“She tends to be a little sarcastic,” Vaughn told the salesman, without batting an eye. “I’m told it’s a New York thing. Which is really weird, considering she’s from Chicago.”
Sidney nudged Vaughn as she walked by him and eyed one of the tuxedos on display. “Did Simon tell you anything about the tux he’s wearing?”
“He said it didn’t have tails.” From her expression, Vaughn gathered this was not a lot of help. He shrugged. “We’re guys. We don’t have long, drawn-out conversations about clothing. Actually, we don’t have long, drawn-out conversations about anything if we can help it.”
Sidney turned back to the salesman. “We’ll go with something classic. Black, two-button jacket. Flat-front pants, no cummerbund, and—” She looked Vaughn over with a scrutinizing air. “A bow tie. Definitely.”
“Excellent choice,” the salesman said approvingly. “Let me grab my tape measure.” He took Vaughn’s measurements, and then asked his height, weight, and shoe size. He went into the back room and returned with a sample tuxedo and shoes. “The changing room is right there. Just holler if you need anything.” He pointed to a private room behind the three-way mirror in the center of the store.
Vaughn changed out of his clothes and put on the tux. He checked himself out in the mirror, was satisfied that the tux fit well enough, and stepped out of the dressing room.
Sidney stood with her back to him as she chatted with the salesman. When she turned around and saw him in the tuxedo, she blinked. “You look so . . .” She trailed off and just kept looking at him.
Then she cleared her throat and regrouped. “It’s nice.” She walked over, scrutinizing him as he stood in front of the mirror. “It seems to fit well enough. What do you think?”
Her phone suddenly rang in her purse, which sat on a chair across from the mirrors. “Sorry. I should grab that in case it’s work-related.”
While Sidney took her call, the salesman walked over to Vaughn. “Would you like to try on something else? We have several different styles, in case you want to get a comparison.”
Vaughn glanced over at Sidney, who laughed at something while talking on the phone. He thought back to her reaction when she saw him in the tux.
“You know, I think I’m good with this one,” he said.
With a smile, the salesman nodded. “Of course, sir.”
• • •
SIDNEY TOOK A bite of her risotto and thought for a moment about her next question. “Okay, I’ve got one. Most likely to get drunk and make an awkward impromptu toast at the reception.”
To thank her for helping out with the tuxes, Vaughn had taken her to lunch at an Italian bistro nearby, one that had al fresco dining so they could enjoy the nice weather. Their current conversation had started with a bet—the person most likely to ask Isabelle at the wedding if she was pregnant—and that had led to all sorts of predictions about the big day.
Twirling his spaghetti gamberoni around his fork, Vaughn didn’t pause a moment before answering. “My uncle Finn. Here’s a tip: half my family is Irish. So any ‘most likely to’ distinctions pertaining to this wedding that involve drinking, we’ve got covered.”
Sidney chuckled and grabbed another breadstick. “Now your turn.”
He poured more olive oil onto the plate between them. “All right. How about . . . most likely to tackle another woman to the ground in order to catch the bouquet.” He gave Sidney the side-eye.
“Who, me?” she asked.
Vaughn laughed as part of a breadstick came flying his way. “What? Not your style?”
“Definitely not my style. Not to mention, Isabelle has another bridesmaid, Amanda, who already declared that she’s taking anyone out who gets between her and that bouquet at the wedding.” Her turn again. “Most likely to photobomb the pictures of Isabelle and Simon cutting the cake.”
“Also my uncle Finn.”
“This Uncle Finn sounds like quite a character. I can’t wait to meet him.”
“I’m going to remind you of that when he’s drunk and trying to grab all the bridesmaids’ asses,” Vaughn said.
“Gross.”
His turn. “Most likely to get obnoxious with that annoying tradition of clinking glasses to get the bride and groom to kiss.”
Sidney pointed. “Oh, I’ve got that one. My cousin Anna. She did that nonstop at my other cousin’s wedding last summer. And if she tries pulling that crap at Isabelle’s reception, she’s going to find herself drinking out of a red Solo cup.”
“At a Sinclair function? Are these ruby-crusted red Solo cups?” Vaughn asked.
Cute. Her turn. “Most likely to be the first one to cry during the ceremony.”
He sat back in his chair. “Hmm. . . that’s a tough one. Isabelle’s got the hormones going for her, but lately Simon’s been getting very sentimental and schmaltzy. Then there’s you, another contender—don’t make that face at me, I see the softer side that comes out when you think no one’s looking—but, nevertheless, I think I have to go with my mom. She’s so excited this is finally happening, I think we may need a whole box of Kleenex at the ceremony just for her.” He cocked his head, as if curious about something. “What about your dad?”
“My dad? Ah, no. I think the idea of getting sentimental and schmaltzy at weddings wore off for him sometime around his third marriage.” She took another bite of her risotto.
“You don’t talk about him much,” Vaughn said.
When Sidney had finished chewing, she shrugged. “Not much to say, I guess. We’re not really that close.”
“Has it always been that way?”
She fingered the stem of her water glass. “Not always. It was different when I was younger. He used to take me to work and show me around the office and tell everyone that I was going to be an investment banker someday, just like him. Obviously, the idea stuck with me,” she said with a slight smile, before turning more serious. “But things changed after my mom died. My dad threw himself into work, and for a while, my sister and I barely saw him. And then he started dating Cecilia, his second wife, only six months after my mom died, and I resented that. Maybe that wasn’t fair, but I was eleven years old at the time. I felt like he had moved on and forgotten about my mother, and I . . . still very much wanted to remember her.”
She cleared her throat, not having meant to reveal something so personal. “Then, three years later, when I’d finally come to accept Cecilia, they got divorced. I found out later that my father cheated on her with Liza, Wife Number Three. Liza lasted ten years, until she divorced him, also for cheating, this time with a twenty-five-year-old tennis instructor at his club,” she said, not bothering to hide her scornful tone. “Then he met Jenny at some party, and married her six months after that. They’ve been married nine years now and I guess it seems to be working. I don’t ask. Frankly, I’m not sure I want to know.”
“Do you think things might get better between you and your dad now that you’re back in Chicago?” Vaughn asked.
“I don’t know. Not really, judging from the way things have gone so far. When we talk about work things are okay, but when it comes to anything personal, I feel like there’s this chasm of things we don’t say to each other. I mean, obviously I’ve known for a while that my dad has a problem with the fidelity part of marriage.” To put it mildly. “And while before, that was something I disapproved of, it’s different now after what happened to me with Brody. I can’t look at my dad the same way. I just . . . respect him less, because of the decisions he’s made in his personal life.” She paused. “And that’s a hard thing to admit, especially since I used to idolize him so much when I was younger.” She fell silent at that, and then took a deep breath and cocked her head. “How did we get on this subject, anyway?” She pointed, mock suspiciously. “Did you good-cop me, Roberts?”
He laughed, grabbing the carafe of ice water. He refreshed her glass, and then his.
“It’s so different with my family. No one gets divorced—as my mother would say, that’s not the ‘Irish way.’ I guess people just stick it out if they’re miserable.”
“I don’t know about the rest of your family, but your parents definitely aren’t miserable. They’re adorable.”
He smiled at that, his affection for his parents unmistakable. “They are great. But don’t let my mom fool you—she can be tough when she wants to be.”
Sidney studied him, musing over something. “I’m curious. How is it that someone who grew up with such a nice, loving family ends up being so anti-marriage?”
“First of all, I’m not ‘anti-marriage.’ I think people who want to settle down should do exactly that. It’s just not something I, personally, am looking for right now.”
“Fine. Maybe you’re not anti-marriage in that sense. But this playing the field attitude of yours . . . is that the way it’s always been? Have you ever been in a serious relationship?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” he said, taking a bite of his breadstick.
Sidney blinked. Wait—what? Then she raised a skeptical brow. “By ‘serious’ I don’t just mean that you actually called the same girl more than once.”
“Actually, Little Miss Snarky, I dated someone for over a year.”
Well, this was a surprise. “You did? When? What’s her name?”
“Six years ago, and her name is Cassidy,” he said.
“Why did you two break up?” Sidney gave him a withering look. “Do not say you cheated.”
“I don’t cheat. In fact, I like to think I’m honest to a fault with women.”
Sidney rolled her eyes—whatever—but let that one slide so she could get to the juicy stuff. “So, Cassidy. Tell me more.”
He shrugged. “We dated, we decided we wanted other things, and then we split up.”
“But ever since, you haven’t been in another serious relationship. Why is that?” She studied him, trying to figure out this puzzle. “Maybe . . . Cassidy broke your heart and you’ve never been able to recover, so you became this rakish man-about-town to hide your pain.”
He cocked his head in amusement. “Man-about-town? Do we still use that term?”
“We do when we’re trying to be polite and not say ‘man whore.’”
“Tell me how you really feel, Sinclair. Don’t hold back.”
“Come on,” she said, with a grin. “You’ve heard the story about my ex. Heck, I even told you the part about walking up the stairs with no shoes.”
“And I still say you should’ve chucked them at the asshole.” Vaughn sat forward, resting his arms on the table. “All right, so here’s the story. When Cassidy and I dated, I was only a couple years into my career with the FBI. They assigned me to the squad that investigates violent crimes against children: kidnappings, sexual abuse, and online predators. It’s typical to assign guys like me to that area: meaning, guys who don’t have kids themselves. And, generally, they only keep you in that squad for a couple years because it gets to you.
“Don’t get me wrong. Out of my entire career, I’m most proud of the work I did on that squad. Whenever you tell someone you’re an FBI agent, they ask you about terrorism or organized crime or serial killers—but sometimes it’s the smaller cases, the ones that don’t get any media attention, that make you realize you really are making a difference in people’s lives. I once carried a seven-year-old girl out of a basement where her stepfather had locked her up and had been abusing her for nearly two years. That’s something I’ll never forget.”
He paused there. “But on the flip side, seeing that kind of stuff day in and day out is tough. It wears on you. About six months in, after seeing the sort of sick bastards that are out there, it got to the point where I didn’t think I’d ever want to bring kids into this world. Cassidy, however, really wanted a family. And since I wasn’t in a place to give her that, we decided to go our separate ways.”
Sidney sat there, not sure what to say for a moment. “I didn’t realize you’d done that kind of work with the FBI. I can see why that would scare you off of having kids. Wow.”
He nodded. “The good thing is, once they moved me to a different squad, and I got some distance from those cases, things eventually got back to normal. I started doing undercover work, and that’s been a really good fit for me.”
“That’s great.” And Sidney was glad to hear it. But . . . she was missing something. “And when things got back to normal, and you once again were in a position to have a committed relationship, you decided to keep playing the field because . . . ?”
“Because . . . I realized it’s fun to date lots and lots of women?”
She did a mental head-thunk. Of course that was his answer.
He held out his hands. “Look, I’m sorry if I don’t have some deeper, darker reason. I fell into this lifestyle because of my job, and then I realized I like it. What else can I say?”
She shook her head. “You know, I was with you as you were telling the FBI story. Hell, I even started to feel a little bad for the things I said at the coffee shop. And then—poof—we’re right back where we started.”
“You’re irritated with me again.”
Sidney thought about that for a moment. Then she sighed. “No, not irritated. You’re right—at least you’re honest. You’re a known commodity, Vaughn. I guess there is some merit in that.”
A long silence fell between them.
“So how did your date go yesterday?” he asked, changing the subject. “You never texted me back.”
Great. Another fun topic—her as-of-yet-fruitless quest to find Mr. Right. “You were right about High School Guy. As soon as I busted him on the ‘not dating anyone right now’ thing, the date went completely downhill.” She ran her hands through her hair and sighed. “Is it too late for me to realize that I’m a lesbian? Sure, I like penises, but I’m a smart girl—I could figure out what to do with the lady bits if need be.”
“As hot as it is to imagine you figuring out what to do with the ‘lady bits,’ I don’t think you need to worry. You’re the total package, Sidney: smart, gorgeous, successful . . . dynamite in bed, too,” he added, with a knowing grin. “It’s not going to be long before some really lucky guy figures that out.”
She rested her hand in her chin, and smiled genuinely at him. “That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Vaughn Roberts.”
She waited for him to make a joke or say something dry or sarcastic, but instead he just looked at her with the strangest expression. “What?”
He blinked. “Uh, nothing.” Immediately, whatever that look had been, it was gone.
“So I’m dynamite in bed, huh?” Sidney preened a little, hearing that—especially coming from such an expert. After Brody had cheated, there’d been a small part of her that had wondered if perhaps she hadn’t been sexy enough compared to his twenty-four-year-old lover.
Vaughn looked her over, his eyes suddenly a warm dark green-gold. “Baby, you are as fiery as that tiny landing strip of red hair between your—”
“Okay, got the picture. Thank you.” She took a sip of ice water, then set down her glass. “Stop looking at me like that. I know what you’re thinking.”
There was that devilish smile. “What am I thinking?”
“That I’m going to sleep with you again because I’m feeling dejected about men and you”—she took in his broad shoulders, lean muscles, and ruggedly handsome face—“are a pleasant enough distraction.”
“Pleasant enough distraction?” He gave her a get-real look. “And for the record, you’re wrong. I couldn’t sleep with you today even if I am thinking about it. I have a seven-day rule.”
“What’s a seven-day rule?”
“I don’t have sex with the same woman twice in one week. That starts to get too couple-y.” He saw her roll her eyes. “Oh, you ca
n have a checklist with thirty-four items, and I can’t have one rule?”
Touché.
• • •
THEY PARTED WAYS on the sidewalk outside the restaurant.
“You’re heading back to the office, then?” Vaughn asked.
She nodded. “As much as I would love to play hooky on a Friday afternoon like this, I need to get back. I’m trying to steal a CEO away from PetSmart.”
“If I had a dime every time a woman used that old excuse to ditch me.”
She smiled. “So tomorrow’s the big day, huh?” she said, referring to Simon’s bachelor party.
“Yep. For you, as well. Do you have some crazy girl’s night out planned for the bachelorette party?”
“Maybe,” she said, being cryptic.
Vaughn thought about Sidney being out on the town, drinking, wearing another one of her sexy dresses, getting wild with the rest of the girls, and probably flirting with guys. He felt a stab of something oddly possessive—which he quickly brushed aside. Sure, perhaps he felt a little protective toward her. That was only natural; they’d gotten close over the last few weeks. In fact, the stuff he’d told her about the dark phase he’d gone through after working on the child victims squad was something he almost never spoke about. He liked talking to her, and hanging out with her, and he sure as hell enjoyed sleeping with her. But that was all it was—they were just having fun together. They wanted completely opposite things, and they both knew that.
“Just don’t do anything tomorrow night that I wouldn’t do,” he told her.
“Well, that doesn’t eliminate much, does it?” She winked and turned confidently on her heel, long auburn swinging.
Probably he should’ve phrased that a different way.
Twenty-two
FIFTEEN WOMEN, INCLUDING Isabelle, let out a collective cheer when the waiter arrived at their table carrying a tray of lemon drop shots.
He served Isabelle first, setting one of the shot glasses in front of her. “For the bride-to-be.”
Isabelle took a tiny sip and her eyes widened. “Wow, that’s strong.”