Oughta Be a Movie: a Sugar-&-Spice romantic comedy
Read Oughta Be a Movie: a Sugar-&-Spice romantic comedy Online
Authors: Susan Hammond
Oughta Be a Movie
a
Sugar-&-Spice
romantic comedy
. . . . .
Susan Hammond
To John . . .
“You had me at hello.”
Table of Contents
How bad could it get?
Saturday night, no date. It could be worse.
Saturday night, no date, Valentine's Day. It
was
worse.
Ali turned and took her place, her smile plastered on, as the music changed and all eyes turned to the back of the sanctuary.
It was a
lot
worse. Saturday night, Valentine's Day, no date, and maid of honor in her best friend's wedding. Wearing a poufy dress. Well, maybe not poufy, but swirly and pink—Bree said it was tea rose—a halter-style throwback to 1950's Hollywood that barely covered her nips. Bree also claimed it was elegant. As if you could be elegant when you bore a striking resemblance to an over-iced strawberry cupcake.
Nope. Elegant was sitting right there in the fourth row, next to Ali's former fiancé, actually almost fiancé. But Pippa—is anybody really named Pippa? Okay, there's that in-law of the royal family. But
this
Pippa was wearing Ali's ring.
Except it wasn't Ali's ring because just over a year ago while Ali blissfully picked out wedding colors and venues in her head, expecting a romantic New Year's Eve proposal, Timothy had been rehearsing his it's-not-you-it's-me-babe speech. Then he added the kicker: he was moving to London in two days. Two days? Who planned a move to another country in two days? As it turned out, no one. He'd gotten the transfer six weeks earlier—six weeks when he'd remained a frequent visitor to her bed. Rat bastard, but at least Timothy Smithfield had been
her
rat bastard.
A small movement caught her eye. Looking over at her brother Josh, her heart clenched a little, seeing his sappy grin and his lame attempt to hide the tears in his eyes as he watched Bree come down the aisle to him. Her best friend was marrying her brother. As unexpected as it had been, she was glad they'd found their happy ever after. Really. She was. But
damn
.
So how did this all add up? Saturday night, Valentine's Day, no date, the only unattached female in the wedding party, and her former fiancé—okay, boyfriend if she had to be exact—of two years sat cozied up to his current and gorgeous fiancée while Ali wore a cupcake dress.
If this wasn't justification for slutty wedding sex, then what the hell would be? She wasn’t too sure what slutty wedding sex involved, but it must include hot, sweaty, one night, no strings, tell-me-your-name-again, screaming O's. Exactly what she needed. Even if an O that made her scream was only a figment of her imagination.
Checking over the line of groomsmen, she considered possible candidates. On the far end was Chase, the man whore. Plenty of potential for slutty sex there, and he had a reputation for having top-of-the-line equipment and knowing what to do with it. But she'd have to take a number and get in line. Then there was her cousin Jeff. Actually second or third cousin. But still. Eww. Which brought her to Jack, really cute, and he was gazing lovingly in her direction. Yep, he sure was—right over her shoulder at his wife Hannah whose sizable baby bump was currently brushing Ali's back. Scratch Jack.
So that left the best man—as in The. Best. Man.
Ben Harrison had been her brother's best friend since seventh grade and her favorite of Josh's friends because Ben never treated her like the annoying little sister or a pest—even when she was one—always willing to indulge her science-project-of-the-day. The first genuine smile since starting down that aisle spread across her face as she remembered her weeks of bug collecting with Ben's help. He'd hated every minute of it.
Back then he was adorable but, for sure, not a hunk. At age seventeen, Ben was shorter than the other guys, built like a teddy bear, thick Coke-bottle glasses sliding down his nose, the cutest dimples. Everything had changed the summer after his first year at UCLA. The man that came home was a little over six feet, nice chest and shoulders, scruff on his face, glasses be gone. Even his damn voice was deeper.
Ali was sixteen that summer, and she'd flirted her inexperienced ass off, but he'd sweetly pretended not to notice her fumbling attempts to get him to ask her out. All she'd gotten for her efforts was an invitation to watch old movies with him as he did the prep for a history of film class he was taking in the fall.
The summer after her first year at Vanderbilt, Ben came back to Houston for a couple of weeks before starting his first real job as a screenwriter for a small Hollywood studio. The
nice chest was gone, replaced by more of an oh-my-god-will-you-look-at-that chest. Forget a six-pack, at least eight, with a hint of a V-cut, framing that happy trail, setting her girl parts dancing when she thought about the confident, easy way he had, hanging around the pool at the club with the rest of Josh's gang.
Her flirting skills had improved, but it hadn't mattered. He’d deposited her smack dab in the middle of his friend zone—more like wedged her into a friend-zone crevice so tight only a shift in the tectonic plates could get her out.
Now he had his own screenwriting workshop, been nominated for awards. Ali had seen pictures of him with stars and soon-to-be's and wannabe's. Even if she could figure out how to wiggle out of that crevice he'd crammed her into, she wasn't his type. And she didn't have to be a rocket scientist to know he was completely out of her high-school-chemistry-teacher league.
But his friend zone was better than nothing. And since her secret fantasies about him would shock his designer socks off—never mind that she'd named her favorite five-speed, turbo-charged, battery-operated boyfriend Big Ben—her secret fantasies would stay just that. Secret.
Thoughts of her battery-assisted fantasies sent her gaze south, right to the very real Big Ben. Not a good idea. Standing in front of a church packed with people, staring at the best man's crotch, was a Class A violation of the maid-of-honor code of conduct.
She forced her eyes back to his face, not a hardship. Except—
crap
—his dark hazel eyes were looking right at her. And he was trying not to smile. Could this get any worse? Yeah, it could. He winked. That's how bad it could get.
. . . . .
Ben bit the inside of his cheek to stop the grin that threatened as he watched Ali blush. Her face now matched that dress. Damn, she's cute. And the curvy little spitfire would have his balls if he told her that.
Thinking about her and his balls—not for the first time—gave his cock a nudge. He was here to get Josh married, not bang his little sister. If Josh had any idea of all the things Ben would like to do with, for, and to Ali, he'd be demoted from best man in the middle of the ceremony, and it would be the whole package, not just his balls, that needed protection.
And if sweet, vanilla Ali knew? God, she'd be running out of here so fast she'd be nothing but a pink blur.
He and Josh had been friends since they were assigned as lab partners in seventh grade, right after Ben moved to Houston. The first time he was invited to the McKenna's for dinner, he met Ali, a nine-year-old force of nature. A smart, funny, sassy tomboy, always trying to keep up with her big brother and his friends, her big chocolate eyes sparkling with curiosity, that mop of honey-brown curls always in disarray, and a fearless confidence about whatever adventure life was about to offer. Ben had never met anyone like her.
She’d always had him wrapped around her little finger, sucking him into playing with the chemistry set she'd gotten that first Christmas or cajoling him into helping with the bug collection she'd started one summer. That
memory still gave him the creeps. And when Ali started talking fuel ratios, lift, and thrust, her mother had drawn the line at building rockets. He'd taken that on as his science project, of course, because Ali wanted to build rockets.
Then she'd grown breasts. Ben blew out his breath in a long sigh as he remembered how her body had changed when she was in eighth grade: those breasts were a masterpiece to his sixteen-year-old eyes. Hell, still were to his 31-year-old eyes.
Today watching her walk down the aisle, the soft, silky fabric swishing around her calves, that neckline not covering enough to stop his imagination…but then when it came to Ali his imagination didn't need much help. As far as his fantasies went, the white bikini she'd worn to the pool the summer she was sixteen still held top-billing.
His freshman year in college, his body had finally caught up with the other guys' and an all-you-can-eat, 24/7 buffet of female possibilities presented itself. But then he'd felt even more like a freak, conflicted about his cravings and certainly not going to talk to anyone about it. By his senior year, he'd almost accepted his own "particular" sexual tastes, as the
New York Times
blurb described the
Fifty Shades
hero's predilections.
But unlike Mr. Grey, he was far from smooth at handling them. He'd almost stopped dating, spending his time when he wasn't studying either writing or running or working out because "How about dinner Saturday night, then later maybe we can go back to my place, and I'll tie you up," wasn't the most successful of pick-up lines. What he wanted, what he needed, was too dark, too much for most women—and certainly for sweet Ali.
Over the years, he'd learned to temper his most dominant, controlling inclinations, developed a more effective script for himself, and let Ali believe she was safely tucked into his friend zone.
Startled out of his ruminations, he was a beat behind as Josh and Bree took the two steps up to the altar.
Get your head in the game, Ben-O.
Then Ali bent forward to adjust Bree's train, giving him a view of that glorious cleavage and a hint of pink lace.
Not that head, and not that game.
Tented pants during the ceremony were surely frowned upon in the best man's manual.
He'd dated some Ali-look-alikes. All that did was remind him that he couldn't have the real thing because even if they looked a little like her, the rest of the package was always a second-rate substitute. So now his dates were about as far from Ali as he could get. He'd had a couple of relationships that lasted long enough to call the women girlfriends, dated a little, tried a little club play, but it wasn’t his thing. Now he made the odd hook-up when it had been too long.
It was a far different reality than what the public saw. Mostly he was tapped as an occasional escort for some up-and-coming starlet, arranged by his agent or hers for some public appearance. All for show, and all pretty meaningless. No. Completely meaningless.
"The ring?"
Ben stared at the minister holding out his hand.
Ring? Oh yeah, the ring.
He reached into his inside jacket pocket hoping to hell it was there and with relief handed it over, ignoring the groom's smirky, what-the-fuck glance. Josh would grill him later, so he'd need to come up with something better than "I was thinking about your little sister's breasts."
Because even if they could get beyond his tastes and her innocence, she would still be Josh's little sister. And Josh would
not
be amused.
Ben was twelve when he and his dad moved to Houston after his parents split. He didn’t know anybody there, his mom was 200 miles away, and his dad was fighting depression. But he and Josh had clicked when Ben introduced him to Dungeons and Dragons, inventing characters and stories—backstory he'd call it now—and adventures.
Josh had never cared that Ben wasn't cool or a jock, was kind of a nerd, he'd just brought him into the fold at a time when Ben needed a friend. And the McKennas had welcomed him like their third kid when Ben needed a family.
But one stupid slightly drunken conversation surely put Ali off limits to Ben forever as far as Josh was concerned. Josh was in his last year of law school and had come out to LA to spend spring break with Ben. They were sitting at an outside table across from the Santa Monica Pier when Ben noticed a girl wearing denim cut-offs walk by.
Just as she passed him, Josh sighed theatrically. "Now
that's
a spankable ass."
It was as simple as one glance over his shoulder at the pert cheeks walking away. And three little words: "
That
. It. Is."
Josh raised his bottle; Ben clinked his against it.
They didn't say anything else. Guys don't talk about this shit. But they both knew, both learned something about the other that day. They may share certain kinks—he didn't know what kind of games Josh and Bree played, didn't want to know—but no matter. Josh would
never
tolerate the thought of Ben with his little sister.
The tenor started singing again, and Ben snuck a glance at Ali, felt the usual smile. Smiles were easy around her. There'd been one time after she'd started teaching that he'd thought maybe—but it didn't play out the way he wrote it. And even if all the other obstacles could be overcome, there was too much to lose. He'd never risk her friendship.