunky Pants is clearly in on the secret, because he gives me a sympathetic grin. “But they’re off busy with their friends?”

“You know about that?” I ask, relieved. “What’s their deal?”

“Hey, it takes all kinds.” He shrugs, devouring another dessert. “I heard that sometimes they even share.”

I choke on my cupcake. He laughs, and passes me a glass of champagne. I gulp it down, my eyes streaming. “You know what? I don’t even want to know. I was never here.”

“Excellent strategy,” he agrees. “Just as long as you promise not to tell the bride’s mother you saw me.”

It’s my turn to arch an eyebrow. “Have you been getting into trouble?”

“Not exactly. More trying to stay out of it. Mrs. Collingwood is very determined to set me up with a date. Which I wouldn’t necessarily have a problem with, except she seems to be aiming to set me up with her.” He makes a face.

I have to laugh. “Oh, poor you,” I tease. “So many women throwing themselves at you, you have to run and hide.”

“Hey,” he protests, grinning. “I enjoy women throwing themselves at me, if they’re the right women.” He gives me a quick once-over. “You, for example, are welcome to give it a try.”

“Tempting.” I keep my tone light, even as the devil on my shoulder swoons. “But I’m here for business, not pleasure.” 

“Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with mixing the two.” He keeps smiling. “It always works out just fine for me.”

Sure it does. But I used to work for the wealthiest playboy in the city, and I know the downside to guys like this. They’re all flash and dazzle: whisking you off to luxurious resorts and wining and dining you . . . before losing interest, moving onto the next shiny toy, and breaking your heart.

Cynical? Me? I prefer to think of it as keeping one foot firmly on the ground. It was my (unofficial) job to break the news to the discarded girlfriends after my boss decided to move along. And sure, he shaped up in the end after he fell in love, but watching him act like, well, a total manwhore for years made me wise to the playboy modus operandi. I’ve sworn to steer clear of men with more charm than substance.

Like this Hottie McHotterson right here in front of me.

“I’m Max, by the way,” he says, offering the hand that’s not occupied with a cupcake.

I take it, ignoring the heat from his firm grip. “Hallie. Assistant photographer for the day.”

“What a day, isn’t it? I thought the priest was going to have a nervous breakdown by the time the flower girl made it down the aisle.”

“That’s nothing,” I tell him ruefully. “The wedding I shot last month, the guy officiating answered his own call for objections, got down on bended knee, and asked the bride if she’d marry him instead.”

Max snorts and nearly chokes on his cupcake, which somehow makes him even more attractive. “You’re joking.”

“Nuh-uh. The worst part—or best, if we’re going for entertainment value—is she actually seemed to consider it before she turned him down. And then they still let him do the ceremony!” I exclaim. “If I were wagering, I’d give that couple three months, tops.”

“Okay,” Max says, “but I bet you’ve never been to a wedding where the father of the bride got so drunk during the reception he stripped naked and dove into the wedding cake.”

This time, both my eyebrows shoot up. “What kind of company do you keep, exactly?”

“Oh, you know, a little of this, a little of that. I get around.” His smile turns slightly wolfish. 

“I bet you do.” I give him a look, but he just laughs.

“So, what do you say we blow this joint?” he asks. “Go have ourselves some fun.”

“Didn’t you hear the part where I said I’m working?” I ask, amazed at his confidence. “I can’t just bail.”

“Why not?”

I roll my eyes. Of course, a man in a designer tux and ten-thousand-dollar watch wouldn’t care about a little thing like a paycheck. 

“Oh, come on.” Max leans closer, and the heat of his body washes over me. I swear I feel my panties dampening just like that. “Live a little.”

I pause. It’s been too long since I did something crazy, and he is the hottest thing I’ve seen in, well, ever . . .

Do it, my devil whispers, despite all my pledges to be sensible. Do it twice, and then again in the morning.

I open my mouth to reply, but suddenly, a shrill voice carries from beyond the tent.

“Max? Oh Maxie-boy!”

Max stiffens. “Damn,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s found me.”

“Persistent, is she?” I murmur, stifling a giggle. “You’d almost think you were a real catch or something.”

Footsteps rustle. A sinewy hand pushes the sparkly gauze aside. I catch a glimpse of a gaunt, haughty face topped by an updo that would make Marge Simpson proud, and then Max is cupping my jaw, pulling my face to his.

He kisses me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Hot and slow, his mouth seductively easing my lips open. Hello. A shiver of pleasure races through me as he angles his head to deepen the kiss. His arm wraps around my waist and pulls me right up against his solid body. Yep, he’s all muscle under that suit. Muscles I suddenly find myself really, really wanting to run my hands all over. For research’s sake, obviously.

There’s a huff from Mrs. Collingwood, and then she’s stalking away. I’m too busy seeing stars to care. Then Max lets me go, and I realize we’re alone again. He grins at me, a spark dancing in his blue-gray eyes. 

“There,” he grins. “That should throw her off the scent. Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks for the help.”

He gives me a quick salute, then saunters out of the tent as if nothing all that important just happened.

Oh my God.

I sink back against the nearest chair, still reeling from that incredible kiss. I wasn’t even sure about having a drink with him, and now I’m disappointed he didn’t stick around to ravish me on the cupcake table.

Where’s a cold shower when you need one? Apparently the whole “getting it on with anyone, anywhere” atmosphere has infected the entire guest list, including me.

But I’m not really a guest. As becomes even more obvious a second later with the boom of Frederico’s voice. 

“Hallie! I need you over by the lake, stat!”

The last effects of the kiss evaporate. I grab my camera and scamper out of the tent. 

Frederico strides over to meet me. Somehow he manages to look manic and stern at the same time. “The dogs,” he says, pointing vaguely behind him. “And then I need you inside.”

He starts to walk off as if he’s given me any actual instructions. “Um, what about the dogs?” 

“The canine ‘bridal party’ is waiting for their photographs down by the lake. I think they’re getting a little impatient.”

Bridal dogs. OK. 

I hurry towards the lake, where some poor assistant is clutching the leashes of six yappy shih-tzus. And they each have a white collar fixed around their necks glittering with what look like real diamonds. 

Of course they’re accessorized better than me.

“Lucky and Pebbles are Trista’s,” the assistant babbles as I pull out my camera. “She wants lots of pictures of them especially. And you can get some groupings by family, right? Chance is her parents’ dog. And of course we have to get them all together.”

“No problem!” I manage to hold my amusement in check and get to work. The light is pretty good here, the afternoon sun beaming over the lawn between the trees. But the click of the camera seems to stir up the dogs. 

“Hey, hey,” the assistant says nervously, as they tug at their leashes. “Settle down!”

“Just keep them together for one group shot!” I call encouragingly. I back up towards the dock, trying to get them centered in the frame. “One more minute, I promise!”

Suddenly, a yappy fight breaks out, and one of them lunges—breaking free. “Come back! Lucky! Stay!” The assistant is powerless, and the next thing I know, all six of the furry wedding guests are charging straight at me. 

I yelp, scooting to the side. Two of them veer to cut me off while the others race toward me from the other side. “Good doggies, good doggies!” I plead, dodging their eager paws. Their leashes whip around my ankles, and before I can free myself, one leaps right at my legs. I stumble backwards, and lose my footing on the dock.

SPLASH. 

I tumble backwards into the cold lake.

Move over, ladies and gentlemen—“worst wedding ever” has a new winner.