Blame It on the Bachelor

“But the twins never turn down tiny bubbles.” She smiled at him and neatly plucked both glasses from his fingers, holding them in front of her breasts. Then she raised one to her lips. “So thanks.”

From somewhere over his shoulder, Dev heard a hoot of male laughter that could only have come from Pete Dale, another groomsman. Pete would have to witness Dev’s humiliation. But he’d deal with him later.

Dev slowly raised his eyes to the woman’s, heat suffusing his face. This was the worst encounter he’d had with a girl since ninth grade. “I … um. I guess I deserved that.”

Her smile dissolved into laughter and she handed him back the other champagne glass. “Admit it. Mark had nothing to do with you coming over here.”

Devon hated champagne—it tasted like sour tonic water to him—but he upended the flute and drank half the contents in one gulp. “Okay,” he said. “I do admit it. What’s your name?”

“I’m Kylie Kent. You?”

“Devon McKee.”

“Devon,” she repeated, thoughtfully. “How do you know Mark?” he asked. “I’m his aunt.”

“His what?”

“His aunt. Even though he’s older than I am. It’s kind of weird, but true.”

Dev digested that, working out the math. He guessed it was possible that Mark’s father or mother had a much younger sister.

Kylie was doing some thinking of her own. “Wait … Devon … you’re Mark’s rock-star friend?”

“I was never more than a minor local celebrity.”

“Mark mentioned you. And I guess that explains the leather pants.”

“Er.” He’d never before felt the need to explain those, but now, in her presence, he wished he’d worn something boring and khaki. He wished he’d tamped down his spiked, rocker hair and maybe even left his gold chain at home. He was crashing and burning here, big-time.

“Not that they’re not very nice leather pants,” she added, evaluating them.

“Yeah, okay. You hate my pants. Whatever.” He raised his chin and angled his head down at her. If she weren’t so damned hot, he’d be cutting his losses and walking away right now. Dev, heretofore the coolest guy in Miami, felt like the city’s biggest dork. It wasn’t a feeling he liked.

“I don’t hate them at all,” Kylie said. “I want them myself.”

“No kidding?” Dev asked. “Here, you can have ‘em right now.” Tongue between his teeth, he went for his fly. After all, he had to recover his man card somehow.

She laughed. “Maybe we should get to know each other a little better first.”

“You think?”

“Yes.” She tilted her champagne glass towards her perfect lips and drank.

“Well, but I was getting the distinct feeling that you didn’t want to get to know me better, so I thought I’d speed things up a little bit.” He grinned his signature, megawatt, killer grin. The one that used to inspire girls to throw their panties at him up on stage.

She shook her head at him.

“What?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

“You,” she pronounced, “are a mess.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

She pursed her perfect lips. “But you have a peculiar, repulsive appeal,” she said thoughtfully.

Dev blinked. He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

She nodded, drumming her fingers on her glass. “I think you might do.”

“Do?”

“Mmm, hmm. You just might.” But then she turned on her heel and walked away, her actions, like her words, sending damned confusing signals.

How could a guy be repellent and have appeal at the same time? It didn’t make any sense.

Devon upended his glass again and sucked down the rest of the hated champagne. Then in three long strides he caught up to Kylie and stepped in front of her. “I’ll do? Do what, exactly?”

She flashed that Swiss-bank-vault smile again. Then she patted his cheek. Her touch sent an electric current through him, from his jaw to his toes and then up to toast his balls.

“Me,” she replied. Then she walked off again, leaving him staring in her wake.

KYLIE FORCED HERSELF to keep her shoulders straight and didn’t permit herself to turn around as she walked to the ladies’ room. She was pretty sure that Mr. Black Leather Pants was still standing there with his mouth hanging open, and she relished the moment.

Kylie, girl, you’ve still got it. Or you can at least fake it. See?

Nobody needed to know that she was a loser who couldn’t keep her own fiancé’s interest. Nobody needed to know that she’d lost him to internet porn.

Kylie entered the fussy, overdecorated ladies’ lounge and stepped up to the wide gilt mirror, where she took a quick inventory of her face. Eyeliner: currently unsmudged. Blusher: fine. Nose: a smidgeon shiny.

She reached into her bag for her compact, pleased to note that her hands were steady. She powdered her nose, adding a layer to what she thought of as her “war paint” for the evening.

She studied her reflection critically. Everything was more or less symmetrical. She had nice hazel eyes. She was no dog. So why had Jack felt the need to—

Who knew. Why had Tiger Woods cheated on his absolutely stunning wife?

Well, sweetie … men do like variety, you know. Maybe some racy lingerie, a wig or a little role-playing would help.

Kylie jammed the compact into her purse with a little more force than necessary as she remembered her older sister’s well-meaning hints. Note to self: never complain about your sex life to your relatives!

Not only was her sister’s advice annoying and humiliating, but it also conjured up all kinds of horrible specters about what she might have gotten up to over the years.

Kylie shuddered and pulled out a lipstick. There was nothing to touch up, but she did anyway, killing time before she had to return to the garden room. Small talk wasn’t her favorite thing.

At least it’s only internet pictures, her sister had said. Yeah, sis. Right. A lot you know.

It would have been better, really, if Jack had cheated on her with a real woman—or even two. Imperfect women with stressful jobs and ungrateful children and PMS.

But she simply couldn’t compete with a constant parade of flawless, airbrushed beauties and their bountiful beaver shots. Jack could pull them up at any time for his viewing pleasure. And he did.