How To Ruin Your Ex's Wedding: A Romantic Comedy Read online

  On her breasts.

  Figures.

  Gregor is happy to oblige. The woman pulls her top down low. Gregor produces a Sharpie I’m sure he keeps in his pocket for this very reason, and signs away. Pax looks politely to the side while the woman exposes herself, laugh-coughing into his fist. And meets my eyes in the mirror.

  His face registers surprise for just a moment before he raises one eyebrow in the way that only he can and bobs his chin in greeting. I look away at once and close my eyes.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid, Tabatha.

  I interrupt Hunter mid-sentence. “I’m sorry, darling. Will you excuse me a moment? I’m not feeling well.” I stand and place my napkin on the table beside my plate. Hunter half stands and holds a hand out to me.

  “Shall I go with you? Do you want to leave?”

  I shake my head. “No need to go with me. But I may want to leave if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, my queen. I will have the food boxed—”

  “Not mine, thank you.”

  “Okay, I’ll send for the car and see to the bill.”

  I smile gratefully as I back away, not looking into the mirror again. Pax’s back is to me, but he can still see me in the mirror. And Gregor will be able to see me walking to the restroom if Pax mentions it.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I make it to the restroom and lock myself inside a stall. My breath erratic and face warm. I don’t want to run into him. Either of the hims. I lower myself to the commode and press my face against the cool stone of the stall wall. Bile rises in my throat. I work on forcing it back down, using mild meditation techniques to get everything in my body to still and calm.

  I’ve worked hard to portray a cool and calm woman who does not easily excite, nor fluster. It is in direct contrast to the hothead with a short temper and a diva complex of my youth. I want to keep it that way. With Hunter, I maintain composure at all times. With Pax, I never did.

  I leave the stall and run my hands under cool water, then press a damp towelette gently to my face, careful not to smudge my makeup or touch my new eyelashes.

  Deep breath.

  And a pep talk. “All you have to do now is walk to the front entrance and wait for Hunter. He’ll have taken care of the bill, generously donated the remainder of the champagne to the servers, and summoned the car from the valet.”

  One step in front of the other.

  I pull the door open and step into the hall.

  Right into the chest of Pax Baldwin.

  “Hey, Tabs,” he says in that sexy pseudo drawl of his.

  Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

  4

  Pax

  I grab Tabatha by the waist to make sure she doesn’t fall back. Her hands come to my chest to steady herself with her elbows tucked in between us. I hear the sharp intake of breath and for a brief moment, I like having her in my embrace.

  And then she ruins it.

  “Get your hands off me.”

  “Just keepin’ you upright, Tabs,” I say, but don’t move my hands.

  “Don’t call me that,” she hisses. She hasn’t moved her hands either. Her palms slightly curved to form over my pecs. I flex one.

  She arches an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

  “Did it?”

  “You’re old news for me, Pax, so I’m afraid not.”

  She still hasn’t moved her hands.

  “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “Yes, I’m very happy.” She doesn’t sound happy. I know what Tabatha Seton sounds like when she’s happy, and this isn’t it. This is a watered-down version of happy, but I’m willing to play along.

  “That’s all I ever wanted for you, baby,” I say, watching her face soften before turning hard once again.

  “Yes, well, it’s not hard to top what you had to offer, the bar was low.”

  “Ouch, Tabs. That hurts.”

  “The truth has a tendency to do that.”

  “What’s the poor sap’s name again? Hugh? Howie?”

  “His name is Hunter.” She sighs. “Hunter Simpcox.”

  “Right,” I say. “Simpcox. You know, if I wasn’t such a nice guy, Tabs, there’s a lot I could do with that last name. Simplecox. Limpcox. Pimplecox.”

  “Are you through?” She looks up at me through her lashes, after rolling her eyes excessively. Her expression couldn’t be more exasperated.

  “Baby, I’m just getting started. Smallpox. Smallcock. Simpering—”

  “Please stop. Your words are beneath even you.”

  I open my mouth to tell her my words can’t be beneath me if I’m saying them, but I close it again. We are getting along somewhat okay right this second and I kind of don’t want to blow that. Or at least I don’t want to blow it much—because I’m going to keep pretending I didn’t cyber-stalk the fuck out of the guy when I heard the news—to make sure he wasn’t better than me.

  He’s not.

  And I know everything about this dweeb now.

  “He builds computers or something?” I ask.

  “Hunter is a software engineer. He just sold his app for —”

  “Like five billion, right?”

  “Twenty-five million.”

  “Oh, bummer. Well, that’s almost like five billion.” I chuckle. It’s disingenuous as hell. “Still, I’m sure that’s enough to keep you in the lap of luxury for a least a couple years, right?”

  She pushes at my chest. “Twenty-five million is a lot of money, Pax.”

  I tighten my hold on her hips, angling my fingers just a bit to graze the curve of her ass.

  She still has a great ass.

  “I mean, it’s not five billion, but yeah, it’s a lot.”

  “You can let me go now,” she says, dropping her hands from my chest.

  “You sure? Wouldn’t want you falling.”

  “I’m good,” she says with a huff as she pushes at me again. This time, I let her go. She stumbles slightly. I can’t stop the grin from sneaking onto my face.

  “Such a child.” She rolls her eyes as she says it.

  “Takes one to know one, baby.”

  “Tabatha? Are you okay?” Hugo-Howie-Hunter Limp-pimple-cock heads toward us, concerned look on his face.

  “Fine,” she says. “I just ran into someone, not important. Let’s go.” She takes his arm and spins him around to head back toward the front door.

  “Bye!” I yell after them. She flips me off behind her back, making me laugh. It’s nice to know I can still get a rise out of her. I head back to our table where Gregor is signing an autograph for a young boy. He ruffles the kid’s hair before he leaves and tells him to stay in school and eat his veggies.

  I take my seat and a long drink of my beer.

  “Was that the lovely Ms. Tabatha Seton you had cornered over there?” Gregor uses the word lovely, but what he really means is horrid.

  “It was indeed,” I reply.

  “Interesting,” he says, drawing the word out and stroking his beard.

  “Why?”

  “Well, I’m just saying, the day you get back to town and find out about her engagement, we happen to run into her. What are the chances? Hey, maybe it’s fate letting you know to reclaim your woman.” He scoffs., even though he’s a big believer in fate. His favorite chick flick is Serendipity.

  I, however, am not.

  “It’s not fate. Pull your man card out of your vagina. She’s not my woman. She’s engaged to someone else. We’ve both moved on.”

  “Bullshit.” Gregor fake coughs the word behind his hand.

  “I’ve moved on,” I say, even though we both know I pretty much haven’t.

  “Double bullshit.” Gregor fake coughs again to prove it.

  “Fuck off, dude.”

  The server brings us each a second beer.

  “I took the liberty of ordering another round, figured you’d need it,” Gregor says.

  “Thanks, asshole, but I’m fine,” I say, even though we bo
th know I’m pretty much not.

  “Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if they hired Matthew to be their wedding photographer,” Gregor says. He is the only person who knows about Matthew Hanhauser. “You could photoshop a dildo where the groom’s nose should be.”

  “His name is Hunter,” I sneer.

  Gregor frowns in thought and bobs his head a bit. “Not a bad name.”

  “Simpcox,” I finish.

  Gregor laughs. “Oh, there is so much I can do with that.”

  “Right? Pimplecock, Limpcock—”

  “An Imp’s cock. Wimpcock. Skimpycock.”

  “Exactly. It’s a douche name. And he’s a software engineer.” I use air quotes for the title.

  “Just made twenty-five million doing that, or so I hear,” Gregor says.

  “It’s no five billion,” I say.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  I shrug, grab my beer, and chug over half, wanting something to ease the angst building inside me. I want Tabby to be happy. I do.

  Sometimes.

  The other times I want her to burn alive in a fiery death like the wicked witch that she is. The hard truth is she and I don’t work well together. We tend to bring out the worst in one another and that’s when it’s bad. But when it’s good between us, it is fucking sublime. And if being apart for the last ten years has taught me anything, it’s that I’ve yet to meet anyone who affects me the way she does. Good or bad.

  We met in high school. She was assigned as my lab partner in science class and we became fast friends. Her being famous clicked with me having a famous father and grandfather. Gave us something in common.

  It was her first public school experience and she was trying hard to fit in—dying her signature red hair brunette and using a different last name. It worked for a while, she was exposed to the typical mean girl drama of high school. But eventually she was found out. People freaked out about it for a time, but after a few months, she was just Tabatha, the girl who everyone wanted to be or be with.

  She was smart and beautiful, with a poise not common in a typical teenage girl. I’m sure due to her past and her acting experience. Before long, she pretty much ruled the school: student body V.P., varsity cheer captain, and she wrote a column for the school newspaper while maintaining a straight A average.

  But for someone that everyone knew, she didn’t actually have a lot of friends. Outside of me and Crystal, that is. It wasn’t until the end of our junior year that I worked up the nerve to ask her to the homecoming dance. That was the night I fell in love with Tabatha Seton for the first time. And over the next few years I fell in love with her over and over. Only to be interrupted by the times that I hoped someone pushed her into a hungry-crocodile filled swamp.

  Today, as in literally today, I’m kind of in between. She looks amazing. Way too good for that guy. Tight white skirt that ends just above her knees. Heels that make her legs look miles long, and a low-cut wrap-type blouse showcasing her tits and her curves. When I had my hands on her hips, my fingers at the curve of her ass. If I used my imagination, I could almost feel the tiny strips of fabric holding her panties together.

  My guess—if I had to make one—a nude-colored, lacy, thong. She’s always been a thong girl, or at least she was when I knew her best. I can’t imagine that has changed. Much of her lingerie when we were together was more formality than practicality. Beautiful, sexy, barely there formality.

  My phone buzzes on the tabletop with a new message from social media.

  For Matthew Hanhauser.

  I open my notifications and see a request for an appointment.

  A-List client requires utmost discretion.

  I roll my eyes. All A-List clients say they need discretion, by which they really mean, “Please leak a few solid shots where I look really good to build hype around whatever I pretend to need discretion with.” I open the message and see the words wedding and two months in the first line. Ugh. I was hoping to take a break from weddings for a while. But, A-List clients pay big bucks and it’s not like I have anything better to do.

  I’m about to hit decline, when I wonder for just a second if it’s possible . . .

  The request is from Liza Littleton with Opulence in Stride Event Planning, looking for a photographer for a very high-profile event.

  I message back. What’s the event?

  Then turn my phone over and return my attention to Gregor. I hate it when people sit at restaurants, or anywhere really, on their phones and ignore the people they are with.

  Gregor is busy talking to the server about the specials, asking in-depth questions that only people preoccupied with food, like Gregor, care about. In addition to playing football, he owns two pubs in downtown Seattle as well as an upscale restaurant. The pubs each serve dishes devised from his own family’s recipes, and the restaurant serves fancy shit. He considers himself to be a bit of a foodie at this point.

  My phone buzzes again. I turn it over and peek.

  Liza Littleton has gotten back to me. High-profile wedding and pre-wedding planning events. You are our top pick for a photographer. Your reputation precedes you.

  Who are the clients? I ask. I already know my reputation precedes me. I’m a fucking fantastic photographer.

  She responds immediately. I’m not at liberty to say without a contract.

  I grab my phone and start typing. I’m not even going to take the appointment unless I know who the client is.

  I turn my phone back over.

  “What’s going on over there?” Gregor asks.

  “Just an appointment request.” I wave my hand as though it’s not a big deal.

  “I ordered for you since you were too busy ignoring me to be bothered.”

  “I’m sure I’ll love it, thank you.”

  “Aw, anything for you, sweetheart,” he says, blowing me a kiss.

  “So, you keep asking me shit, what’s been going on with you over the last couple weeks?” I ask.

  “Same old stuff,” he says. “Fending off beautiful women wanting to use me for my body.” Gregor talks a big game, but deep down, I know he just wants to get married and have kids. The problem is he doesn’t want to marry just anyone. Not that it’s a problem—that’s how everyone should be—but his parents have a fairy tale relationship. They’ve been together forty years and they still enjoy one another, laugh, date, kiss, can’t keep their hands off each other. It’s a hard example to live up to. He can barely find someone to do that with forty days, let alone years.

  “I thought you were going to do that speed dating thing?”

  “Yeah.” He winces. “It wasn’t good.”

  “What wasn’t? The event? The girls? The restaurant?”

  “All of the above. I’ve never seen so many girls who look exactly the same in my life. You know how every girl used to be blonde?”

  I nod.

  “Now, every girl is brunette. Same long hair style, with the curls at the bottom that they are always touching to make sure they’re still there. Same glossy lips, big cleavage, tight dresses, and crazy white teeth.” He shakes his head.

  “I thought you liked big cleavage and tight dresses?”

  “I do. But it was a little overwhelming. And I felt like no one wanted to get to know me, they just wanted to talk about themselves. As though they already knew me or something.”

  “Poor famous football baby.” I fake pout.

  “You know what I mean. I’m not just football, man. I’m a person. With interests.”

  “I know, you’re karaoke and pubs too.” I grin.

  “Fuck off.” He laughs.

  My phone buzzes with a new message. I turn it over. It’s from my new friend, Liza Littleton.

  Just say yes. You won’t regret it.

  I don’t respond.

  Fine. Hunter Simpcox and Tabatha Seton. Don’t make me sorry I’m telling you.

  I move my hand to respond, then pause a moment.

  “Remember when you said it would
be funny if they asked me to be their wedding photographer?”

  “Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow and takes a long drink of his beer.

  “Well, what if I was?” I look at him.

  He looks at me.

  “No,” he says, his eyes widening.

  I nod as I finish off my beer.

  “You have to do it,” he says. “No, wait, you can’t do it.”

  “Which is it?”

  “You have to do it,” he concedes.

  “My thought exactly.” I pick up my phone to set an appointment with Liza Littleton.

  5

  Tabatha

  “Are you sure you are okay, Tabatha? You don’t look well.” Hunter reaches over and takes my hand in his, lifting it to his mouth to kiss the back. This is the third time he’s asked on our short drive home.

  “I’m fine. I think I just overdid it in yoga this morning,” I tell him. Truth is, I overdid it remembering how good it felt to have my hands on Pax again. I may not be able to stand the man, but he has always had a beautiful body that I love to touch.

  Loved.

  That I loved to touch. Not love, I’m happily engaged to a wonderful man who I also love to touch.

  More so than anyone else.

  Ever.

  Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

  I shut my eyes and lean my head against the cool glass of the car window. Marrying Hunter is the right decision. He’s handsome, polite, attentive, and he adores me.

  He calls you “my queen.”

  But really, in the grand scheme of things, how horrible is that? Not at all.

  He worships the ground you walk on.

  Which is a good thing.

  Literally. Like he would lick the bottoms of your shoes if you asked him to.

  We never argue.

  Because he has no passion.

  He’s very wealthy.

  So are you.

  Ugh.

  Hunter uses an app on his phone to remotely open the gate at the start of the drive before pulling in.

  “Wait right there,” he says as he parks the car. “I’ll come around and help you into the house.”

  “That’s not necessary, I’m fine.”