Angie shot me a wry glance. “I’m claiming the husband,” she said, making both Sloane and me laugh.
“Not a problem,” I said. “I’m content with the house.” At the moment, I was very content with the house. And with the man. But I didn’t feel the need to share with my friends the fact that I’d just had phone sex in my soon-to-be living room. Especially not since I was still enjoying the glow.
“For now you’re content with a house,” Sloane said. “But soon you’ll want a man for changing lightbulbs and mowing the front yard. That’s just the way the world works.”
“Is that why you’re so keen on Tyler?” Angie teased. “His excellent lightbulb-changing skill?”
“That’s one of the benefits of living in a suite at The Drake,” Sloane said archly. “We don’t have a front yard, and maintenance takes care of the bulbs. Which frees up our schedule nicely for sex.”
And since neither Angie nor I could argue with an answer like that, we all clinked glasses and took yet another sip.
We’d been in Coq d’Or, the historic bar inside The Drake hotel, for over two hours now. I was on my third Manhattan, and was enjoying the kind of pleasant buzz that comes from a mixture of good alcohol and great friends.
Angie propped her elbow on the bar, then rested her chin on her fist as she looked past Sloane to me. “It occurs to me that your house is going to need more than a few fresh lightbulbs and a neatly trimmed yard. I imagine Cole’s pretty handy with a toolkit.” She caught Sloane’s eye, and they both snorted with laughter.
I just shook my head in mock reproach.
“Aren’t you going to tell us what happened?” Sloane asked. “You were both at the gala, and then you both disappeared.”
“A woman doesn’t kiss and tell,” I said archly.
“At least there was kissing,” Angie said.
I held up my hand. “Stop the madness.” I wasn’t inclined to discuss the strange development of my relationship with Cole, but I grinned and let some laughter into my voice, just so that my friends wouldn’t pick up on my hesitancy. “We’re running out of time and we need to talk about the wedding. Just a few more weeks,” I said to Angie. “Are you nervous?”
“About what?” she asked, so sincerely that I knew she wasn’t joking.
“Aren’t brides supposed to be nervous?” I asked.
She lifted a shoulder. “If they are, I’m not sure why they get married. How could I be nervous about spending my life with Evan?”
“I think it’s the wedding more than the husband that stresses out most brides,” Sloane said.
“Fortunately, we both have my mother for that,” Angie said, looking pointedly at me.
“And for which I am completely grateful.” When Angie had asked me to be her maid of honor, I’d told her that I would be happy to take on the role, but if she wanted a sane and stress-free wedding, she probably didn’t want someone as clueless as me handling all the traditional wedding-y things that the bride’s right-hand gal usually took care of.
Since Angie’s mother was a senator’s wife with very particular ideas about what her little girl’s wedding should look like—not to mention a huge and energetic staff to help pull it all together—my utter lack of resourcefulness was not a problem.
My role had been limited to drinking with the bride, calming wedding day jitters, and organizing the bachelorette party with Sloane.
Maybe not traditional, but it worked for us.
“Speaking of,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing something incredibly important and wedding planning-ish this afternoon? Your mom told me that Sloane and I could only have you for three hours, and since I was late getting here . . .”
I might not have the traditional maid of honor job, but I figured if I could keep the bride on schedule and her mother happy, then I was more than earning my keep.