The Best Man (Chesapeake Shores Book 2)

  Table of Contents

  The Best Man

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  EPILOGUE

  The Ideal Groom

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  The Best Man © 2020 Andi Burns

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  Cover design by M.E. Kusel

  Formatted by Alyssa Garcia of Uplifting Author Services

  Edited by Rebecca Fairest of All Book Reviews

  December

  Noise. I’ve been thinking a lot about it these past ten months.

  The noise of a slamming door.

  The noise of my neighbor’s dog barking at o’dark thirty.

  The noises my wife made as her tennis instructor drilled her like a jackhammer against the north-facing wall of our bedroom.

  The noise of the scratch of pen against paper marking the day my marriage legally ended.

  The noise ice makes as it clinks against the side of an empty glass.

  The noise of the buzz of my cellphone as it alerts me t.o a notification from my assistant.

  The noise of other people’s laughter.

  The noise of car horns, squealing tires, and the chaos of city traffic in downtown USA—Chicago, Miami, Detroit, Seattle, San Antonio.

  The noise of waves as they lap against the side of my boat when I’m out on the water.

  They all blend together in a noisy, hazy recollection.

  Even now, far away from all that, the noise is relentless.

  The noise that Jimmy, my sister’s evil cat, makes as he scratches the shit out of her favorite chair.

  The noise of the drone of the broadcasters on ESPN tonight. With an arrogance even I can’t match, they waffle between lambasting the rookie quarterback and praising his every move.

  But I can’t mute them.

  In fact, I have the volume cranked to a degree somewhere between ear-splitting and not-quite-loud-enough-to-make-the neighbors-call-the-cops.

  It’s necessary, this cringeworthy noise.

  Without it, I would hear, with painful clarity, the sex sounds emanating from my sister’s bedroom. And bless her sweet, oblivious heart, she thinks she and her boyfriend are being quiet and discreet right now.

  They’re not.

  I’m here on Maryland’s Eastern Shore to celebrate her birthday and hang out with her and her boyfriend, Simon, until I catch a flight for Tokyo in the morning. We went out to a nice dinner and celebrated Elaine turning the big 3-5. She even let us sing to her in public, which is decent progress, considering she was damn-near poleaxed at the mere mention of her milestone birthday just weeks ago. When we got back to her place, Elaine went upstairs to change, and Simon followed right behind.

  That was half an hour ago. At first, I figured they’d be a few minutes changing clothes, so I went into the kitchen to make an espresso. There are distinct advantages to having a sister who’s a coffee addict.

  After pouring a cup and swiping some cookies from the pantry, I heard the shower turn on and figured Elaine was freshening up and that Simon would be right down.

  When that didn’t happen, I palmed my phone and decided to check in with work. It was a task I’d been dreading, but it would pass the time while I waited for the two lovebirds.

  I answered all nine allegedly urgent messages from Nathaniel, my assistant, before wandering into the living room to flip through the channels. I thought about heading out for a drink, but I didn’t want to be rude and just leave.

  I have since changed my stance.

  It’s quarter after nine. I hate televised sports, and I’ve heard my sister whisper-scream her boyfriend’s name three times in the past five minutes.

  Her bedroom is directly above her living room. And I can’t hole up in the guest room, because that’s just across the hall from the love nest.

  It’s clear that my situation isn’t going to improve any time soon...

  So, like I do in business when a deal is going south, I take my resources elsewhere.

  I pull the tiny pad and pen from my pocket to scribble a note to my sister. What can I say? I’m old school at heart.

  Grabbing my keys and jacket, I head out the door in hopes of finding peace and quiet, or at least, a good beer.

  Unsurprisingly, there’s not much nightlife in my sister’s sleepy little town. From what I gather, it’s bustling during tourist season, but in mid-December, there’s not much going on.

  I park my rental in the lot behind Mahady’s bar. I saw it as we drove back from dinner, and it’s the lone establishment on the main drag with its lights on, so it’s the clear winner. Inside, the lights are dim, the bar is occupied, if not packed, and a chalkboard sign on the wall advertises half-price Budweisers on Tuesdays.

  It’s Sunday, and I haven’t touched Bud since college, so it’s not a draw for me, but I take a seat at the bar all the same. Within seconds, the bartender appears and cheerfully asks what I’d like. I order a Chimay Gold, and she smiles at me like my drink choice is both innovative and sexy. It’s not. It’s beer.

  Goddamn, I’m a cynic.

  Maybe this is why I haven’t gotten laid in nearly a year.

  Or maybe it’s because my wife was schtupping her tennis instructor.

  Okay, maybe both.

  The door opens, and a blast of cold air brings me back to the present. I drum my fingers on the polished oak of the bar and issue a polite thank you when my beer arrives. The other patrons are either engrossed in conversation, their drinks, or darts, from the looks of it. This is fine by me. I didn’t really come to socialize, just to escape the bliss that was nearly shaking the damn walls at my baby sister’s house.

  I scroll through my phone, checking in on the stock market and responding to emails that I can’t pass off to my assistant. What can I say? It’s thrilling to be me. Before I can ask for it, another Chimay Gold is placed in front of me, and my empty glass vanishes.

  I drink down the smooth ale as my mind, once again, wanders over the pitfalls and pleasures of this past year.

  Things have certainly changed. At this time last year, I was married.

  I was also miserable.

  Now, the misery is gone, but I can’t exactly say I’m happy. I mean, I’m not unhappy. But I’m not sure that’s quite the same thing.

  I’m also thinking I’ve drunk more than I thought I had if I’m waxing philosophic in a small-town bar at ten p.m. on a Sunday night.

  The door opens again, bringing a gust of wind and what appears to be an already drunk bridal party with it.

  Before long, the bar fills up, and I’m about to head back to Elaine’s in the hope that she and Simon have worn each other out and the house is quiet.

  But then, I see her.

  Tall, curvy, and blonde, she’s stunning, and I’m a little shocked that I didn’t notice her when she walked in.

  She’s got my full attention now, though she doesn’t have the bartender’s, and that’s a problem.

  She’s got legs for days, and I can almost feel them wrapped around my waist. Damn, I need to get laid.

  Legs, because that’s what I’m calling her now, sighs audibly, taking a seat and mumbling, “Dammit. What does a gal have to do
around here to get a drink? Have a dick?”

  “While it might solve that problem, I imagine it might create a few more.” The words are out before I can stop them.

  Then she turns her smile on me and I’m glad I didn’t censor myself.

  “You’ve got jokes, huh?”

  “Among other things.”

  She barks out a laugh in response.

  I lean forward and tip my chin in the bartender’s direction and, like magic, she appears in front of us.

  “What can I get you?” The bartender’s eyes are locked on me, but I defer to Legs, who smiles like a Cheshire cat and orders a Long Island Iced Tea. I decide on a third beer, though I know I won’t drink it. Still, it’s an excuse to keep talking to the beautiful woman next to me.

  A minute later, her drink arrives. “Thank you, though I’m not sure I should be impressed or disheartened.”

  “Definitely impressed,” I assure her with a smirk.

  “Of course.” She rolls her eyes. “I forgot that when a man does anything, no matter how cursory or pedestrian, I should react with equal parts enthusiasm and admiration.”

  Her sarcasm lights a fire in me that I haven’t felt in far too long.

  I nod to her, as yet, untouched cocktail. “Drink up. You can’t very well smash the patriarchy if you’re thirsty.”

  “You speaking from experience?” Her delicate brow forms a perfect arch.

  I take a small sip. “Damn right.”

  “Well, then, perhaps we can be friends.” Her words hang in the air, her inflection a bit higher, and I can tell she’s waiting for my name.

  “Marc,” I supply, the lie rolling off my tongue.

  “Grace,” she returns.

  It’s official. I, Everett Marc Madigan, have lost my damn mind. That’s the only explanation I can provide for why I’m sitting in a bar, flirting with a gorgeous stranger, and giving her a fake name. Or maybe I’m not crazy. Maybe there’s something about being here, far away from my everyday life and responsibilities, that makes me want to play pretend. I can’t really explain it, but there’s a freedom here that I haven’t found anywhere else.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” She asks. “Oh, God, that sounds so cliché. But, really. This town isn’t that big, and I haven’t seen you around before.”

  “Nope. Just in town for the night. I fly out tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, I hope I’m not the first to welcome you to our bustling metropolis…”

  My smile is broad. “Would you believe you are?”

  She turns fully toward me, and I get a closer look at her curves—the indentation of her waist, the flair of her hips—and nearly drool.

  “That’s a damn shame.”

  “The bartender tried, I guess.”

  “Her name’s Carrie, and that doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Go way back, do you?”

  “Not too far. I think she went to middle school with my half sister.”

  “And did they have sleepovers and braid each other’s hair?”

  “Not even a little bit. If memory serves, Carrie poured bleach into my half-sister Mandy’s shampoo bottle at cheer camp one summer.”

  “Looks like I dodged a bullet, then.” I scoot my chair forward, enough so that our legs are just barely touching.

  “I’d say so. But I’m no expert on dodging bullets, sadly.”

  “Yeah?” I’m curious about her comment, but it’s more than that. I’d say just about anything to keep her talking to me. I haven’t been this attracted to anyone in years, if ever. Honestly, I never even felt a pull like this toward Victoria. Our relationship was built on mutual satisfaction, and maybe that’s why, in the end, neither of us was satisfied.

  “I’m the queen of crappy relationships. If you’re looking to lose your job, move into your mother’s basement, or tank your credit score, keep hanging out with me. I seem to be a magnet for guys who just can’t get their shit together.” Her self-deprecating laugh floats through the air between us, and I can feel her lean closer when my hand brushes her knee.

  “To be honest, I’m rather attached to my job. I wouldn’t live with my mother again for all the money in the world, and I’d definitely like to keep my credit in the black. But still, I’ll take my chances.”

  “A risk-taker, huh?” Her breath is warm on my neck as she leans in.

  I take another swallow of my beer. “Hell yes.” My left hand glides up her thigh, as I feel her shiver against me. This isn’t my usual style, I’ll admit, but there’s something about being her that makes me feel bold.

  “Well, I’m not a safe bet. But you might be immune. Maybe it’s just the guys in this town. In my experience, not a one of them could find a woman’s clit with two hands and a map.”

  “I’m sincerely sorry to hear that, for your sake. I feel nothing but pity for the fools who’ve tried and failed, but I can assure you that I require no assistance. If I want to get you off, you can be damn sure I’ll get you off.”

  Her lips part on a sigh, as her thighs spread just a fraction. I can tell my words have turned her on.

  “You’re local, yes?” My innocuous words belie my intent, as I press my hand to the juncture of her thighs and push her panties to the side.

  Around us, the bar buzzes with activity: those guys in the back play darts, the bartender bustles around, and patrons come and go, as I work my finger against her clit, her soft gasps the only indication that we’re doing anything more than having a casual conversation.

  “Yes.” Her answer has a double meaning, and I keep the steady rhythm that has her pulse beating wildly.

  “You come here often?” Two can play the double-entendre game.

  “Ha.” Her laugh is choked. “Not hardly.”

  Twisting my wrist, I drive deeper, my finger curving upward. She flattens one hand on the bar and the other around her half-full drink, steadying herself. She’s close, I can feel it. I know next to nothing about her, but I can sense that she’s close. It’s like our bodies know each other, and right now, hers knows that mine has the power to make her feel good.

  I didn’t walk into this bar with the intention of finger-fucking a sexy stranger, but here we are.

  Her hand leaves the bar, clutching my thigh, as I watch her orgasm bloom across her face. Her tongue peeks out from her full, parted lips, and for a moment, I indulge in the fantasy of that tongue and those lips wrapped around my cock.

  I slip my fingers from her channel, drawing them to my mouth, to discreetly sucking her juices from my fingertips.

  I hear her gasp next to me, as though that simple move was more daring, more erotic than bringing her to orgasm while sitting next to her on a stool in a crowded bar.

  “My place,” she says, the certainty in her tone further igniting my lust. Christ, but she’s hot, and there’s no way I want to let things end here.

  I may have to head to the airport in seven hours, but that just means I have seven glorious hours to explore all the ways my body can make hers scream, writhe, pant, and fall apart.

  The Tavern is pretty dead for a Friday. I attribute this to the fact that the weather is shit. Our little tourist trap sits right on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, in the heart of the Chesapeake Bay. Since we’re right on the water, we don’t usually get the snow that northern and western Maryland have to deal with.

  Lucky for us, that’s not true today. The white stuff is falling, the roads are a slushy mess, and everyone’s in a panic. It won’t last, but the locals are battening down the hatches as we speak. I’d bet money that the grocery stores are out of milk, bread, and toilet paper. I went earlier this week and stocked up on brownie mix. What can I say? I need to be prepared in case of snowpocalypse.

  For now, though, I’m nestled in a cushy padded booth, across from my best friend, sharing lunch. Although, to be fair, sharing isn’t really an accurate description. Elaine has barely touched her food. I’m halfway through my plate of pulled-pork nachos, and she’s nibbling on a s
ingle tortilla chip.

  “E? You doing alright?”

  “I feel like death warmed over. And all I want to do is sleep. Daryl stopped in to check on me this morning and told me to head home after lunch. I wasn’t going to, but my bed and blankets are calling me.”

  “That’s probably for the best. But think positively—you get a prize at the end! And morning sickness doesn’t last too long, right?”

  “Not for most people. Mine is hitting pretty hard already, though. And the term ‘morning sickness’ is a bit of a misnomer, sadly.”

  “Ya think? I’m pretty sure it’s a damn lie. It’s one in the afternoon, and you look like you’re barely hanging on. Reason #473 that I’m never having kids.”

  At this true statement, my best friend cracks a smile. “I know and respect your stance on parenthood, but you’re going to be the world’s best auntie.”

  “Damn straight I am. This little nugget will be spoiled rotten. Remind me how long I have to wait until you find out the gender?”

  “Like, a couple months? I’m almost twelve weeks along, so keep this all on the down-low. I think we find out if it’s a boy or girl at twenty weeks or so.”

  Elaine looks listless, and I feel for her. This is shaping up to be a long pregnancy. “You want to get out of here? You’re looking even paler than usual.”

  She takes a sip of ginger ale. “I’m good for a little while longer. Besides, I’ve missed the last two Friday lunches with you because of stupid meetings. I need to get all caught up on the gossip.”

  “Yes, well. I am the queen of tea. But sadly, there’s not much to report. Dan asked out Mia in Marketing, but she turned him down flat.”

  “Wait, I thought she was getting married?”

  “Uh, that ended weeks ago. She found a revealing pic of her beloved on Tinder.”

  “Ummm…”

  “Right. What the hell was she doing on Tinder? Still, I saw the profile pic. He was packing heat. Anyway, I guess nothing ruins a festive nuptial mood faster than catching your man trolling for pussy on a dating app.”

  “I guess so. Wow.” Elaine shakes her head.

  “Yea, Chesapeake Shores is not a drama-free zone.”