Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (3 page)

“That’s supposed to be my girl right there, Sammy,” Grady chided, motioning toward the couple as he lounged in the chair next to Beck. A dimpled smile split his face, attracting young and old women alike, and he held up a hand, his thumb and index finger an inch apart. “I was this close. Now look at you two, all decked out like you’re ready for the cover of a magazine.”

Everyone knew that wasn’t exactly true. Grady had befriended Ali when she’d purchased the beach house next to Sam’s, hiring Scorpio Securities to update her alarm system. When her violent past had caught up to her, Sam played the dashing hero, effortlessly doing what he did best. In the end, he’d won the girl next door, and Grady, who was Sam’s right hand, was simply razzing the boss man. It was hard not to like a guy like Grady. The former Green Beret was dipped in good luck and everything he touched turned to gold. Constantly optimistic regardless of mucking the same bullshit as the rest of them during his time, the man was both fun to be around and irritating as all hell.

Sam winked in response to Grady’s comment, hugging his lady tighter. “Just a typical day for the Gleeson’s, Foster.”

Beck had no doubt that was the case. And if he didn’t know himself better, he might mistake one of those emotions churning heavily in his gut as jealousy. Ignoring the disturbing thought, his gaze sought out his dark haired minx again, aware of her exact location at any given moment. Watching her work the reception like she owned the place, scurrying about to ensure the needs of each guest were fulfilled, he was mesmerized by her bubbly energy and lithe body. She rarely let the wide smile fall from her face or the saucy swing of her hips slow, and in return, his eyes weren’t the only ones tracking her.

She was a smart one, too, because she’d deliberately avoided him, sending another server to work their table as the evening stretched on.

“Well, if it isn’t the black sheep, come to crash the party,” Mendoza said, carefully gripping his tumbler of watered down whiskey with one hand while his sleeping son lay cradled against his chest, the toddler out like a light in his father’s arms.

They all looked toward the entrance from the guest parking lot as Ash finally made his appearance, late by several hours, his hand guiding a young woman wearing an inappropriately short skirt in their direction.

Sam spotted him, as well, leaving Ali to dance with Mike’s wife, Caroline, and the two other young Mendoza children, all clapping and singing along to an annoyingly catchy song called Happy. Meeting Ash halfway, the two men shook hands, then embraced, their bond unbroken even though one had missed the most important day of the other’s life. There was good reason, though. Scorpio was no nine to five, Monday through Friday kind of job. The contracts they accepted didn’t always come with a predetermined schedule and as owners, it was Sam and Ash who stood holding the bag.

Beck grabbed two new bottles of beer, handing one to Ash as the close knit group of six men settled around the head table. The bubble-headed blonde gushed about her love of fuzzy champagne—dragging the word
love
into two long, singing syllables—before beelining it toward the free Cristal.

Ash let out a clear sigh of relief. “If you have to ask, then you’re too damn innocent to know the honest answer,” he said, to the group as a whole. Meaning she was a booty call and nothing more.

That was Ash’s style. Beck had seen him with very few women over the last two years, but certainly never the same one twice. They had that in common, too.

Sam shook his head, chuckling. “Sooner or later, that shit’s gonna get old, my friend.”

Beck heard Ash mutter, “It already is,” under his breath, just as Mendoza spoke.

“Oh, he’s right,” Mike said wryly, agreeing with Sam. “Before I got married, I had no idea how glorious constant companionship could be. And when I say constant, I mean every single second of every single day. I also never knew that I needed to work on my table manners and my enunciation skills because apparently, they’re poor at best. Or that folding a bath towel incorrectly could lead to a lecture on proper laundry procedures and ruin a perfectly good Saturday morning.”

“Dude, a trifold is the only way to go,” Grady said, as if it were common knowledge and Mike was just an idiot.

“Yeah, you fold the towel in half, then half again.” Nolan said righteously, mimicking the process with his hands. “Then a third of the way over, with the other on top of that. Like a burrito. Any other way is just wrong.” Looking at Beck with genuine concern, he added, “Who doesn’t do it that way?”

Thankfully Sam’s sister interrupted their thought provoking conversation before they could move on to fabric softener talk, her echoing voice carrying over the music.

“Ash? Hey, Ash? You hoo...” Donna’s call for the big man’s attention was unmistakably flirty, her hand waving high in the air as she quickly traversed the lawn. “I’m so glad you could make it. I was beginning to worry. Listen, I’ve got some heavy boxes in my bedroom that I’d like stored in the attic. Are you interested in helping me out? Maybe next weekend, perhaps?”

Donna Gleeson Decker was a successful Realtor in the greater San Diego area, wedding coordinator extraordinaire for Sam and Ali, and from what Beck could tell in his limited interaction with her, a sincerely nice woman.

She also had a mad crush on her brother’s business partner.

Beck grinned at the sudden look of panic crossing Ash’s face, glad to know there was one thing in this world the man feared. Wisely ignoring the suggestive expressions the guys were discreetly tossing his way, Ash looked to Sam for help as Donna closed in. All he got was a smile and a shrug.

Stiffly returning the woman’s enthusiastic hug with as little touching as possible, no matter how much rubbing and squeezing she was doing, Ash nodded politely. “I can send one of the guys over next weekend. Tomorrow, if you need it done right away.” He lobbed a smirk in their direction, all too happy to throw them under the MILF bus.

“Oh, aren’t you a sweetheart, but no. Don’t go to all that trouble. Whenever you have an evening free will work just fine. I’ve got a fabulous new recipe for braised beef short ribs. It has the most amazing bourbon sauce,” she paused, sizing him up, “and I’d be happy to serve you.”

Eyes widening at her brash innuendo, Ash nodded mutely, and with a lively squeal of glee, Donna clapped her hands once and rushed off.

“
Service
you is more like it.” Nolan scoffed with a wink, before ducking his head at Sam’s stricken look.

“You need a rape whistle around that one, Ash,” Grady said, getting his two cents in. “Or should I call you sweetheart? I’m mean, holy shit, she couldn’t be more wrong when it comes to your personality. Spiking your food with booze is a good move, though. Loosen both you and your pants up a bit.” He squinted thoughtfully, placing the hand precariously holding a bottle of beer over his broad chest. “Now if it were me, I’d be there with bells on. I’ve never been able to say no to a quality home cooked meal, no matter how severe the threat to my virtue.”

Feeling the need to defend his sister, Sam vacillated. “It might be worth the risk, man. She’s a really good cook.”

“Sisters are off limits,” Ash said, playing his trump card. “Those are the rules. Unless a guy has prior written consent from his buddy and approval by said sister, then it can’t happen.” He made a rapid slashing motion across his throat with his free hand. “Out of the question.”

Chugging half the bottle of beer Beck had handed to him, his eyes scanned the crowd and he added, “That’s more woman than I can handle, anyway.”

More ribbing occurred, with several crude comments about Donna’s meat handling skills and Ash’s ability to outrun her in a foot race, before a horrified Sam returned to his beaming bride’s side. Mike joined Caroline on the dance floor, as well, skillfully twirling her around with one kid still asleep in his arms and two others holding onto his legs. Despite his earlier comments about the challenges of marriage, their love and commitment was obvious, along with a familiarity that spoke of years together.

Beck silently assessed the two couples, wondering how they did it. And how the hell they made it look so damn easy.

He barely heard Nolan and Grady’s heated discussion on which brand of tequila went down the smoothest. Or the odds that Ash’s date had a tramp stamp that read
you’re welcome
, and if so, the high likelihood it would be grammatically incorrect. Or whether the mint shaped like an AR-15 assault rifle tasted better than the Sig Sauer P226 pistol or the MK-16 SCAR sniper rifle. Nor did he pay much attention when Ash settled the argument by firmly declaring it was the SCAR hands down, based solely on its adaptability in close quarters fighting and not the fact that it was the largest mint in the fucking dish. Then he grumbled about the lack of intelligent conversation taking place and looked at his watch, ignoring his evening companion who was still downing free champagne like there was no tomorrow.

All Beck really heard was the sound of his own disillusionment. And all he saw on the dance floor was a future completely out of reach for the likes of him.

Love and sex and loyalty?

Fuck that, Beckett Smith thought, with his usual unfailing cynicism, ignoring Ash’s watchful eyes as he reached for another bottle of beer. Right now, he’d take the sex part. The other two could go straight to hell.

CHAPTER THREE

From far away, he was magnetic. Up close, he was downright lethal.

His dark hair, not long but not short, was classically messy, as if he’d styled it that way on purpose when she knew damn well he’d carelessly run his hands through it a half dozen times tonight without thought. A sexy layer of day old stubble covered his handsome face, adding to his mysterious appeal and making it apparent that he wasn’t a man who took great pains with his appearance. Another check mark in Hope’s plus column. It was a crying shame he’d gone from the hottest prospect she’d ever had, to a man she needed to avoid like he carried the Ebola virus.

And all because of the newcomer sitting next to him, shooting the shit like they were age-old buddies.

Hope should have known. This was her brother’s kind of crowd. Alpha men, all looking like they worked hard and played harder, used to calling the shots and expecting nothing less than full compliance. And of all places for her brother to show his face, it had to be here, while she was working. While Helen rode her ass like a pack mule and beads of sticky sweat rolled down her back. While she obsessed over the best way to proposition a man she’d yet to meet and who was probably out of her league anyway, without looking like a seasoned slut.

Keeping her head down, she filled several flutes with pink bubbly and handed the heavy tray to the floor server, praying Ash wouldn’t notice her. That would be a doozy of a scene for sure, with him demanding to know why she was working a low level catering gig instead of a desk job created specifically for her. Demanding she tell him the details of her life so he could offer his unsolicited opinion and take charge of the areas he found her to be lacking, because as everyone in the family knew, she was a screw up of the highest order.

Stopping long enough to lift the heavy fall of dark hair off her neck, Hope let the early evening tradewinds cool her clammy skin. This day was turning out to be a real son of a bitch.

“What’s the name of this wedding, Val?” Wondering about the connection, she wished she’d bothered to ask the question earlier.

“Gleeson slash Ross, according to Helen’s trusty clipboard.” Then, as if she were illiterate, he slowly added, “Sam and Ali, according to those engraved glasses in front of you.” Filling a large plastic tub with dirty cake plates, he stowed it under a covered, portable cart. “Are you done being mad at me now? If I promise never to mention your moneyed heritage again? A lot of people would die to be in your shoes, you know.” He looked at her black patent leather flats with a frown. “Metaphorically speaking.”

Hope smiled, knowing there was no way she could stay mad at Valentino Sabato. It wasn’t easy to be pissed at a guy who shared his coveted, three-hundred dollar wrinkle cream with you and wasn’t afraid to shoot a syringe chock full of black market Botox between his eyes on a dare. And the name Gleeson didn’t ring a bell, not that she was familiar with her brother’s circle of friends. They didn’t hang out much these days. Never had.

And now he was buddied up with Hope’s dream man, effectively beaver-damming her.

Pouting, she denied the urge to stomp her foot in pent up sexual frustration. “For those men who’ve been cock-blocked, I’d just like to say, I hear you, I see you, and I feel your pain.” Adding fresh ice to the buckets of chilling champagne, she wished she could take a swig or two without Helen noticing. “This really sucks the big one.”

“Considering your sad dating history, Hope? I don’t think there’s any chance you’re gonna be sucking the big one tonight. Or in the near future.” He paused, noticing something over her shoulder, and his voice turned coy. “Or is there?”

She looked up from the champagne buckets in time to see him shoot two fake guns at her, making a clicking sound before blowing invisible smoke from his index fingers. Nodding behind her, he whispered, “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Rolling her eyes, she turned toward the source of his amusement and caught her breath, hoping the shocked grin on her face didn’t make her look like an idiot.

Mr. Man Candy was approaching, his gait steady, his expression sure. Confidence times a thousand. And holy smokes, they were green. His eyes, staring at her with fixated intent, were the color of the jungle after a heavy rain. Clear, deep and so saturated that Crayola couldn’t replicate the shade if they tried.

He discreetly tossed a thin, white plastic card down on the table in front of her, the hotel’s signature crimson and gold logo scrolled in the center. Her mouth dropped open when she realized what it was.

“Room two-eighteen,” he said, his voice rough, as if underused. “When you’re done.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, not bothering to wait for an answer. Hell, he never really issued an invitation. More like an order. It should have pissed her off. Only it didn’t.