Why did I agree to put up with this?
It’s a good question. I have a perfectly good black suit that fits like a glove and is completely appropriate for a garden wedding. I’ve worn it maybe a dozen times since I got it, all for formal occasions.
But for some reason beyond my comprehension, “appropriate” isn’t good enough, and Mom says I need a dove-gray suit to fit the theme of the wedding. I’m annoyed but doing my best to hide it.
“Quit fidgeting and be still,” the woman kneeling in front of me hisses, and I look down at the seamstress. I’m pretty sure her last job was sewing suits for funerals, the way she handles adjustments.
“I’m trying,” I growl.
She glares up at me from behind half glasses that are perched low on her nose, and dryly orders, “Try. Harder.”
I clear my throat and straighten my spine.
“That’a boy, Wyatt. Let the poor woman work, for fuck’s sake,” Wren says with a vacant smile as she carelessly flips through the same magazine she’s been looking at for thirty minutes. But I’m quite certain she isn’t reading the articles about upcoming car prototypes and synthetic oil brand comparisons.
I consider lunging her way threateningly because if it’d been only Mom guilting me into this, I could’ve gotten out of it, but Wren took her side, and the two of them together wore me down. I’m out of practice, I guess, but Wren was the extra push that got me here.
I’ve had dozens of suit fittings over my life, but this one is by far the most unusual. Mrs. Hinsley—or as Wren calls her, “the Duchess”—has a no-nonsense attitude and a silver-streaked bun, and every time I shift in the slightest, she stabs me with a pin. I suspect she rather enjoys that part of her job. But for all her harsh seriousness, she is humming off-key theme songs from children’s movies. It took me a while to recognize “Pure Imagination” from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory because her version is somehow slowed down and off beat.
Mrs. Hinsley wraps her red tape measure around my right thigh . . . again. She’s measured me all over, checking and double-checking her numbers and scribbling them in a notebook in sharp, old-school cursive.
“I know I’m a big guy, but are we almost done?” I ask.
She stops her humming in an instant and rises to her full height, which puts her at my chest level. Ripping her glasses off, she pins me with a glowering sneer. “It will take however long it takes. Normally, I’d be done already,” she says acidly, “but most of my clients are not as large as you are, nor do they fidget like an eight-year-old child hyped up on sugar.”
I’m going to ignore the comparison to a squirmy child, and typically, a woman calling me “large” would be a compliment, but I can tell by her tone that it most definitely isn’t. Especially since she’s talking about my thigh and not my other “leg.”
Wren snorts but covers her mouth and turns it into a cough. When both me and Mrs. Hinsley turn fiery eyes her way, she says, “I think I’ll step out for a minute. Let you two wrap this up.”
She twirls a delicate finger through the air at Mrs. Hinsley and me, and for the first time, I feel more than frustration. I feel desperation. “No! Don’t—”
It’s too late. Wren steps out of the large private dressing room, closing the door behind her and leaving me alone with the female version of Edward Stabbyhands.
Realizing that pissing off the woman who could easily stab me in the balls and sell it as an accident isn’t my smartest move, I try to backpedal. Slightly. “I appreciate you helping on such short notice. I want everything to be perfect for my brother.”
Her sigh is one of long-term suffering. Maybe it is. She probably does shit like this all the time. “I understand. Let’s cut to the chase here: I need accurate measurements so I can begin making your suit, and you want to be done with me.” She pauses and I nod agreeably. “Good, then strip.”
“What?” I exclaim.
“Oh, pishposh, boy. Don’t act so scandalized. You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before. Not like I’m asking to see your pecker anyway. Just to your skivvies, so I can get the best measurements with minimum of fuss,” she explains as though it’s no big deal and completely normal. She glances at her watch and taps the dial. “Strip and let’s get this over with.”
Her gesture toward her watch is the only thing that makes me do it. I want to be done so I can follow up with Winston about what the hell’s been going on around here while I’ve been gone. I need more than the cursory version he shared at the bar. I want the details.
And Mrs. Hinsley’s right—I’m sure she’s seen and done worse as a custom seamstress.
I sigh, resigned but still grumbling. “This is madness, you know?” I pull my T-shirt over my head, tossing it to the chair in the corner. My hands go to my belt and freeze for a moment, but I ultimately make quick work of losing my pants too. Standing in my boxer briefs and my sock feet, I tell Mrs. Hinsley, “Let’s get on with it.”
Her face stays neutral as she bows her chin deferentially, but I swear I see the smallest uptilt of her lips as she steps behind me to climb back onto her step stool. Stretching her tape measure across my shoulders once more, she triple-checks her numbers and makes more notes.
She does the same down my right arm and then left, before encircling each bicep.
“No tattoos?” she asks conversationally. “That’s unusual these days.”
I grunt, not wanting to make half-naked small talk.
She follows the same progression she did earlier, ending up kneeling in front of me again. The tape measure stretching from my ankle up my inseam feels especially invasive. Thankfully, nothing “moves.”
“Ah, a leftie,” she says, and yup . . . she got the lay of my land.
At that exact moment, the door opens again and Wren shouts, “Wyatt!”
Looking in the mirror’s reflection, I see behind me, and a pit of horrified shock slices through my gut, leaving me wide open. Wren stands in the doorway, her hand still on the knob, which wouldn’t be so bad except that with her are two other women.
One is a middle-aged blonde wearing a pastel print pantsuit, a chunky necklace, and large round pink frames over heavy eye makeup that makes her lashes look a mile long. At first, she’s looking at the tablet in her hand, but when she looks up to see me, her eyes go wide. The other woman is Avery. I recognize her from the pictures Winston showed me, telling me how gorgeous she is, but also how kind and smart. Her mouth drops open before she covers her eyes politely.
“Um, excuse us,” Avery says, but the other woman just keeps getting herself an eyeful as if that’s all I’m here for. And Wren’s looking amused as hell, as if her brother looking foolish is just good TV.
“What the hell, Wren? Get out!” I order, cupping my hands over my dick as if that will hide my state of undress.
“No time for that, my boy. There’s work to be done,” the middle-aged blonde woman with Wren says as she barrels into the room, waving my privacy away. “I’m Cara DeMornay, the wedding planner.”
She holds out a hand, offering a shake that I refuse with a lift of my brow. I am not shaking hands while standing in my underwear. I don’t do that with my doctor, so I’m sure as hell not doing it with some random woman who shouldn’t be in here to begin with.
“Uh, Wyatt?” Wren says again, more questioning than shocked this time.
Red faced, I grumble, “Don’t start. This is all her idea.” I point at Mrs. Hinsley, who promptly pokes me with a pin.
“Stop moving.”
“I wasn’t moving,” I insist.
She gripes under her breath and then begins humming again. I’ve never heard “Spoonful of Sugar” sound so aggressive as it does in her off-tune, off-beat growl through clenched teeth.
Cara snaps her fingers in front of my face, being flat-out disrespectful. “Good, now that we’ve settled that, we have things to discuss. You’re the best man, correct?”
I look at Wren in surprise and see Avery beside her, nodding politely while still averting her eyes. Winston hasn’t said anything about that. I mean, if I’d thought about it, I probably would’ve assumed simply because we’re brothers, but I haven’t had a chance to even consider it.
Wren obviously has, because she rolls her eyes and says on a sigh, “Don’t act so shocked, Wyatt. Of course you’re the best man—you’re Winston’s brother. It’s expected.”
Oh. Any warm fuzzies about the wedding trying to bubble up inside me dissipate. It’s not that Winston wants me to stand by his side; it’s that I’m a box to check off the list. I’m simply another rule to follow. Winston has always been good at that, better than me, at least. “Wow,” I deadpan, “I can feel the love. Such an honor.”
“Wah wah wah,” Wren whines mockingly, and I have to admit it hurts a little. “Poor Wyatt wants to be wanted for who he is, and not because he’s the firstborn male heir.”
She’s being playful, but there’s a thread of bitterness in her teasing. If there’s time, maybe she and I need to do some relationship repair. I wish I could put it higher on my priority list, but right now I can’t. Not when I’m naked, and not with the wedding looming. Instead, I give her a look. “Wren?”
“No worries, big bro. Winston’s not all Miss Manners approved. I’m a groomswoman.” The absolute delight is vibrantly bright in her eyes, and I think it’s both because she’s getting the honor and because it is a bit of a middle finger to the rule book. Women are bridesmaids; men are groomsmen. It’s tradition, but it’s the twenty-first century, and if Winston wants his sister at his side, then that’s exactly where she’s going to fucking be.
That’s what I like to hear. I hold up my hand and Wren high-fives me. We switch to a fist bump and then wrap our forearms around each other and high-five again, backward this time. It’s automatic, though we haven’t done it in years. It feels like some of that relationship repair I was just thinking about. But now I’m somehow standing here in my boxer briefs again with no hands to hide behind. It’s oddly more comfortable since no one else is acting like it’s a big deal. Slightly so, at least.
Mrs. Hinsley pokes me again, but I ignore it this time. “I like it,” I tell Wren, “though maybe you should be best woman, and I’ll be a groomsman.”
She shrugs. “I’ll take what I can get. Want to hear the best part?” She keeps rolling, not waiting for my answer. “I’m wearing a suit! Pants, collared shirt, tie, and all. Though mine is slim-fit thanks to Mrs. Hinsley’s magic.”
“It’ll look amazing,” Avery agrees, offering Wren a warm smile. But when she turns back to me, her smile melts incrementally, making me wonder what Winston has told her about me. Or maybe it’s that I’m still more naked than dressed.
“You’re welcome,” Mrs. Hinsley answers Wren’s compliment, never stopping her measuring and now getting dangerously close to my junk on the other leg as she checks my inseam. “Hmm.”
Cara looks down, checking to see what’s wrong—which is nothing, because there’s nothing wrong with my legs or my dick. “Oh my! Is that real? Can you allot room for that?” She’s talking to Mrs. Hinsley as though I’m not standing right here and she’s not talking about my dick.
“It’s real alright. Been staring me in the face for the last ten minutes,” Mrs. Hinsley replies.
Are they really talking about my dick size? I mean, I’m not monstrous like some porn star, but I’m bigger than the average man, I guess. Never tried to compare.
I eye the door, looking for an escape route out of this awkwardness. But find only Wren fighting off a severe case of the giggles.
“Don’t even think about it. This is important and you damn well know it,” she warns, reading my intentions.
“Yes, dear. It’s fine,” Mrs. Hinsley says, patting my thigh comfortingly, as though it’s not weird as fuck. “You heard Wren. I’m a magician and I’ll make your slacks fit you to perfection.” She kisses the air, putting her thumb and fingers together and then popping them apart in a chef’s kiss motion.
I try to cover back up, but Mrs. Hinsley slaps my hand out of the way. “Seriously, dear. Be mature, please. I don’t give a rat’s ass about your penis. I simply need to dress you properly because everyone knows I’m the tailor for the Ford nuptials.”
My eyes roll back in my head as I stare unseeingly at the ceiling and try to breathe away the mortification.
It can’t get any worse, Wyatt. Let her finish and get out of here. We’ll threaten Wren that if she ever mentions this again, I’ll tell everyone about the time she peed her pants at school. Be cool, man.
The pep talk is working. A little. Right up until the door opens . . . again.
What the hell? Is this a fucking train station? It might as well be because it’s as busy as Grand Central!
“Oh! My! Heavens! Why . . . hello there.” A feminine voice of surprise turns to a purr.
Only able to look in the mirror, I see Hazel. She’s wearing jeans and a faded red T-shirt with a graphic so washed out that I can’t tell what it once was. Her face is different from last night, clear of any makeup, and her dark hair is piled on top of her head carelessly, leaving tendrils loose around her face.
She’s standing beside another woman, who has perfectly curled blonde hair and pristine makeup, and is wearing a modest skirt-and-blouse combo with heels. It’s the not-Hazel woman who’s spoken. She looks like she’s just stuck her tongue onto a nine volt battery.
I should be utterly mortified, or feel like a piece of meat, and I do. For a moment. But then I see Hazel’s eyes track down my body and back up, faster than a blink, and her cheeks pinken ever so slightly. That is all the influx of courage and confidence I need.
I take a deep breath, letting it swell my chest and spread my shoulders. I tighten my abs and widen my stance a tiny bit, making myself look as good as possible. I’m attractive, I know that. But even though I’m not a model, I know there are certain tricks to show your best features.
Dropping my voice and letting it go rough, I say, “Hello, ladies.” I greet both the newcomers, but my eyes are locked on Hazel’s in the mirror.
“Didn’t know you were the bachelorette-party entertainment. I would’ve skipped if I’d known,” Hazel answers bluntly, clearly putting up a shield.
“Hazel!” Avery squeals, aghast at the insult. “This is Wyatt, Winston’s brother. I’m afraid we’ve invaded his appointment. But Mrs. Hinsley will be done in a jiffy, and then she can do your final fittings.”
Hazel flicks her eyes to Avery, and I watch as her hard look softens for her friend. Oh, so there is a soul inside that tough exterior. I just don’t get that version of Hazel. Lucky me. “We’ve met,” she says. “He tried to shark me last night and then bailed when he realized I was better than him.”
“That is not what happened and you know it,” I taunt, giving her a smirk.
“I’ll play pool with you,” the other woman offers, twirling a curl around her finger.
“Oh! Rachel, this is Wyatt. Wyatt, Rachel. She’s a friend from college and a bridesmaid, along with Hazel, who I guess you’ve already met,” Avery says, playing hostess with the mostest, which is odd considering that I’m still mostly naked.
“Very nice to meet you, Wyatt,” Rachel says. She seems a little lost, like she wants to shake hands but knows that’s awkward, so instead, she kinda curtsies a bit, which is also weird. But her smile is good-natured.
“You too,” I say, barely looking her way before locking my eyes on Hazel once more. “So, you want to finish the game? Name the day and time.”
“Pass.” Hazel’s answer is no-nonsense and all business, but I see her thick swallow and know she’s not as unaffected as she’s playing things.
Avery makes a sound of delight and claps her hands excitedly. “Oh! That’s a great idea! We could all get together and play a game or two, eat dinner, and have fun. That sounds perfect since Winston and I don’t want to do bachelor/bachelorette parties.”
Cara jumps in before I can disagree with the idea. “If you’d like to do that, it will be on your own. I don’t have the bandwidth to add it to my already long list of duties.” She taps her tablet, highlighting her busy-busy-busy self.
I try not to roll my eyes too hard at her self-justification of whatever fees she’s charging as I remember Winston’s estimate of the total wedding cost. “I’m sure we can handle feeding ourselves and playing a game. Tomorrow night?”
Avery looks at her phone and, in an instant, says, “Done! I have someone on standby to stay with Grandpa Joe all week so I won’t go crazy with the plans and last-minute prep. Just like this!” She throws her hands out, looking from Hazel to me to Wren to Rachel, and beaming the whole time.
I can see what Winston sees in her. She’s bright and smiley in an infectious, joyful way, and is someone you want to be around and make happy. Why? Because she wants to make the rest of the world happy too. Or at least that’s what Winston says. I get the feeling Hazel feels the same way about her friend.
I smirk at Hazel, letting the ball fall slowly into her court with all the impact of a mic drop. Is she going to disappoint her friend just because she’s mad at me for some reason? Or is she going to step up and play ball?
“Fine. Tomorrow night. For Avery.” Her reluctant give-in is clearly in spite of me, not because of me, which is fascinating. Is she really that worked up or pissed off at me, or is it something else?
On the other hand, Rachel’s eyes are flashing like neon lights, and her smile is filled with anticipation. “Tomorrow night, for sure. I’m not very good at pool, I’m afraid. Wyatt, do you think you’ll be able to teach me?”
“Hmm, well, I could. But I think Hazel is the real pro, so she’d probably be your best bet to learn,” I say, brushing her off gently. I don’t want to piss off Avery’s friend, but I have zero intention of doing the whole arms-around-her, ass-against-my-crotch deal that “teaching someone to play pool” implies.
Now if Hazel wants a little help with a shot, I’d be down for that.
“Hazel really is the best. She’s been playing since she was a kid,” Avery tells us all.
Hazel shifts from foot to foot, fidgeting uncomfortably at the praise. “You don’t have to brag on me, Avery. Nobody cares.”
“I care. I like to know who I’m going up against.” I smirk her way, enjoying the banter once more. “Like any good sportsman, I’m never going to look down my nose at a little scouting report.”
“Is that so?” Hazel volleys back, looking me up and down, deliberately slow and obvious about it. When she makes her way back to my face, she shrugs as though unimpressed. “Well, I can see exactly what and who I’m up against.”
Now that’s a full mic-drop moment, and it’s followed by shocked silence. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so dismissed, but instead of melting under Hazel’s words, I mostly want to laugh. I have the urge to chase after her as she spins on her booted heel and heads out of the too-small room, which feels empty without her energy, despite the abundance of women standing around my still mostly naked self.
“I’m gonna make a call. Let me know when you’re ready for me, Mrs. Hinsley,” Hazel says, already out the door.
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hinsley says from somewhere down by my feet. With the back-and-forth with Hazel, I’d kinda forgotten about her down there, especially when she quit measuring and was basically just watching the show.
“Are you finished?” I chide, and she blushes a little at being called out.
“Huh? Oh . . . oh yes. I’ve got everything I need,” Mrs. Hinsley says. I feel like she’s not talking about my measurements.
Great. I’ll be the talk of the gossip vine before I get in my truck. That’s just what I need.
Cara snaps her fingers, annoying me. “We’re on a timetable here, I’m afraid. Wyatt, if you’re done, can you step out so we can get on with the ladies’ fittings?”
“Sure. You all get to stand around and ogle me, but you want me to get out for yours.”
It’s not that I want to stay, but the double standard is sort of irksome.
Cara places a hand on her chest, and though they’re not pearls, she’s gripping the beads of her necklace as though they are. “Of course. I’m a woman of the times, and certainly like to keep things fresh and exciting. However, that does not include having the best man lollygagging around like a pervert while we do the fittings for the bride, bridesmaids, and groomswoman.”
I’m not surprised. Like I said, I don’t want to be here for this anyway, and the whole point of stripping down was to get my appointment with Mrs. Hinsley over with sooner so I can track down Winston.
“Fresh and exciting? I’m sure,” I say doubtfully as I pull my jeans and shirt back on. I shove a foot into my boot, not bothering to lace it up. I don’t really need to at the moment.
Wren snorts. “Actually, you’d be surprised. Or well . . . you will be.”
That gets my attention, and I cut my eyes to Wren quickly. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, nothing . . .” Her voice trails off playfully. Great . . . she’s cooking something up in her head. FML.
“Okay, okay . . . excuse my French, Wyatt, but get out, please,” Cara says, not cussing in the slightest. But I guess talking to the groom’s family harshly is likely frowned upon.
Meanwhile, I have questions, dozens of questions, like . . .
What is Wren talking about?
What does a sweet girl like Avery see in my brother?
What is Hazel’s deal, and why does she seem to hate me on sight?
What is going on with my dad? My uncle? And this town?
And so many more. But now is not the time apparently, because Cara is literally shoving me out the door. Normally I could plant myself like a boulder, but I’m hopping on one foot, with my other boot still in my hand. She closes the door, and it bounces in its frame as though she fell back against it after the strenuous workout of moving me. I swear I hear her say, “Whoo, he is solid as a rock. I thought as much, but it doesn’t hurt to confirm, now does it?” And then she laughs airily before saying, “Rachel, you’re up first, dear.”
I shake off the shivers that run down my spine at Cara’s declaration, feeling dirty and grossed out by a woman old enough to be my mother making that kind of comment.
But I know one thing that will make me feel better. I look around the small outer retail space of Mrs. Hinsley’s shop, hoping to see Hazel, but find it empty.
Where did she go?
I step outside, my head swiveling left and right as I scan the sidewalk. Aha! There she is! Hazel is standing a few stores down, leaning against the building with her back to me, but I’d recognize that ass anywhere.
I stride quickly toward her, eager to continue whatever verbal sparring match we’ve started, but a few feet away, her voice floats to me on the breeze.
“Yes, Mom. I know he’s a Ford.”
Is she talking about me? Or maybe Winston? Unashamed, I eavesdrop.
“Aunt Etta already warned me. And I don’t know if he’s just here for the wedding or for the hearing. It’s not like I can ask. He’d probably lie.”
Hearing? What hearing?
“I promise. I’ll come by the bakery later today, ’kay?” She’s quiet for a moment and then says, “Love you too. Bye.”
I should ask her outright what the hell she’s talking about, but I think the wise move is to ask Winston first. A conversation with him has been my objective all day, and I want some information before I blindly walk into something with Hazel because she will no doubt eviscerate me if I go in at a disadvantage.
Instead, I step back into the shadow of the doorway between us, turning my back her way in hopes that she won’t notice me. I watch her in the glass’s reflection and breathe a sigh of relief when she passes by without a glance. Right up until I realize the store window has photo canvases of boudoir photography on display and it looks like I’m staring at them intently.
“Shit!” I hiss, jumping back and whirling to make sure no one’s noticed me.
But right inside the door is a woman looking at me with raised brows. She waves her hand, gesturing for me to come on in, and flashes a friendly smile.
Fuck! This will definitely be more fodder for the town grapevine.
I wave back but shake my head and mouth, “No, thanks.”
I need to find Winston and find out what the hell’s going on before I make even more of a fool of myself around town. But even in my haste, I peek down the street where Hazel disappeared, hoping for one more sighting. When I see the empty sidewalk, I growl at myself and my disappointment. “Enough of that shit, Wyatt. Get your head on right.”
And with that order to myself, I get in my truck and roar off to find Winston.
It’s easier than I expect, considering he’s set up at the kitchen table at home, with a laptop open in front of him and a spread of papers covering the glass surface.
“Hey, man,” I say. “Got my suit fitted, but you could’ve warned me about the Duchess’s grabby, stabby hands.”
Winston looks up in surprise, echoing, “Grabby, stabby hands?”
I mimic her cupping my ass a little more exaggeratedly than actually happened, and Winston grins.
“A little birdie also told me something,” I start, using our (not so) codename for Wren from when we were kids.
“No telling what she’s got up her sleeve now,” Winston says wryly.
“She said she’s a groomswoman, and you want me to be your best man?” It’s not that I doubt Wren, or more accurately Avery, but I need to hear it from Winston firsthand.
He leans back in the chair, crossing his arms. “And if I do?”
It’s more of a challenge than an invitation, but I guess I deserve that. “I would be honored to stand by your side. But I’d also understand if you wanted someone more . . . present.” It’s as close as I can get to acknowledging how long I’ve been gone and how out of touch I’ve become. I’m working on fixing that, at least for now, but I don’t have the right to expect a place of honor like best man.
Winston stands, coming around the table to offer his hand. “I wouldn’t have anyone else, man.”
I bypass his hand and grab him in a manly bear hug, patting his back as he slaps mine. So much is healed between us in this moment, and I’m struck with how much I’ve missed him.
As we sit down, I tell him, “I met your girl. She’s just as pretty as you said. Also, side note . . . she saw my junk.”
The bomb drops the way I thought it would, with Winston’s eyes going wide and then narrowing sharply. “Explain,” he orders.
I laugh. “Kidding. Sort of . . .” But as I tell him about my morning standing half-naked in a roomful of women, he’s the one laughing at my embarrassment.
