Always a Bridesmaid Page 12

  She thrust her ankle at him and he caught it in self defense before it could connect with his stomach.

  Her skin was soft beneath his fingers, silky smooth. The bones were more delicate than he expected. He’d never noticed how feminine an ankle could be. How erotic.

  Shit. He needed to not be following that line of thinking when she was swaying beside him, drunk off her cute little ass. He put her foot back on the floor. “Did you eat anything before you started drinking?”

  “I had a coffee date. I had coffee for dinner. And then Tori gave me wine.”

  “Did you drive yourself up here?” The idea of her on the road like this made his blood chill.

  “I was fine to drive before you gave me a pint of scotch.”

  “It wasn’t a pint.” But it had been a very healthy pour. Two pours. And now she was too drunk to get herself home and if he drove her, her car would be stuck up here.

  And if she stayed…

  She was drunk. Way too drunk. And he was not that guy.

  “Come on.” He pulled her to her feet and began steering her toward his private wing of the house.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, unresisting.

  “You’re going to sleep it off in the guest room.”

  His place was a sprawling single story ranch with sky-high ceilings. The entertaining areas—living room, kitchen, dining and game rooms—were all to the left while the master, office, and guest bedrooms all opened off a hall to the right. He walked her to that hall.

  She twisted around, walking backwards so she could face him, completely trusting that he wasn’t going to ram her into a wall. “I bet you have a great guest room. I bet it’s decked out with gourmet mini soaps.”

  “Gourmet soap?”

  “You know what I mean. Designer.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. I don’t have many guests.” But the interior decorator he’d had deck out the place had promised it would be so luxurious his guests would never want to leave, so for all he knew there were designer soaps.

  “I bet you have a king bed, don’t you?”

  The muscles in his back tightened at the word bed coming out of Parvati’s unfairly sexy mouth, but he opened the door to the guest room and gently shoved her inside. “This is you.”

  She caught the doorframe, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, and for a second he was sure she was going to invite him in. And equally sure he was going to turn her down and it was going to change everything.

  Things he didn’t want to change.

  He liked Parvati. He liked having her in his life like this. Yes, she was hot as freaking hell, but his idea to have a fling with her was beyond stupid because this was Parv. She was permanent. And he didn’t do permanent in relationships. He needed them to stay friends—

  Which was why it made no sense whatsoever that he was disappointed when she mumbled, “G’night, Max. Thanks for listening,” and retreated into the guest room, shutting the door.

  He could want her, but that didn’t change the fact that she was just as off limits as she’d always been. Parvati Jai was in the Friend Zone and that was where she needed to stay. Permanently.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sun was streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and painting the mountains gold when Parvati woke up the next morning. Which was her first hint that something wasn’t right, because she didn’t have floor-to-ceiling windows or a mountain view.

  Her second hint was her headache. And her third was the vague way her entire body seemed to ache.

  Nothing like a Wednesday morning hangover to make you feel like a real adult.

  Thank God Madison had been scheduled to open Common Grounds this morning because by the look of it she’d already missed the beginning of the morning rush.

  She rolled over and her first sliver of awkwardness worked its way into her hung-over brain.

  She was at Max’s. She remembered coming over last night after she’d left Tori’s. Feeling lost and adrift and wanting to be with someone who wouldn’t make her feel quite so alone. Then there was the scotch. And bitching about things she really shouldn’t have been telling Max—

  And Max shoving her into the guest room as soon as it became obvious she was two-scotches over the driving limit.

  She didn’t think she’d come on to him.

  God, she hoped she hadn’t come on to him.

  She climbed out of bed—dreading facing him but needing to get on with her day. At least she didn’t have to worry about spending time getting dressed, since she appeared to have slept in her clothes. She smoothed out the wrinkles as she crept down the hallway, her ears tuned for any hint of Max, but all she heard was silence.

  She vaguely remembered dropping her purse beside the couch, but now it was neatly arranged on the coffee table. The little kitten heels she must have kicked off at some point were positioned side-by-side by the door.

  But no Max.

  She crept into the kitchen, half expecting to find him whipping up French toast, but instead she found a note propped up on the counter with her name on it.

  Parv—

  I had to get to the office, but make yourself at home. Especially in the kitchen. Any baked goods that just happen to appear here will be welcomed with open arms.

  Max

  She sank onto the nearest stool, relieved as soon as she read the first words. He wasn’t here. She didn’t have to face him. It would have been awkward, but he’d done the one thing guaranteed to put them back on comfortable ground. He’d gone about his life as if nothing had happened. And nothing had.

  * * * * *

  “Your two o’clock just pulled up on a gorgeous Harley and Hank the Hammer has now emailed me three times with different excuses why we need to hack into his daughter’s phone for her own protection. He’s threatening to sue.”

  Max looked up from the financials he’d been reviewing when Candy appeared in his office. “Remind the Hammer he hired us to upgrade the security on his house, not stalk his daughter—“ He broke off. “On second thought, don’t. I’ll tell him. He shouldn’t even be contacting you. Has he been bothering you?”

  “Not so you’d notice. You want me to show your two o’clock in?”

  “If you don’t mind.” She usually didn’t volunteer for guide duty—more right-hand-man than receptionist.

  Candy smiled broadly. “Oh no. My pleasure.”

  The reason for her enthusiasm walked through the door three minutes later.

  Elia Aiavao was six-foot-five with muscles everywhere—evidently his convalescence hadn’t negatively impacted his conditioning. He wore a white button down shirt with the cuffs folded back open over a snug black t-shirt and black cargo pants. Tattoos crawled up the side of his neck and down his arms to the backs of his hands in thick, black tribal bands, but his hair was neatly trimmed and the grin he flashed Candy as she waved him through the door was easy-going—and proved why Aiavao had earned the nickname the Smiling Samoan during his Mixed Martial Arts career.

  He was huge, but a friendlier looking badass Max had never seen. Though there was something less-than-happy in his eyes, hiding behind that ready smile. He put on a good show, but there was more to Elia Aiavao than a toothy grin.

  “Mr. Aiavao. I’m Max Dewitt. Thank you for coming in today.”

  “Just Elia’s good.” He extended his hand and walked forward with only a slight hitch in his step.

  Max let his gaze flick down, noting the matching motorcycle boots. If he hadn’t read up on the Smiling Samoan’s infamous crash, he never would have known the left leg was a prosthesis below the knee.

  Elia followed his gaze, his grin never wavering. “I’m getting better with it every day. Though I have to admit it’s weird when I go to the beach and random strangers come up to me to thank me for my service. I might have to get a tattoo that reads, ‘You’re welcome, but I’m not a heroic war vet.’”

  Max shook his hand, unsurprised by the strong grip, and waved him to a chair.
Following Elia’s lead, he didn’t dance around the topic. “You still ride a Harley?”

  Elia settled into the chair, stretching his left leg out in front of him in a way that made Max wonder if he was in pain. “Some of the cruisers come with a modified heel-shifter that I can work even with my robo-leg.”

  “I wouldn’t think that would be the primary issue.”

  Elia shrugged. “If I’d lost my leg in a car accident, am I supposed to never ride in a car again? I like riding my bike. Fuck any drunk-driving asshole who thinks they’re gonna take that away from me.” He smiled. “Pardon the language.”

  Max smiled, liking Elia already. “Cross tells me you used to play football.”

  “A few years in college before I got into MMA and decided I’d rather get my concussions in octagons rather than on fields. I was a beast,” he said with absolutely no modesty and a grin that took the arrogance out of the statement. “I could still probably do MMA—the rules about amputees are different from state to state—but I would know I wasn’t as good and I don’t want to be a novelty act. And this seems like an interesting gig.”

  “You’d still be a novelty act in some ways. Our clients don’t just want protection, they want a bodyguard who is also a status symbol. You’d be exploited. On display.”

  “Then it’s a good thing my helmet protected my money-maker,” Elia said, flashing white even teeth that had to be veneers after all the times they’d been publicly knocked out. “Cross said it’s all about pretty faces.”

  “That’s part of it,” Max admitted. “But you’d have to be able to physically remove the client from a bad situation as well. The training would be extensive and even then you might not be suited to the job.”

  Elia sobered, rubbing his thigh above his knee in a gesture Max would bet money he wasn’t aware of. His hands were scarred in places and Max didn’t know what other damage the accident had done, but his face was completely unmarked. And it was a pretty face. Elia certainly met that part of the Elite Protection criteria.

  “Watch my fights,” he said. “I don’t give up. Even when I’m outmatched. I’m stubborn as fuck and I can do this job.”

  “You don’t know Hank Hudson, do you?”

  “The Hammer? Nah. He’s one of those WWE pansies, isn’t he?”

  Max snorted. He was liking Elia more and more.

  * * * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Max walked Elia out, promising to be in touch soon, and headed up to the break room, finding Candy at the table with her tablet while Pretty Boy sprawled on the couch and played X-Box—his preferred method of keeping loose before a job.

  “Can we keep him?” Candy asked when he walked in. “He’s prettier than Pretty Boy.”

  “Hey,” the model-slash-bodyguard protested without looking up from the screen.

  Max grabbed a Vitamin water and sat down opposite Candy. “What do you think? I know you’ve been hacking into his life since the second he arrived.”

  Candy shrugged, not bothering to deny it. Today she wore skinny jeans, flannel, and a pair of chunky glasses that kept sliding down her nose. Apparently hipster-lumberjack was her new look. “He was a badass.” She turned her tablet so Max could see the video of an MMA fight playing on her screen. “And anyone called the Smiling Samoan probably wouldn’t let diva clients rattle him or piss him off.” She shrugged again. “I don’t know. He could be good.”

  If he could do the job.

  The addendum went unspoken, but they all heard it. Elite Protection was about luxury bodyguards, but they were still bodyguards, and some of the best in the business when it came to close protection. Max couldn’t do anything to damage that reputation—no matter how much he liked a guy. Some of the clients would love the sexy MMA amputee, but the first priority was making sure the clients were safe and he didn’t have any experience. And he was still learning how to go through life with one leg.

  EP couldn’t be his learning curve. But didn’t he deserve a chance to prove that he could do it? There was no quit in Elia Aiavao.

  Max watched the video and Aiavao moved with lethal grace, his body poetry in motion, every movement an extension of his will—and now all those instincts that had made him so lethal had to be modified to fit his new form.

  Max wished he could talk it out with Parv. She had a way of clarifying things for him, but he hadn’t seen her since the night she’d gotten drunk at his place.

  Not that he was avoiding her. He was just avoiding the temptation—once he realized he wasn’t sure he would keep resisting it.

  He’d sent her a text thanking her for the cookies she’d left for him and she’d occasionally send him messages with snarky comments about her internet dates, but he was keeping his distance. It was better that way—and she hadn’t shown up at his house again, which just indicated that she agreed.

  They’d gotten a little too close to the fire. They wouldn’t do that again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What are you doing here?”

  Parv had no excuse for the tactless words that fell out of her mouth as soon as she clapped eyes on Max at the yacht club where Victoria and Nick were having their “tiny little thrown together wedding”—which appeared to mean only fifty-odd guests.

  He looked good in his pale grey suit—but then Max always looked good.

  His eyebrows popped up. “I wasn’t expecting a parade, but I thought you might be a little happy to see me. I was invited.”

  “I didn’t know you and Tori were that close,” Parv explained, trying to pedal back her initial surprise.

  She was lousy at weddings. She’d always been lousy at weddings. She’d hoped it was a phase—that the fact that she was a total wedding failure had to do with the fact that she’d been to most of the weddings between the ages of eight and fifteen—which were awkward years for everyone. But even though everything felt different now, she could still feel that familiar awkward discomfort rising up.

  She fidgeted with her skirt until Max caught her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm, walking them toward the chairs that had been set up in an arc around the trellis arch. “Tori and I get along fine though I’m probably only here as unofficial security. But when someone invites me to a wedding, I go.”

  “Who knew you were so biddable?”

  He found a pair of empty chairs for them and they settled in to wait for the ceremony. “Your cookies found a good home.”

  “What?”

  “The cookies. The ones you left at the house. They were great.”

  “Oh. Right. You’re welcome.”

  Max frowned at her. “You okay?”

  “Sure. Of course. Great.”

  But she didn’t feel great. She felt like she was two breaths away from a panic attack. And wouldn’t that make Tori’s big day that much more special?

  “Parv?”

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “You’re cutting off the circulation to my fingers.”

  She looked down at her hold on his hand—she hadn’t even realized she’d taken it—and forced herself to release her death grip. “Oops.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  But then—thank God, thank God, please let it start—the string quartet began to play Pachebel’s Canon, Nick took his place at the arch and Lorelei began a stately processional as the maid of honor.

  Parv rose when the wedding march began and turned with everyone else to look back toward the head of the aisle where Tori appeared. She looked magnificent—but then Tori was always perfection. The dress was a silky ivory that looked like something out of nineteen twenties Hollywood, moving sinuously with her as she came down the aisle holding a simple bouquet of long stemmed calla lilies.

  The ceremony was brief. A few words. Vows. And that was it.

  They’d elected to go with the traditional vows, but instead of feeling rote there was something particularly powerful about hearing them repeat the familiar words. Parv’s throat closed off as Nick promised to be there for Tori for
better or for worse, envy pressing in on her so tight she lost her breath.

  It was her first wedding in years. Tori and Sidney planned them all the time, so she seemed to always be hearing about weddings, but she hadn’t even been to the Marrying Mister Perfect Wedding of the Century that had launched Sidney’s career into the stratosphere last May.

  She hadn’t been to a wedding since she’d wanted one.

  It was amazing how much that changed things.

  The sight of them pledging themselves to one another was more beautiful, more poignant somehow. She sniffed, glad lots of people cried at weddings and no one would think she was anything other than choked up at the beauty of it. Which she was. But there was another layer beneath her happiness for Tori and Nick. And Sidney and Josh. And everyone who had found someone they wanted to spend the rest of their life with. Someone they loved.

  God, she wanted it.

  Max tried to give her a linen handkerchief when they stood to watch the recessional, but she couldn’t imagine smudging her eye makeup all over that pristine white, so she shook her head, swiping at her eyes with her fingertips instead.

  “Parv?” he murmured under his breath.

  “I’m just so happy for them.” She sniffled. “Let’s go find Sidney and Josh. They must be around here somewhere.”

  But Sidney had shifted into planner mode and was ushering everyone into the reception hall to find their tables for dinner service while Tori and Nick had their first photos as bride and groom.

  Max and Parv were seated at different tables—which was a relief since if he kept watching her like she was going to shatter, she might actually do it. They parted ways and Parv found her place—at a table in outer Siberia populated by other singles, all awkwardly alone.

  Tori had said she wasn’t planning to have a formal reception, but something must have changed her mind because Parv sat through a chicken course, toasts—including an adorable one by Lorelei—and the first dance before she felt like she could sneak out the side door without attracting attention to her exit.