No Weddings (2 page)

Our time had come. After almost a year of planning, our dream was now a reality. The idea of opening a bar in Philly’s Old City Arts District had finally been realized.

Ben bowed his head at my sister. “Thanks, Kiki. Your design skills are incomparable. Speaking of design skills, the cake you see up at the bar was custom-made for our grand opening tonight by up-and-coming baker Hannah Martin. Thanks, Hannah. I’m sure it tastes as good as it looks.”

At Ben’s introduction, Kiki gestured her arms to the brunette on her right, who I had yet to officially meet. Then Kiki turned, speaking with a friend of ours from the country club.

I made my way toward my sister and Hannah through the crowd. The last of Ben’s words echoed and twisted in my head while I stared at Hannah.
I’m sure she tastes as good as she looks.

As I approached them, my focus remained on Hannah Martin, whose features had been pulled straight out of my fantasies: wavy dark hair, expressive eyes, pouty lips, and mouthwatering curves.

On the edge of my awareness, Ben raised his beer high as he finished his speech. “Enjoy the celebration. Drink, dance, eat cake, and tell all your friends about Loading Zone.”

A thumping bass rhythm began to vibrate through the room as I once again dragged my gaze from Hannah’s high heels, up her shapely legs, to the bottom hem of a black dress that clung to every curve, dip, and gorgeous swell.

My gaze lifted to her face and locked with hers right as I stepped within talking distance. Happily caught in the act, I smirked.

Hannah’s expression hardened, eyes narrowing.

Okayyy.
Clearly she didn’t like a man appreciating the assets she’d put on proud display.

I glanced at my sis as she took a sip of a frozen strawberry daiquiri. She was just now turning my way, oblivious to the frosty reception I’d gotten.

“Cade!” Kiki side-lunged into me, giving me a half hug. “Have you guys met yet? Hannah, this is my brother, the one I’ve been telling you about. Cade, this is Hannah, the baker from my art class.”

I reached a hand out toward Hannah, but instead of shaking it, she crossed her arms over her chest and gave me a curt nod.

The one I’ve been telling you about?
I wondered what Kiki had said about me.

Setting my jaw, I pulled my hand back.

When one of our waitresses rushed by, I stopped her with a gentle hand on her forearm. “Hey, Jillian, do you have a drink menu?”

“Sure, boss. I mean, Cade.” Jillian smiled and gave me a slim menu from her pocket before continuing on toward the bar.

“Would you like a drink?” I held out the laminated list of specialty drinks to Hannah.

Her gaze drifted down. She glared at the menu like it had teeth and might bite. After a sigh, she unlocked one of her folded arms and took it from me.

Kiki glanced around the room. “You two good? I’m going to find Mom and Dad.”

I nodded behind me. “Try the bar. Everyone was back there a few minutes ago.” Everyone being our parents, our other two sisters, and a few close friends.

I stood alone with Hannah, who now wore glasses balanced low on her nose. The librarian look did nothing to mar her beauty. If anything, it enhanced it.

“See anything you like?” Loaded question. I know.

She shrugged, glancing up from the menu to give me a hard stare. Taking her time, she scanned her gaze down my body, then shot it back up to my face and tilted her head. She handed the menu back to me before crossing her arms once again.

“Not really.”

Oh, so that’s how it is.

Hannah Martin was a contradiction in the flesh. Tempting cleavage swelled over a low neckline, guarded behind crossed arms. Her toned body was held rigid, her full lips pressed in a firm line.

Beautiful, but clearly unattainable.

She was a hotter-than-fuck…Ice Queen.

Six Months Later

“T
hanks for kicking my New Year’s off with a bang.”

Firm breasts were pressed into my chest. She leaned further into me as we stood off to the side of the dwindling crowd, her hands clasped around my neck. Fingers slid through my hair, tugging, gripping.

She didn’t want to let go. I could hardly blame her.
That
was one hell of a ride.

“Anytime, Amber. I’m a full-service host.”

With care not to topple the girl who already teetered on four-inch heels, I untangled us and propped her against the bar. She stretched her talented fingers out for an untouched Champagne glass, but I quickly lifted it out of her way. She’d had plenty of fun for the night.

“Ben, grab her a cab ride home?” He had agreed to help with my family’s party tonight which was held in a converted backyard barn.

He shook his head. “Nah, I’ll take her.”

“Thanks, man.” We bumped knuckles before he grasped her elbow and led her out.

Did it seem cold not to take the girl home? Maybe. But she knew the score with me. Not that I knew what the hell was up with me, but I needed no-strings-attached therapy to be able to deal.

Shoving my fingers into my hair, I rubbed my scalp and turned around—then grimaced. Three blue-eyed brunettes stood across the room, glaring at me, as my sisters often did.

How long have they been watching?

Long enough, I decided on a heavy sigh as the magnified strength of their glares tried to strip the skin off my hide. I grinned wide, pissing them off even further.

Glitter and confetti covered the maple floor. Blue and silver balloons floated around, dragging their ribbons. Someone at the main control panel silenced the music and turned off the giant flat-screen TV which had been streaming post-ball-drop Times Square footage. The lights went off seconds before amber security lights came on. My oldest sister, Kristen, had done a great job renovating the abandoned space on her country estate, and tonight’s party had made excellent use of it.

As I made my way toward my judge, jury, and executioner, they turned in unison, shaking their heads and muttering while they opened the door that led up to the house. I quickened my stride, weaving through two clean-up crew workers who’d begun sweeping up. I heard a distinct “fuck” from one of my sisters as I caught the edge of the door before it slammed shut.

I chuckled.

Riling them into swearing amused me to no end.

The bitter cold of the first few hours of January bit into the skin under my black dress shirt. Its rolled-up sleeves and untucked hem over dark jeans had earned a couple of rolled-eyed sighs from the sisterhood. Hey, the shirt had a collar. Which was as close to dressed up as I was willing to get on New Year’s Eve.

By the time I opened the French doors and stepped into Kristen’s living room, the three had commandeered the best seats: the overstuffed suede chair and the dark, broken-in leather couch.

All taken.

I ignored their judgy looks, angling toward the fridge.

“Cade!”

I smiled, taking my time in silent defiance to “decide” on what to confiscate. Of course, the Fat Tires in a neat row on the second shelf had been stocked specifically for me. Spreading three fingers, I lifted two of the bottles and popped the door shut.

“Kincade Joseph Michaelson! Get your ass in here now!”

Feeling more than a little devious, I pretend-snuck up behind Kendall—the one with the lungful of attitude—and gave her an open-mouthed ear kiss, finishing with a slobbering lick. “Really?” I rounded the chair, arching a brow at her. “We’re using full legal names now?”

“Uckkk.” The half word lodged in her throat, like a stuck cat hair ball.

Kristen narrowed her eyes at me, growling. “You get full, middle, and last name with plenty of attitude when you fuck a guest while we’re doing a trial-run party.”

I gave her a tired look. “Please. The party was over. I’d put out half a dozen fires, more than all of you put together. At twenty minutes till midnight, with Champagne pouring and guests dancing, if the party wasn’t already a success, my eleventh-hour absence didn’t make a bit of difference.”

With raised brows I met her calculating eyes and waited for the rebuttal. None came.

I knew they had more important things to pick apart, like tonight’s inaugural Michaelson-planned event, which I thought we’d successfully hosted. I moved with purpose toward the seat I wanted, regardless of the impertinent ass currently warming it.

Kiki’s big blue eyes widened, locking on to mine as I stalked
my
spot on the most worn corner of the couch. Those eyes narrowed in challenge, and her arms and legs spread out. She gripped the arm and back cushion, as if her slight mass would make a difference in my tossing her aside without a strained breath.

“No.” Kiki braced her legs, defending her stolen territory.

I tilted my head and placed my beers out of harm’s way on a safe corner of the side table. Their clinks on the glass surface were the last sounds heard before her earsplitting squeals. In a fluid movement, honed from years of practice, I yanked her up by the waist, swung her around, and threw my weight back, landing on the couch.

Kicking and screaming, she landed on my lap.

“Hey, watch the elbows!” I shoved my arms over my groin to guard against cheap body shots.

Kiki extricated herself from my lap in a dramatic huff and glared at me while she planted herself in the uncomfortable wing chair, as far away from me as possible. She crossed her arms, silently hating me with her body.

I winked at her. She loved me.

In fact, all my sisters loved me, their baby brother, no matter how pissy they got over my behavior. Kristen’s the oldest. Katherine, or Kiki as we all call her, the next. Kendall is the youngest girl, two years older than me. They were the only people on the planet who got to call me Kincade. And only ever when they were pissed as hell. Or impatient. Or PMSing, which was pretty much all the time.

I had asserted my independence from the cutesy “K” names at the age of three and a half. A defiant toddler learning to spell his name, I only wrote the last four letters in black crayon. To a chorus of
awww
’s and sighs, the girls took to the nickname, and Mom pinned up my artistic masterpiece under a Hello Kitty magnet on the refrigerator with pride.

In a household dominated by pink, I came along and colored their lives in bold black lines. Their world has never been the same.

Dad hardly noticed. Busy in investment banking at one of the world’s largest firms, he was gone seventy hours Monday through Friday. And that was a good week. But he had a large family to support in the style Mom had grown accustomed to. I got decent father–son time on sporadic occasions: a tossed baseball in a glove for a couple of stolen hours; a Mets game once for my birthday. So rare were our “guy times,” I remember every one with clarity.

Was it any wonder that these rowdy girls had become my world? My life’s mission was to have as much fun as possible while simultaneously disrupting theirs. Over a couple of decades, I turned the technique into an art form.

I sprawled out, hogging as much space as possible. I practically owned this couch. I actually would, if squatter’s rights applied to furniture.

Kendall scraped the bottom of a tub of Ben & Jerry’s that she’d defeated; Kiki plucked silver sugar balls off a chocolate frosted cupcake, popping them into her mouth one at a time; and Kristen reclined her head on the back cushion at the other end of the couch, fingertips massaging the pressure points above her brows.

Bored with the heavy melancholy hanging in the room, I took a long draft from my beer and stretched my right foot out, pushing the toe of my boot onto Kristen’s jean-clad thigh. She grunted, but I was disappointed with the dismal reaction.

“What a disaster,” Kendall proclaimed, giving voice to the apparent thickening consensus. She tossed the demolished ice-cream carton onto the cocktail table. The container toppled, the spoon clattering onto the glass surface.

“I don’t know.” Kiki shifted forward, bracing her forearms on black pants. “At times, everything went smoothly. We could break down the problems and streamline things.”

I watched Kristen as I finished my first beer and twisted the top off the second. As I relaxed further into the couch, everyone grew quiet. The two girls who’d spoken now focused their attention on our silent older sister, who remained with her head tilted back on the cushions, her body slouched down.

Kristen’s eldest status wasn’t the only reason the group deferred to her—this country estate was her property. And throwing a party in the refurbished barn out back had been her idea, even if none of the three remembered their excited conversation over breakfast a month ago.

In a calm voice, Kristen finally broke her catatonic state. “Cade, what do you think?”

And there it was.

For all the years of experience and wisdom these girls had, when they wanted an impartial opinion, they asked me.

Because I didn’t give a rat’s ass.

And they all knew it.

Before filtering through my memories of the night, I paid proper respect to my most recent one. I revisited the sex that began against the wall, moved to the stainless steel counter—yeah, that needed disinfecting—and finished with Amber’s screaming orgasm that she muffled into my shoulder as I pulled her straight up against me. I snorted; I could’ve pulled a back muscle, but it was worth it.