wedding you always dreamed of with your Papa at your side.”
I quiet at Archie’s words. He means well, but we all know the odds of that happening are damn near zero. There’s no way I’ll be able to find another guy I actually like, build a relationship from the ground up, get engaged with him, and then marry before something horrible happens to Papa.
This is the real world, not a Reese Witherspoon rom-com. You don’t meet the love of your life and get married over a single weekend, as the shards of my very own fantasy still surrounding me prove quite well.
“But that’s just the tip of the iceberg.” I sigh. “My mom and Nana went around telling everyone that I was getting married, and cousins I didn’t even know I had are going to fly in from all over the world . . . unless I tell them all to cancel their tickets . . . which I have yet to do.”
“Holy crap,” Archie mutters.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m in deep shit unless I can come up with a magical solution.”
At that exact moment, the entry doors to Sweet Pea’s open with a tinkling bell, and even from the back, I can see the tall man dressed impeccably in custom-tailored slacks and shirt enter. The soft lighting of the floral boutique makes his dark hair shine and throws his chiseled jawline into shadows and highlights, and a Greek god would be jealous of that physique, broad shoulders and a tapered waist atop long legs.
I recognize him immediately.
Ross Andrews.
Abigail’s big brother.
Abigail’s asshole big brother.
“I know!” Abigail suddenly exclaims with a gasp and a snap of her fingers, her eyes going wide in her dramatic fashion that lets me know Abi’s just come up with a crazy idea.
“Oh, no,” I say, seeing Abi’s face light up as her eyes fall on her brother’s face. “Whatever you’re thinking, the answer’s . . . no way.”
But Abi ignores me, waving at Ross and smiling like she’s so overjoyed to see him before tossing me a mischievous wink.
“Congratulations, Vi. Looks like we just found your magical solution! You can call me your Fairy Godmother.”
Horror strikes me at what Abigail is hinting at. Me and Ross? But we basically hate each other. Our entire relationship is built on us torturing each other. Definitely no love lost between us. We barely put up with each other because we both care for Abi.
Dimly, I hear Archie argue, “If anyone in this room is going to be the Fairy Godmother, it’s damn sure not you. It’s me.”
Chapter 4
Violet
“A fake wedding with my best friend’s brother?” I hiss in disbelief as I watch Ross walk up to the counter and laugh at something Janey says. Abi spilled out some hare-brained scheme faster than I would’ve thought she could, and now I have only seconds to disabuse her of this crazy notion before she calls him over. “The king of all assholes? The guy who made my high school days a living hell, including putting a frog down my blouse in front of the whole football team? Are you crazy?”
“As a whore in church,” Archie quips.
“It’s perfect!” Abi squeals excitedly, ignoring the insult or my complaints. “Who else, besides Archie, knows you well enough to pull something like this off on short notice? And no offense, but no one’s going to believe you flipped Archie.”
He shrugs, knowing she’s right. “I don’t make a very good trade.” He’s constantly having to explain his lingo to me, but that one I know. A trade is a gay guy who can pass as straight because of his masculinity. Actually, Archie could probably do that in his black jeans, random movie reference T-shirts, combat boots, multiple earrings, and tattoo sleeves. If you only saw him posed against a graffitied wall, you’d think he was a badass punk rocker anarchist. Then he’d open his mouth and sarcastic bitchery would pour out in a tone that would make any gaydar sing like a canary.
Abi’s right. Archie’s not the man for this job.
Oh, my God, I’m actually considering this. I’ve lost my mind for sure. Hell, I’d even dismissed a fake wedding with Colin as pathetic.
But as she quickly talks about making Papa happy, having the wedding of my dreams, and then splitting later down the road with no muss, no fuss, it doesn’t sound quite as crazy—if the man knew the score from the get-go and was willing to go along and pretend.
But I’ve known Ross since