“Who’s hot crazy?” Nat asks as she comes over to us.
“You, Banks.” Brady scoops her into his arms and runs for the lake.
“No!” she screams and hits his back, but he doesn’t slow until the last second, feigning throwing her in the water but holding on. She screams and he laughs. It’s my turn to roll my eyes.
He slides her down his body, kissing gently. She hits him but gives into the kisses. They melt into each other and I avert my gaze to the cone-shaped tent being erected by the guys who brought the tables over for us to set up. It’s more of a linen teepee than a tent and will sit on the shore and house the band.
“Hey, guys! Stop slacking off. It’s time for you to go get ready for dinner,” Sami shouts at us as she marches over with an entourage of lackeys, not bothering to compliment the hard work.
I forgive her since she looks hot. She’s dressed to the nines and yet somehow manages to pull off a fresh-faced vibe, as if she just happens to look this way. Having seen her sans makeup and hair product, I can say without a doubt she does not.
She’s wearing a pale gold-colored summer dress that’s off the shoulders, revealing flawless tanned skin and a glow I’m sure has something to do with the sparkly lotion she forced me to rub on her shoulders and back before. Her hair is a little more silvery than normal. She said it was toned out for the wedding. I’m not sure what that entails but it sounds bad. The result is stunning and with the lacy wedding dress she has, she will be the hottest bride I’ve ever seen.
“Seriously, you need to go get ready before the guests arrive.” Sami claps her hands at us.
“Get ready for the cookout dinner?” Brady glances down at his shirt and shorts. “You want us to dress up for the campfire? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Brady—” Her tone is warning. “You will go and put on the clothes I’ve labeled in your bag and be back here in eleven minutes, or I will kill you.”
Tense isn’t the right word for her and this isn’t the moment to discuss it.
“Lori?” Her eyes dart to mine.
“All right.” I lift my hands. “Eleven minutes, got it!” I walk to my golf cart but am unable to resist poking her from this safe distance. “Do I have clothes labeled as well or can I choose for myself?”
She growls but I can’t understand the words. Not that I need to. She packed my bag. And Nat’s. And Brady’s. And Matt’s. Carson was allowed to pack his own clothes, as was Rich, but with our crowd there was a specific look she was going for. The rest of the guests were also given detailed packing instructions in the few hours of notice they received for the wedding. I think it’s too much to expect to control what people wear, but Sami is extra.
I dress quickly, putting on the clothes she labeled “Wednesday Night,” and head back to the pavilion to get seated. Luckily, I’m put with Cap, Carson, and Rich in the middle of one of the long wooden tables.
We sit down as beers are brought out in samplers, a selection of Sami’s choosing to go with the gourmet barbecue.
Guests pour in. Everyone is punctual and dressed appropriately. They must know Sami well enough to be afraid of her. Sami’s dad carries in little Eli, giving him kisses and holding him gently as the kid sleeps like a log.
Matt’s mom and sister-in-law walk in with a demure demeanor. I haven’t seen his mom like this, ever, but maybe she’s been humbled by Matt being her keeper.
Her eyes are glossy, hinting she’s still taking the prescription meds, unable to cope with her husband and son’s death. Matt’s sister-in-law is similar. Neither seems interested in the wedding, beyond seeing their few friends Matt invited. They sit together in one section of the tables and don’t interact with anyone else. I haven’t seen his mom hold Eli yet and the sister-in-law has a nanny who always has the kid.
Matt escorts his grandparents to their seats. His father’s family from the South is put closer to the team, keeping them as far from the rich folk as possible, likely a smart plan. Gran will say whatever she’s thinking and the wealthy elite don’t tend to enjoy that.
Cousin Bev winks at me as she sits. I have to grin back. She’s easily the coolest girl I’ve ever met.
She’s followed in by the least cool girl I’ve ever met, the redhead from next door, and her little brunette friend. Of course they end up seated across from us, right next to Bev. I prepare myself for an evening of banter.
“Ladies,” Cap says, standing as they walk to their nameplates. He’s being weird. “I’m Nick Belamy. Everyone calls me Cap.” He holds a hand out to the brunette and his game becomes clearer. He’s setting up to score later. On the sly. “This is Lawrence Eckelston. Carson Bellevue. Rich Fairfield.” He introduces our close circle.
“Jenny and Sukii.” The brunette points to the redhead first and then herself.
“So you all are part of the PR team that saves people like us on the reg?” Carson jokes.
“Indeed,” Sukii says, beaming. She is stunning. Big dark eyes, long glossy hair, glowing skin, and high cheek bones.
“That must be some job.” Rich laughs. “Between Sami and Matt you must have had your hands—”
“Brady,” the redhead mutters. “Sami and Brady. But you’re no slouch yourself, Lawrence.”
“Oh, the Clinton,” Rich agrees quietly. “I can see that being a bigger problem than Matt being drunk.”
“Well, let’s not forget about Laramie,” I add before I think about it.
Quiet nods surround me as no one wants to talk about it. Not this close to Sami and Matt. That was the blow job heard around the world.
“So where are you ladies from?” Cap asks, changing
