10 Ways to Handle the Best Man. Heidi RiceЧитать онлайн книгу.
a jackass of himself, he can—he’s the one getting married. I’m just the best man, which makes me a jackass-free zone.’
‘That’s were you’re wrong,’ Sabrina replied, making her thoughts on his crappy attitude abundantly clear. ‘Because in this instance, the first dance tradition also includes the maid of honour and the best man introducing the other couples to the dance floor.’ He swore under his breath, but she soldiered on. ‘Libby and Jamie are practicing a whole routine for “Ooh Baby Baby”.’ She swallowed to stop her gag reflex from engaging, the way she had when Libby had informed her of the music choice with a breathless huff of pleasure the week before. Far be it from her—or Mr Testosterone—to rain on Libby’s schmaltz-fest. ‘All they require us to do is join them for the slow-dance when the DJ fades into the next song.’
‘A slow-dance?’ he spluttered, his eyes going a little squinty around the edges. ‘Right, no fucking way am I doing that.’
‘What is your problem?’ Sabrina felt her forehead tighten as the scowl won out. Forget subtle, the guy was obviously far too closely related to Cro-Magnon man to even process subtlety. ‘This isn’t actually about you. It’s about Libby and Jamie. All you have to do is sway in time to the music for one song. If you’re so worried about making a tit of yourself, I can lead,’ she added, knowing the suggestion was liable to trip his I’m-the-one-with-a-dick-here switch, but unable to stop herself in the face of so much provocation.
‘I know how to slow-dance, sweetheart’ came the predictably testosterone-laced response. He rested a muscled forearm on the pub’s tiny table, perilously close to her own arm, invading her personal space and making her far too aware of the dimple in his chin and the flecks of silver in the piercing blue of his irises. ‘My point is I’m not slow-dancing with you.’
Sabrina set her margarita on the table, sucked in a calming breath to stop herself from hyperventilating—which unfortunately filled her lungs with the enticing scent of his sandlewood soap—and struggled to get a stranglehold on her patience.
‘Okay, I’m starting to sense a certain amount of hostility towards me personally.’ She forced her voice out of the shrill register. ‘And I’m not sure where it’s coming from?’ she continued. ‘As I’ve never met you before,’ she lied, hoping he didn’t notice the small quiver in her voice.
Unfortunately, she had met Connor McCoy once before, but she was fairly confident he’d forgotten about it.
She’d always been smart, focused, ambitious and goal-orientated, and she wasn’t afraid to show it. Slightly more regular sex would be nice, but she didn’t need a man to complete her life—which she knew made her completely invisible to men like Connor McCoy, who thrived on female attention.
For once, she was grateful for her invisibility, when he sent her a blank look and didn’t call her on the lie.
* * *
Connor McCoy stared at the woman opposite him and knew exactly where his hostility was coming from. But he’d rather shoot himself in the nuts than admit it, especially to her.
Why the hell wouldn’t she let this drop? He’d agreed to wear a monkey suit. He’d agreed to stand at the front of the church like a prize douchebag and witness something he’d always thought was overrated. And he’d agreed to give a speech even though he didn’t know what the hell to say…. But there was no way he was taking this uptight British chick in his arms, on or off a dance floor.
He’d met Libby’s best friend, Sabrina Millard, before. For approximately ten minutes, five years ago. But the memory remained burned into his brain like battery acid.
It had been the end of the spring semester, and he’d been in the UK on business. He’d agreed to pick up Jamie and his stuff from the coed dorm in Manchester University that his brother had been sharing with his pretty English girlfriend, Libby, and Sabrina, because he hadn’t seen the kid in years. While Jamie and Libby had been saying a lengthy goodbye involving a lot of tongue on the sidewalk, Sabrina had insisted on directing him on how to pack Jamie’s stuff into the admittedly space-challenged muscle car he’d rented at Manchester airport. She’d issued instructions as if she were the Queen of England and he one of her lowly footmen, while wearing a shorty red dress over combat boots that should have made her look like a lesbian stormtrooper. But hadn’t.
He’d been avoiding meeting up with her again, ever since Jamie had told him she was the maid of honour. For the simple reason that the woman’s outspoken, pushy personality grated on his last nerve—and turned him on to the point of madness.
Sabrina had a definite touch of the dominatrix about her—that made him want to dominate her right back. The way that Mary Poppins accent went from clipped to throaty and her magnificent cleavage swelled to mind-boggling proportions when she went into full Mein Führer mode had called to his inner caveman—and kicked off a hot, sweet ache in his crotch that had his palm itching to spank her generous butt.
The male libido was a strange and beautiful thing, so he wasn’t much surprised about being aroused by a woman he couldn’t stand. He’d never wanted to have a conversation with Pamela Anderson, but it hadn’t stopped him jerking off over her poster as a kid. But as he didn’t much care for vanilla sex—and he’d bet his left nut Sabrina had never had a single sex-for-the-hell-of-it experience in her whole, well-ordered life—nailing Sabrina was definitely out.
Which would make slow-dancing with the woman at his brother’s wedding yet more aggravation he didn’t need. If he got that close to her, there was a real risk of him sporting wood. She’d notice and she’d say something—because women like Sabrina weren’t the type to let sleeping hard-ons lie—and if that happened, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to resist the urge to show her who was boss.
There’d be a scene at Jamie’s wedding—a scene that Jamie’s mom, Elizabeth, and their father, Daniel, would feed off like zombies feasting on a rotting corpse. Not that he gave a shit what either of them thought of him anymore. But it would remind him way too forcefully of being that scared, screwed-up fourteen-year-old runaway who had arrived on their doorstep with a birth certificate in his hand and some dumb notion in his head about hunting up the father he had never met.
Connor clenched his fingers into a fist to quell the persistent itch in his palm.
‘Unnecessary hostility…?’ he scoffed, because letting Sabrina get away with busting his balls went against his natural instincts. ‘So now this is all about you? Maybe I just don’t want to make a jackass of myself—for my brother’s benefit.’
‘Fine, well, I’m glad it’s not me.’ She let out a lengthy sigh—the long-suffering kind that his stepmother had become a master of. ‘But I really don’t see why you assume that your brother is doing this to humiliate you. Honestly, it’s not like that. The first dance is all Libby’s idea. And believe me, when it comes to being part of the wedding party you just have to park your ego at the door and do what has to be done for the people you love.’
Her voice had softened and her mossy-green eyes had gone a little glassy—making it obvious her speech was heartfelt. He felt an odd flutter in his chest. Love was way too strong a word for what he and Jamie shared. To be honest, he still wasn’t sure why Jamie had asked him to be his best man—or why he’d agreed to do it. But even so, her comment intrigued him.
‘You sound like you’ve done this before?’ he said, wondering how many times she’d gotten stuck with being the bride’s go-to girl. And whether she resented it. Maybe that explained the snotty attitude.
‘You have no idea.’ She rolled her eyes and sent him the first unguarded smile he’d ever seen on her face. The hot, sweet ache in his crotch pulsed, and it struck him she ought to let those smiles loose more often.
‘That bad, huh?’ He smiled back, the loud buzz of conversation in the bar dimming as he got fixated on the curve of her full bottom lip.
‘Put it this way—when I get married I’d rather opt for Vegas and an Elvis impersonator than having to organise all this crap.’