Borrow-A-Bridesmaid by Anne Wagener Read Free Book Online Page B

makes a last, futile attempt at the 100-point hole in the far corner of the board. His ball hits just below the hole and rolls into the 10 slot. He’s toast. By a good two hundred points.
    One of the bearded men sets down his cocktail to give me the most lackadaisical applause I’ve ever received. I steal Sam’s move and mock-salute the beard twins.
    â€œI’m not worthy,” Charlie says, getting down almost to his knees—the floor’s too sticky to follow through on the gesture.
    â€œGet up,” I say, laughing, reaching down and pulling him up. As he stands, he leans toward me and we fall into an embrace. He feels so good in my arms as I lay my cheek on those lean pecs. He puts one arm around my waist and the other on the nape of my neck. His fingers catch in my hair, and he caresses me there ever so softly, his fingertips grazing my skin. Goose bumps chase each other down my neck and spine.
    â€œYour move,” he says into my hair.
    Where to take him? I’m suddenly a gridlocked Congress. Certain body parts are lobbying rather strongly for me to take him home and completely ravage him. But my mind dissents; it wants to draw out the seduction.
    â€œHey, dude, sorry to like, cockblock, yo, but I got a jones for Skee-Ball,” a voice says behind us. We step out of the way, our fragile moment lost. The crowd around us fills back in, and the laughter and music seem to return to normal volume.
    â€œMy roommate and I have this ritual,” I say. “I think you’d like it, but be forewarned: It involves a scintilla of espionage.”
    Charlie gestures for me to lead the way. “I’ll go anywhere you want. You had me at cheese bread.”

    We walk up to the National Portrait Gallery under a clear, starlit sky. The colossal front door is propped open, and a line of elegant muckety-mucks spills down the steps.
    Charlie leans close. “Are you sure about this?”
    I stand on tiptoe until I glimpse the top of Brick’s crew cut above the heads of the muckety-mucks. “Absolutely sure.” I squeeze Charlie’s hand and nod in front of us. “Just take your cue from them. Act like you have the right to be here. You do have the right to be here.”
    We’re mildly underdressed, but my low-cut top and sleek black skirt blend in well enough. Charlie looks down at his red Chucks as we scoot forward in line.
    â€œHey.” I squeeze his hand until he looks up at me. “Trust me.”
    His face breaks into a smile, and I’m hit with the force of his perfect teeth plus both dimples. “I trust you.”
    â€œEvening.” A deep voice interrupts us. Brick is giving me a studiously neutral gaze; only a friend would notice the hint of amusement in it. His eyes flick to Charlie and back to me as if to say, Aha! Who have we here? I blush.
    â€œSir, ma’am,” Brick says, scanning his clipboard, “your names, please?”
    â€œWell, I’m Mary, and this is John. We’re friends of Chuck,” I say. A bit of Googling on Charlie’s smartphone revealed this was a private birthday party for Chuck Corley, CEO of Leverage Consulting Corp.
    Brick pretends to give us a probing look—it would be downright scary if I didn’t know him—and I feel Charlie tense beside me, his fight-or-flight instincts engaged.
    Brick continues to scan the list. “The Albertons?”
    I nod and smile. “At your service.”
    â€œGo on, then. Enjoy your evening.”
    We all but skip into the lobby, where Charlie pauses to catch his breath. “Holy shit. Was that guy really a gender studies minor?”
    â€œHe did it mostly to pick up chicks, but I think he got more out of it than he expected. We ended up doing a project together on sexism in advertising, and he got really worked up.” I smile, remembering Brick’s expression after watching the documentary Killing Us Softly. He still has an XXL T-shirt with