The Worst Best Man Read online

  The Worst Best Man

  By M.J. O’Shea

  A rekindled romance wasn’t part of the plan.

  Despite his American background, August O’Leary is the most sought-after wedding planner in London. Naturally, Libby and Edward come to him for a wedding the city will never forget. But Edward is an international businessman, so the details are left to Libby and her best friend—who happens to be the love of August’s life and the one who broke his heart eight years ago: Christopher Burke.

  How’s August supposed to pull off the event of the year with Christopher distracting him and old feelings crashing the party uninvited?

  Christopher has let money and status dictate his life, but no more. His failure to stand up to others’ expectations cost him his future with August—one he hoped would include marriage. Now he has to face August’s hurt and anger and prove he’s still the best man to make August happy.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Sneak Peek

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author | By M.J. O’Shea

  Coming in March 2017

  Don’t Miss Dreamspun Desires!

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Christopher stopped and stared at August. “I know you’re having a hard time being here. I get it. This is really hard for me too, you know. I’m trying to live with my mistake and accept that you don’t want me, but every time I see you, all I want to do is kiss you.” He reached up and cupped August’s face.

  August shivered at his touch, a touch that was still so familiar even though it had been a lifetime since the last one. “We shouldn’t do this,” he said. It was getting harder and harder to mean it. Christopher had been so attentive, so charming. He was still so beautiful, even more so, if that was possible, grown into his looks and burnished with time. August curled his hand around Christopher’s bicep.

  “I know,” Christopher whispered. Then he closed the distance between them and kissed August.

  It was perfect.

  Christopher’s mouth felt like home, his kisses a memory from another time. August was a kid again, falling in love and dreaming of forever. He clutched Christopher’s arms and moaned into the kiss. Christopher deepened the kiss and ran his free hand down August’s back until he’d wrapped it around August’s hip. August shivered and leaned closer.

  It was trouble, he knew damn well it was trouble, but it felt better than anything he’d felt since Christopher walked out of his life.

  Chapter One

  “HEY, mate, do you have the signed contracts for the Steinberg bat mitzvah yet?”

  August O’Leary’s coworker and best friend, Will, stuck his blond head through the door. He rarely bothered to knock, so August found it easier just to keep the door open. He’d learned his lesson one day when Will had thrown his door open in one of his usual moments of exuberance and nearly broken through the drywall with the brass door handle. Helena Preston Events was one of the premiere event planning firms in London. Wouldn’t do to have an obviously patched wall when they were charging an arm and a leg for their services, would it?

  “I haven’t had a chance to deal with getting them yet. Why?” August had been slammed all day with work orders and phone calls. He hadn’t had time to hound customers for signed paperwork. August the enforcer had taken a backseat to a million more pressing matters.

  “I just wanted to get started on the flower orders, and I can’t do that until we have a signature. Remember what happened with the Stout wedding?”

  What had happened was nine hundred pounds’ worth of blush-colored roses and calla lilies, a cheating groom, and one very angry bride—also incomplete signed paperwork. Their company had to eat the cost of the flowers since there wasn’t anything holding the ex-couple to the payment. Not endearing to their boss, Helena, in the slightest, even if she did love Will and August. Usually.

  August would never make that mistake again.

  “Can you get on the Steinbergs?” Will asked.

  They both knew August was far better at hounding clients for details like checks and signatures. Seeing as he didn’t like to do it any more than anyone else, he wished he’d kept that fun skill to himself. Nobody liked to be the enforcer. Even August. He told himself he’d stand his ground and not fall for Will’s charming smiles. He wasn’t calling the Steinbergs. Someone else’s turn.

  Will walked the rest of the way into August’s office and flopped down on the couch. It was meant for clients so August could have cozy meetings with them to discuss the details of their weddings, birthday parties, or corporate shindigs. Typically, Will got more use out of it than anyone else. It was his favorite hiding place from both Helena and their very capable but rather bossy assistant, Louise. Will liked to hide a lot. Especially when there was a large pub lunch to digest and paperwork to avoid.

  “Will, you know I have a huge list on for today. I don’t have time to run a paper chase.”

  Will started to make one of the signature pathetic noises that usually got him whatever he wanted. It was the blond hair and the big blue eyes. August wasn’t immune, even if Will was straight as a stick and practically his brother. Wasn’t going to work, though. Not today.

  “It’s your fault I’m so busy.” Time to go for the guilt trip. “You’re the one who ‘didn’t want to deal with another society wedding full of posh wankers.’”

  August knew Will hated the finger quotes. It was a surefire way of pissing him off.

  “I hate the finger quotes.”

  He said it every time. August enjoyed annoying him every single time as well.

  “I know. But I’m still the one who got stuck with the Pritts-Shackleton wedding because you didn’t want to deal with them.”

  “People like that always look at me.”

  August sighed. “I know, I know. You’re Northern and not a blue blood, and they give you attitude about it. Well, a Northerner has to be better than an American in their eyes, and yet here I am about to meet with one of London’s premiere society couples. I think you can call the Steinbergs. It’s more than an even trade.” August raised his eyebrow and waited for Will to crumble.

  “Fine.”

  August wondered if he’d ever be able to go back to a past version of himself—sixteen, seventeen, even twenty-year-old him in the middle of a business degree from Oxford—and explain what on earth he was doing working for one of the biggest event planners in London. What he was even doing in England after so many years. He’d only meant to stay for college and then go back to Boston—hell, he’d had enough reasons to leave after graduation, but… he hadn’t.

  He had a life, and he had Will, and it was complicated like things always were. But he was happy. Ish. Some days, like today when he was cold and tired and not in the mood to deal with another picky bride with more money than August would ever see in his life, he wanted to pack his bags and fly home to Mommy, tell her he couldn’t deal with adulthood anymore. But he’d manage. He always did.

  “What do you think our prince and princess will be like?” Will asked.

  “Apparently it’s going to be our princess and her GBF,” August said with an eye roll. “Prince Shackleton is in the import-export business, and he’s quite busy.”

  “This tosser’s really sending a stand-in?”

  “You probably
shouldn’t call our clients tossers.” August bit back a grin. “I guess the dude’s been friends with both of them since birth. Maybe it makes sense in their world.”

  Will made a face. “Better you than me, mate. I don’t love weddings at the best of times. Give me a nice corporate golf tournament to organize any day. Maybe the girl’s mate will be hot. You need a shag.”

  “Thanks for keeping track of my sex life.” August gave Will another eye roll for that. He was far too invested in how often August got laid. “I’m sure this random gay man who walks into our office to plan his friend’s wedding will be up for it. Probably should just skip trousers altogether and tell Miss Pritts to take a hike.” August snorted loudly.

  “Don’t sell yourself short.” Will shrugged. “I would be up for it if I was into dudes.”

  August giggled. “I love you,” he said on a laugh.

  “By the way, you sure you have to go home for Christmas?” Will asked. “My mum was looking forward to seeing you. I swear she loves you more than me. Plus, there isn’t a chance in hell I can make your sticky toffee pudding recipe for her.”

  The holidays were coming up soon, and August had booked ten days off from the office to visit Boston. It had been two years since he’d gone back for more than a long weekend, and he actually missed the big, loud O’Leary clan. Will’s family was a close substitute, but it wasn’t quite the same thing.

  “I can’t this year. I promised my mom I’d come home. She said you’re very welcome to come as well. Maybe our families can just do a son trade.”

  There was something about Will’s down-to-earth, rough-and-tumble personality that fit into the O’Leary family perfectly, maybe even more than August ever had. They loved him, and he loved them right back.

  “I think that’s a solid plan. But we need another solid plan for tonight. One last lad’s night before you desert me for nearly two weeks.”

  August looked out the window at the snow drifting down, a few lazy flakes at a time. The London streets were covered with thin, slippery black ice, and the snow had been falling slow but steady for hours.

  “It’s cold as hell, mate,” he muttered. He had dreams of his cozy little flat and a book.

  “Mate,” Will snickered. “We’ll make a Brit out of you yet. And don’t be a baby. After a few pints, you won’t even be able to feel the snow.”

  August had about zero chance of getting out of the pub night. Will was a force to be reckoned with.

  “Okay. Lad’s night. But no Weezy. He causes trouble.”

  Weezy was Will’s best friend from Sheffield, who’d sort of followed Will to London and never left. He was a laugh when August had nowhere to be for the next three or four days and plenty of time to nurse a hangover. Not when he had to spend the day packing for an evening flight home.

  “I might have already texted Weez. He misses you.” Will gave August his best puppy dog eyes.

  August sighed. “Okay. I’ll be ready after my meeting with the wedding couple. Er, I mean, the bride and her best friend.”

  It was weird. He’d had far weirder. August tried to wipe the memory of eye patches, parrots, and a whole lot of pirate hats from his head. It was best not to think of it.

  “I’ll wait in my office with Louise. She’s coming too.”

  “Louise? Who else did you invite?” It was starting to sound less like a quiet lad’s night at the pub and more like what Will called “A right piss-up.” Those rarely ended well for August. He still hadn’t found his trousers from the last time.

  “You know she’s one of the lads,” Will said.

  August wondered how long it was going to take Will to figure out that their sensible, no-nonsense assistant was desperately in love with him.

  “One of the lads,” August echoed. “Shoo,” he added, making the motions with his hands. “I have to get ready for my meeting. And call the Steinbergs. I want to get properly started on that one when I get back from Boston.”

  Will saluted him as he strolled backward out of the office.

  “LIBBY darling, I’m freezing my bollocks off here,” Christopher Burke complained as he nearly slipped on the ice covering a usually picturesque Mayfair sidewalk.

  It was pitch-dark, and they’d just finished an early dinner at Home House before Christopher’s town car drove them the short distance to Helena Preston Events. Christopher hated that part of winter, where it seemed night chased day and almost constantly swallowed it up before it even had a chance to exist. He needed a week or two on an island after Christmas was over. Sun sounded like the best thing—and perhaps a few days’ respite from his best friends’ long-awaited wedding, which had somehow already eaten up most of his free time despite being months away.

  The event planner’s office was tucked away on a pretty courtyard off Bond Street. Christopher thought he’d like it on a typical day. When he could feel the tips of his fingers at least.

  He’d agreed to accompany his oldest friend on the bulk of her meetings with the wedding planner, seeing as his other oldest friend couldn’t seem to be arsed to get out of work to participate in his own wedding. Christopher was starting to wish he’d declined the honor.

  “Couldn’t we possibly start planning this next month? Or in the spring?”

  The wedding wasn’t until August. Certainly they didn’t need over eight months to put one wedding together. Christopher didn’t know how society event planning usually worked—as many of the damn things as he’d attended over the years, he typically avoided anything that smacked of preparation like the plague.

  “No,” Libby grumbled, “we cannot. I managed to get an appointment with Helena Preston’s best-rated event team. I’m not losing them.”

  “Certainly they’d rather go home and reschedule.” Christopher gave her a winning smile. He had fond memories of the afternoon he’d spent on the settee in front of the fire with a book before he’d been ousted quite forcibly by a very small, determined woman. He didn’t have much company other than Fergus, his middle-aged Irish setter, but that was enough for him.

  “We’re almost there. Quit being a baby.” Libby pinched his side.

  “If you make me fall, you’re finding a new best man. And friend.”

  Libby pealed out a giggle. Someday she’d take him seriously. “Edward told me to make sure I kept with the garden party theme. His mother isn’t fussed about the venue as long as they can accommodate at least four hundred. Outdoors hopefully, according to her, although why anyone wants that in bloody England where it could rain at any moment is beyond me,” she grumbled.

  “Why are you letting Gloria run your wedding?” Christopher muttered. “This isn’t about her. It’s about you.”

  “I know.” They’d been having the same argument for at least five years. Ever since Libby and Edward had tentatively agreed they should get engaged—romance at its finest, as far as Christopher was concerned. “I just don’t want to argue with her on the things that I don’t care about, and venue is one of them. If she wants to pick my dress, we’ll fight. Let’s just… see what the planner has to say.”

  “Did you get a name? Who are we meeting with?”

  “His name is Will, I believe, although they’re a team of three. Helena told me they were her best.”

  “Of course she did.”

  HELENA Preston Events was tucked on a small cobbled courtyard that managed to be quaint and charming right in the middle of London. Christopher had always loved those little finds, the quiet corners in a bustling city that reminded him of the countryside estate he’d grown up in. The buildings were brick, the street was pedestrian only, and her entire first-floor bay window was painted a shiny cherry red. A sign hung out perpendicular to the door that read “Helena Preston Events,” white on stylish navy blue.

  It seemed they had found their destination.

  Christopher shook the snow off his jacket and kicked lightly at the brick to remove the buildup from his Chelsea boots. They were getting trashed in this abominable weather.
He’d need a new pair soon.

  He opened the door and ushered Libby inside. They were greeted by what looked like the sitting room in an upscale teahouse—tall ceilings, pale green walls, potted palms, light cushioned furniture, and a spindly white wrought iron table, laden with pamphlets and photo albums instead of tea cakes and a pot of English Breakfast.

  “Are you the Pritts-Shackleton party?” a perky blonde asked from behind the desk.

  Her hair was shiny, and her sweater was neat and buttoned up to the neck. Christopher was only vaguely annoyed. He missed his deep leather chair and his dog. Call him old—Libby and Edward did quite regularly—he still wanted to be at home.

  “Yes. I’m Libby Pritts. This is my friend, Christopher.”

  “Oh yes, I remember. Mister O’Leary will be with you in a moment.”

  O’Leary.

  Christopher’s stomach did a quick, horrible swoop when he heard the name he hadn’t heard in so many years. O’Leary. What were—no. Don’t be ridiculous. He remembered Libby saying they were meeting with a bloke called Will. It wasn’t him. Christopher would be ready when they finally met again. He wasn’t nearly ready. It didn’t matter, because they were meeting Will O’Leary. He was safe.

  Christopher sat on suddenly shaky legs and let Libby babble over him. It was ludicrous how one name, a fairly common one at that, had enough power to bend him to his core.

  August.

  It had been so long.

  And then he heard it—the voice he’d never in his life forget, floating down the hall on the tail of a laugh. “Don’t leave without me. My appointment is here,” he said, and then before Christopher even had the chance to breathe in and out, he was turning the corner into the main room and he was there. Slim and ginger-haired, high cheeks, lush lips, big blue eyes, and the most adorable smattering of freckles. There were a few more years around his eyes and a whole lot more money in his clothing, but there wasn’t a doubt in Christopher’s mind.