The Worst Best Man

by Lucy Score

Genres: Romance; Romantic Comedy; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

The bride is a doll. The groom is the perfect gentleman. But the rest of the wedding party? They're the stuff of nightmares. Rich? Check. Vapid? Double Check. Entitled? Not enough checks in the world. And the Best Man? More like the Worst Man.

But Maid of Honor Franchesca takes her duties seriously. Kidnapped groom? She's got this. Rude attendees? You just watch her handle them. So a Best Man with a big attitude and an even bigger...checkbook? Yeah, there's no way she's going to let that pretentious, judgmental jackhole ruin her best friend's wedding. No matter how sexy he is. (Well, that's the plan anyway...)

Aiden Kilbourn doesn't do long-term relationships. He's busy ruling the business world, and has yet to find a woman he can tolerate for longer than a month, two at the outside, anyway. Conquering the unconquerable is basically his bread and butter. And he hasn't met a challenge that he can't win. But Franchesca Baranski? This smart-mouthed girl from Brooklyn may just be his downfall.

Release date: January 16, 2024

Publisher: Bloom Books

Print pages: 448

Reader says this book is...: entertaining story (4) escapist/easy read (3) happily ever after (4) terrific writing (4) action-packed (2) emotionally riveting (1) heart touching (1) heartwarming (1) high heat (3) strong chemistry (3) strong heroine (2) realistic characters (2) rich setting(s) (1) satisfying ending (1) sex scenes (2) swoon-worthy (1) unputdownable (1) year's top 10 (1)

Sample

Chapter 1

 

 

It was the bridal party from hell. The gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and acres of Italian marble of the Grand Terrace Ballroom couldn’t dress up the fact that a hot mess was currently in progress. From her vantage point on the upper balcony that ringed the hotel’s sunken ballroom, Frankie could see it all.

 

The groomsmen, in their Armani and Brioni, were overgrown frat boys destined to spend their lives reliving their prep school glory days. Their trust funds were cushy enough to buy their way out of any real trouble.

 

The bridesmaids were worse. All working on landing husband number two—or three in Taffany’s case. They were on the prowl for men who came with a favorable prenup and a yacht in Saint Tropez.

 

To Frankie, it was a literal circus. But there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do for the bride, including standing up for her best friend in a three-ring mess of a $350,000 wedding. Pru and Chip were the golden couple of the Upper West Side. College sweethearts who had found their way back to each other. And Frankie was more than happy to be a part of their extravagantly special big day.

 

If this engagement party was any indicator of how fabulous the destination wedding would be, Frankie wasn’t sure how a poor, sarcastic girl from Brooklyn with big hair would fare amongst the who’s who in Barbados. But for Pru, she’d give it her best shot.

 

Besides, it gave her a chance to ogle the best man in person. She snagged a champagne glass from a passing tray, winking at the server who joined her against the balustrade. She eyed Aiden Kilbourn across the room. Impeccable, aloof, and painfully beautiful.

 

“I can’t believe we got this gig,” Jana, the server hissed. “I never in a million years thought I’d see Manhattan’s Most Eligible Bachelor in person, let alone serve him champagne!”

 

“Don’t spill anything on him, Jan,” Frankie cautioned.

 

“You mean ‘don’t pull a Frankie.’” Jana smirked.

 

Frankie lifted a shoulder. “The guy grabbed my ass. What was I supposed to do, not drop a tray of canapés on his lap?”

 

“You’re my hero,” Jana sighed.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Get back down there before they start sobering up. And tell Hansen to maybe migrate away from the ladies’ room. He’s not getting any phone numbers tonight.”

 

Jana tossed her a mock salute. “On it, boss.”

 

Frankie watched Jana nimbly skip down the stairs, tray aloft. As soon as Pru and Chip had announced their engagement, she’d snapped up a second job with a catering company, knowing the cost of doing business with the privileged. She wasn’t about to let Pru pay for her bridesmaid dress or her plane tickets, though the offer was there. Frankie was determined to hang with the socialites just this once without being a charity case, even if it bankrupted her.

 

She ran a hand over her two seasons-old Marchessa that she and Pru had found at an upscale consignment shop in the Village. It was hard to find couture that fit her curves. Pru and the rest of the bridesmaids were nymphy waifs. All blonde, all thin, all B-cups. Well, except for Cressida. Her double Ds spilled out of her size zero Marc Jacobs. Either the woman was blessed with incredible genetics, or they weren’t real. But without getting a handful, Frankie couldn’t tell for sure.

 

Speaking of good genes, she turned her attention back to the man in the white tuxedo jacket. He had a hand in his pocket in that effortlessly casual stance that the rich were born with.

 

At forty, Aiden was Manhattan’s unicorn bachelor. Never married—just a rotating cast of arm candy, the longest of which had lasted nearly three whole months. He rarely smiled, unlike the rest of the cast of characters who pasted on their phony “great to see you” grins. It looked as though he was perhaps as uncomfortable as she was in the thick of things.

 

Pruitt waved to Frankie from the center of the throng. Maid of honor duty engaged. Frankie pasted on a smile of her own before taking to the stairs to join the party. She wove her way between gold cushioned chairs and ivory linen-draped cocktail tables. It’s funny how good the wealthy smelled. All subtle, rich scents as if it emanated from their pores.

 

“You look amazing, Frankie,” Pru told her, dropping the double kiss on the cheeks and squeezing her hand.

 

“Me? Have you looked in a mirror tonight? You look like a high-fashion model pretending to be at an engagement shoot.”

 

“Good enough to eat,” Chip, the golden groom, said swooping in to kiss his bride-to-be.

 

They glowed at each other, and Frankie felt like she was intruding. “Well, I should get back—”

 

“Uh-uh. Not until you meet Aiden,” Pru said, dragging her attention away from Chip. On cue, Chip waved at the man.

 

“That’s okay. I can meet him at the ceremony,” Frankie said.

 

“Frankie doesn’t like high-society people,” Pru stage whispered to Chip.

 

Chip slid an affectionate arm around Frankie’s shoulders. “Good thing she made an exception for us, seeing as we’re classy as fuck.”

 

Franchesca laughed. “You should have put that on your wedding invitations.”

 

Hansen the server approached with a tray of beef crostini, and Chip snatched one off the tray. He popped it into his mouth, eyes rolling back in his head. “Ummm. Frankie, we owe you for the catering recommendation. Delicious.”

 

Frankie gave Hansen a nod in the direction of where Pru’s father was glowering in the corner. The man hadn’t gotten over the fact that Chipper Randolph III had unceremoniously dumped his little girl in the months after college graduation when she’d been expecting a ring. But he was picking up the bill for this shindig, and Frankie was determined to make sure his stomach was full to prevent any hangry outbursts.

 

“Chip. Pru.” The voice was a full octave deeper than Chip’s. Smooth, cultured. Frankie considered asking him to read the grocery list she had stashed in her hand-me-down clutch just so she could listen to him pronounce edamame.

 

“Aiden!” The good breeding kicked in automatically, and Chip turned to his best friend to make the introductions. “Frankie, this is Aiden Kilbourn, my best man. Aiden, this is Franchesca Baranski, the maid of honor.”

 

“Frankie,” Aiden said, extending his hand. “That’s an interesting name.”

 

Frankie gripped and shook. “We’ve got a Taffany and a Davenport in the bridal party, and I’m the one with an interesting name?”

 

His already cool expression chilled a few degrees. Obviously, he wasn’t used to being educated by an underling. “I was merely making an observation.”

 

“You were pre-judging,” she countered.

 

“Sometimes a judgment begs to be made.”

 

She was still holding his hand. Annoyance had her tightening her grip. He returned the squeeze, and Frankie dropped his hand unceremoniously.

 

“So, Aiden,” Pru began brightly. “I met Franchesca my first semester at NYU. She’s brilliant—full-ride scholarship—and she graduated a semester early with a 4.0. Franchesca works part-time for a nonprofit while pursuing her MBA.”

 

Frankie shot daggers at Pru. She didn’t need her best friend trying to talk her up to a snobbish ass.

 

“Aiden is COO of his family’s business. Mergers and acquisitions,” Chip supplied. “I don’t remember his GPA from Yale. But it wasn’t as good as yours, Frankie.”

 

She was about to excuse herself and track down another tray of champagne when the DJ changed it up. The first beats of “Uptown Funk” brought half of Manhattan’s elite rushing to the dance floor like someone had announced the new Birkin bag was available.

 

Pru’s hand clamped down on her arm. “It’s our song!” she squealed. “Let’s go!”

 

Frankie allowed Pru to tow her toward the dance floor. They slid seamlessly into their choreographed dance crafted two years earlier after one of Frankie’s moderately disappointing breakups. They’d polished off two entire pizzas with three bottles of wine and spent the rest of the evening choreographing the perfect ass shaker.

 

“I couldn’t tell if you two were fighting or flirting,” Pru yelled over the music.

 

“Flirting? You’re joking, right? I’m way out of his league.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

Aiden had a headache by the time he’d crossed the marble lobby of the Regency Hotel, one of the bride’s family’s holdings. And he knew an evening spent in the company of the Brat Pack of groomsmen and a few dozen people looking to marry him off, secure his investment, or beg some free advice would only make it worse.

 

But it was the price he paid for privilege. He handed the empty champagne flute to a passing server and wished for scotch. But drinking away his headache wouldn’t do anyone any favors tonight.

 

“How about Margeaux?” Chip asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the model tall, waif-slim blonde. She wore a gold gown with a slit practically to her chin. She was ruthlessly styled, hair perfect, makeup impeccable. She never ate or smiled in public.

 

“How about not on your life? She looks like the equivalent of an ice cube in bed.” Since Chip had found his lasting happiness with Pruitt, he’d made it his mission to drag his best friend Aiden along with him for the ride.

 

“Yeah, she’s horrible,” Chip agreed. “But Pru was her maid of honor so…” he winced. “I’m going to do you a favor and skip over Taffany.”

 

“Thanks,” Aiden said dryly. The woman rebranded herself as Taffany after a second cousin named her baby Tiffany. She was the quintessential party girl. A week didn’t go by when she wasn’t plastered across the gossip blogs flashing her crotch in dresses short enough to be shirts and falling out of rock stars’ SUVs in front of clubs.

 

“How about Cressida?” Chip offered, pointing his glass at yet another blonde. This one’s breasts couldn’t be bothered to stay within the confines of her couture corset. The rest of her was a tan skeleton. She was frowning fiercely and pacing in a short six-foot radius as she yelled into her cellphone in German.

 

“She seems nice,” Aiden observed sarcastically.

 

“She seems like she’d cut your balls off and then ransom you for them,” Chip said cheerfully.

 

“How about Frankie?” Aiden asked, warming to the game. His gaze flicked to her on the dance floor. Her hair was dark, thick, heavy with curls. Her body was lushly curved as highlighted by the simple gold slip gown she wore. Her wide mouth was curved in a generous smile as she laughed at something Pruitt said.

 

“Oh, she’s too good for you,” Chip said. “She’s smart and sarcastic. She’d be too much work for you.”

 

“I see what you’re doing,” Aiden said. He flagged down a server and ordered a Macallan. One wouldn’t hurt. One might take the edge off a bit.

 

“What am I doing? I’m trying to save you from a woman who clearly isn’t your type.”

 

“What’s my type?” Aiden asked, already regretting it.

 

“Tall, painfully thin. Doesn’t smile or speak too much. Someone looking to add you to her bedroom portfolio to make her more attractive to the next potential husband.”

 

“That’s not necessarily my type,” Aiden argued. “That’s just who doesn’t take offense to the arrangement.”

 

“Frankie would take offense,” Chip predicted. “But I think she might also make you regret temporary. She’s a hell of a girl, Aiden.”

 

Aiden watched the woman in question as she shimmied and strutted in unison with Pruitt. She moved like a goddess, tempting mortals with her sinful body. In his experience, women tended to highlight their appeal either across the dining table or in the bedroom. And Franchesca was all bedroom.

 

He turned his back on the dance floor.

 

“When are you going to give up on dragging me into monogamous bliss?” he asked Chip.

 

His friend grinned. “When you find someone who makes you feel the way I do about Pru.”

 

“I’m a Kilbourn. We’re not capable of feelings. Only beneficial mergers.”

 

“That’s a sad statement to make,” Chip said, slapping him on the shoulder. The server, a slip of a girl with a navy streak in her dark hair, hurried to his side. A glass of scotch clutched in her hand.

 

“Here you go, Mr. Kilbourn,” she said in a breathless whisper.

 

“Thank you… Jana,” he said, eyes flicking to her name tag.

 

Her mouth dropped open, and she backed away with stars in her eyes.

 

“See. Why don’t you work some of that charm on Frankie?”

 

“I’m not interested in something that…”

 

“Fun? Smart? Sexy?” Chip supplied.

 

“Flashy,” Aiden corrected. “She dances like she’s got experience on the pole. And she’d probably take that as a compliment.”

 

“No. She wouldn’t,” a husky voice behind him announced.

 

Fuck.

 

Chip, ever the tension diffuser, slapped an innocent grin on his face. “Frankie! Aiden didn’t see you there,” he said pointedly.

 

“Aiden doesn’t seem like the type to notice much of anyone under a certain tax bracket. Why waste his time?” Franchesca announced.

 

She didn’t hesitate to make eye contact. No, she used those blue-green eyes to bore holes into him. He’d been an ass. Usually he was much more careful about voicing his opinions in venues where they could be overheard, misconstrued. He blamed the headache, the three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach.

 

“Pru asked if you’d get her a drink and save her from the Danby twins. They’ve got her cornered by the stairs.” Frankie pointed to the opposite end of the room.

 

“If you two will excuse me, I’ve got to go rescue my fiancée. No bloodshed,” Chip ordered, pointing a stern finger at Frankie.

 

“No promises,” she called after him. She turned back to him, eyes flashing with temper. “Well, if you’ll excuse me—which I don’t give a flying fuck if you do—I don’t want to spend my evening looking at you.”

 

She dismissed him, turning on her heel and whipping that curtain of hair over her shoulder.

 

“Hang on,” he said it quietly, fingers closing around her wrist.

 

“Hands off, Kilbourn, or you’ll be Deadbourn by the time I’m done with you.”

 

He released her but stepped into her path. “Let me apologize.”

 

“Let you?” Franchesca crossed her arms over her chest. “Look, I’m sure you’re used to talking to servants and underlings, but a word of advice? Don’t demand that someone listen to your shit show of an apology. Got it?”

 

The headache was throbbing behind his eyes. No one talked to him that way. Not even his oldest friends.

 

“Please allow me to apologize,” he said, his jaw clenching. He cupped her elbow in his hand and guided her toward an alcove behind a heavy gold curtain.

 

The darkness made the pain in his head ease just a bit, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the rest of it away.

 

“How about I save us both some time?” Franchesca suggested. “You don’t bother apologizing because we both know you meant to be a dick, and I won’t bother pretending to forgive you because I don’t give a shit what you think about me. Fair enough?”

 

There was a cream-colored settee covered in silk, and Aiden sat. The dull throb was making his stomach roll. “Look. I’m not putting my best foot forward, and for that I apologize.”

 

“Future reference again? ‘I apologize’ doesn’t come across as sincerely as ‘I’m sorry.’ You got a headache?”

 

The change in subject had his head spinning. He closed his eyes. Nodded.

 

“Migraine?” she prodded.

 

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

 

She mumbled to herself, and he opened his eyes to watch her dig through her clutch. “Here,” she said, offering him two pills. “Prescription.”

 

“You get them, too?”

 

“No, but Pru does when she’s stressed. I didn’t want her muddling through her engagement party wanting to puke.”

 

“That’s very kind and prepared of you.”

 

“I’m the maid of honor. It’s my job. Now take them like a good little boy.”

 

He lifted his glass, but she stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “Don’t be a dumbass. Alcohol makes it worse.” She took the glass from him and stuck her head out of the curtain. He heard her give a little whistle, and in a moment, she was thanking someone by name and handing him a glass of ice water.

 

“You know the catering staff?” he asked, making conversation while he washed down the tablets.

 

“I am the catering staff. Second job. It’s my night off.” She said it as if she were daring him to find fault with that. “You want me to call you an Uber?” she offered suddenly.

 

“I have a car downstairs.”

 

“Of course you do.”

 

“Why are you being nice to me?” Aiden rubbed a hand over his temple.

 

“Maybe I’m doing it to rub your face in the fact that you’re an ass. And maybe I gave you two birth control pills instead of headache meds just to watch you suffer.”

 

“Maybe I’d deserve it.”

 

The curtain twitched, and the server with the blue hair poked her head in. “Here’s the soda,” she whispered. Her eyes widened when she spotted him, and she backed out of the alcove.