EXCERPT:
“What brings you to Key West, Beck?”
I feel like that’s a question I should have asked a while ago but with the whole naked hotel room exposure—which I have yet to tell my friends about—and the sweatshirt burial, we haven’t had a real chance to get to know each other. Not that I’m complaining all too much. What I know about Beck so far is that he’s a gentleman and likes to have a good time, even if that means torching a sweatshirt and sending it on it’s way.
There aren’t many people I know who would stand there, hand over heart, talking about the thread count of a sweatshirt while fake crying.
The corner of my lips pull up just from the image of Beck wiping “tears” from his eyes with the back of his index finger.
“Do you want the truth, or do you want a fabricated lie that will cause you to fall madly in love with me?”
Chuckling, I answer, “Both.”
“Fair enough.” Beck pushes his foot against the sand below us, sending the hammock into a relaxing swing. “Want the truth or the lie first?”
“Hmm, how about I guess which is which.”
“Ah, things are about to get exciting.” He chuckles and rubs his hands together. “Okay, reason number one.” He clears his throat. “I’m attending a wedding this coming weekend, a wedding I wasn’t invited to, but my friend begged me to attend because he wanted to bone his wife without children around. It doesn’t make sense, but hey, I’m a good friend so here I am.”
Errr, that’s eerily familiar. I swallow a little harder than expected. There is no way he’s crashing a wedding like me. That’s only something a desperate author does in order to find signs of love again.
“Okay, reason number two.”
“My sister is getting married this weekend and I’m giving her away. Our dad passed away a few years ago from a heart attack, and even though we’d been estranged for two years, she asked if I would be a part of her wedding. So here I am.”
Silently he swings us, my mind whirling with what the truth could be. Both stories were told so effortlessly, so he’s either a really good liar, or some kind of con artist. I should be scared. I should go to my hotel room right now, wishing Beck a good night, but I don’t, because I’m intrigued by this man. Behind the good looks and intelligence, there’s something beneath the surface, something dark that makes understandable the age in his weathered eyes.
Because of that, I go with option number two. It seems the most plausible, because who really crashes weddings? Only crazed women with the tendency to sit in a bush with a notepad and pen and take notes while staring at couples and listening in on their conversations.
Research and all, it comes at a high price, like spikey branches to the tush.
“Hmm, I’m going to go with reason number two.”
He nods and says, “I knew you were going to say that, but you’re pretty little self is wrong. I don’t even have a sister.”
Stunned, I prop myself up as best as I can on the loose woven thread of the hammock and stare him down. “You’re here to crash someone’s wedding?”
He winces. “Uh, yeah, kind of.”
“Unbelievable.” I shake my head in disbelief and lie back down.
“Now before you judge me and give me a lecture about RSVPing—”
“I’m not judging you.” I turn toward Beck, the hammock making the shift slightly difficult. “I’m just a little . . . surprised.”
“I don’t plan on eating any food.” He bites his bottom lip. “That’s a lie. I plan on eating a lot, but hey, I’ll bring the party to the dance floor. If anything, I’m bringing them the gift of dance, so you can’t be mad at me for that.”
“I’m not mad.” I laugh, still surprised. “I’m just trying to comprehend this.” Looking him square in the eyes, I say, “I’m here crashing a wedding as well.”
This causes Beck to sit up, his brawny chest straining the fabric of his shirt. He intently studies me, his eyes flitting back and forth until he finally asks, “You’re serious? You’re really crashing a wedding?”
I press my lips together and nod.
A sharp laugh escapes Beck as he lies down on the hammock and sends our swing into more of a frenzied movement. “I’m just going to assume, given our luck of baby puke, naked encounters—”
“I knew you saw boobs.”
“I didn’t see . . . ah hell, what’s the point? I totally saw your tits and fuck, woman, they’re hot.” I blush . . . horrendously, my face heating up along with every vein in my body. “But like I was saying, with our luck, we’re going to the same wedding.”
Clearing my throat, trying to move past the part where Beck just made my nipples harden and pop out like turkey thermometers, I lamely say, “Yeah, that would be our luck.”
“Let me guess, wedding is on Saturday at The Hemingway House.”
Cue another rush of heat to eclipse my body. “The one and only.”
He nods and lies there silently for a second before saying, “So what you’re telling me is that I have a date for the wedding Saturday night.”
Not expecting him to say that, I laugh out loud and for some reason say, “I’m wearing teal, in case you want to match and take couple pictures. You know, might as well do the whole couple thing up, right?”
This garners a deep, low, rumble of a laugh from Beck. “Thank God I packed grey pants with a white button-down. There won’t be any kind of clashing in those couple photos.”
“Nope, not even in the slightest.”
I knew something was wrong the second she walked in the door tonight; I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was.
Sara Ney is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the How to Date a Douchebag series, and is best known for her sexy, laugh-out-loud New Adult romances. Among her favorite vices, she includes: iced latte’s, historical architecture and well-placed sarcasm. She lives colorfully, collects vintage books, art, loves flea markets, and fancies herself British.
Title: Forevermore
Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Will dance for laughs, won’t eat anything spicy because you asked, but will squeeze boobs in replace of a hug. Grew up in Southern California (Temecula, anyone? Anyone?) lived in New York (the armpit of NY, not the city) and now resides in Colorado with my wife, son, two dogs, three cats, and my multiple book boyfriends. Loves love, anything romantic, and will die if I ever meet Tom Hanks. Yay, books!