Hot Finish (Fast Track #3)(5)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“We didn’t do a race car theme,” Elec protested. “We just had my car there. It wasn’t a theme.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want a used wedding theme,” Nikki said, looking to her fiancé for support. He just shrugged, chewing the cap of the pen she’d given him.

“How about Elvis?” Ryder said with a grin. “Everybody knows there’s nothing as classy as a wedding with the King.”

Cute. Not. Suzanne would have kicked him under the table but there were too many legs in the way.

“Oh, my God!” Nikki squealed. “You know what would be a great idea, not to get married by a fake Elvis, which is so tacky, but to do Elvis’s wedding. You know, when he married what’s-her-face.”

“Priscilla?” Ryder said. “Yeah, that wedding had style.”

“I love it!” Nikki turned and grabbed Jonas’s arm, causing the wet pen cap to drop onto the table. “Honey, isn’t that a great idea? You could be Elvis and I could be Priscilla!”

“I’ve always wanted to be the King. Thank you. Thank you very much,” Jonas said in a suck-ass Elvis imitation.

Suzanne watched as a dull roar of enthusiasm went up from bridesmaids at the table. Was Nikki ser—

She stopped herself. Of course Nikki was serious. There was no point in further questioning that.

But she had the golden ticket to put the brakes on this Hunka Hunka Burning Crap wedding idea. “But Nikki, Priscilla had jet black hair when she married Elvis. And as you pointed out earlier, you’re definitely blond.”

Instead of Nikki’s face falling in disappointment like she expected, her eyes lit up and her finger rose in the air. “But, the thing is, Priscilla didn’t really have black hair. She dyed it! So I can just dye mine. I love this idea. Thanks, Ryder!”

“Yeah, thanks, Ryder,” Suzanne echoed with a lot less sincerity than Nikki. Just how she wanted to launch her wedding planning business—with faux beehives and Grace-land in fondant.

The doorbell rang before she could leap over the table and strangle him. God, who else was still absent from this debacle? There couldn’t possibly be more bridesmaids. Or maybe this was the flower girl arriving on her bedazzled scooter to offer her two cents on hiring Miley Cyrus for the reception.

“I’ll get it,” Ryder said, springing up. “It’s probably the pizza.”

“What pizza?”

“I ordered some pizzas and beer for everybody,” he said, holding up his phone. “Gotta love online ordering.”

It was obvious she had zero control of this meeting.

Of her life.

And she couldn’t even bitch about who was paying for those pizzas because she had no doubt Ryder had already prepaid with his credit card. There was nothing cheap about the man, there never had been. Which was annoying because it just stole an awesome reason to complain right away from her.

“Where did Elvis and Priscilla get married?” Nikki asked.

“At Aladdin’s Hotel in Vegas,” Suzanne said, not the least bit surprised she knew that. Her granny had been the King’s biggest fan and the little house she’d grown up in with her grandparents had vibrated with his songs nearly as violently as his hips had swiveled onstage. Granny had saved clippings of Elvis from the newspapers and tucked them in a recipe book, including a wedding shot with Elvis and Priscilla in front of a fake genie lamp.

Suzanne reminded herself of that chubby check in her wallet. She needed the moral support to get her through the thought of decorating a wedding reception with multiple knockoffs of Aladdin’s lamp.

“We should just go to Vegas then,” Jonas told her. “We could elope.”

Oh, pity the man who said that to his hell-bent-on-having-the-biggest-wedding-of-the-decade bride.

As Ryder returned from the door with a stack of six pizzas and two cases of beer, Nikki burst into tears.

“Don’t you want to have a big wedding?” she wailed.

Suzanne realized Nikki’s eyes weren’t producing any actual liquid, though she was managing a hefty volume. She was fake crying, the little drama queen. Her friends all competed to pat her rubber band-thin arms while Jonas blustered.

“Of course I do! I want whatever you want. Truth is, Nikki, all that matters to me is you. I just want you.”

The bullshit sobs disappeared, her distress vacuumed right out of the air by Jonas’s words. Suzanne had to give the big lug credit. He knew how to appease her, which would be handy for the one or two years they managed to stay married.

Not that she was a cynic or anything.

While Nikki made googly eyes at her fiancé and he whispered things that were probably yucky back to her, Suzanne contemplated how to steer this Elvis theme to a less literal interpretation. With Nikki nice and calm and gooey over her man’s attention, it was perfect timing to suggest that perhaps they go with a classic vintage look for the wedding.

Ryder, who had been passing around pizza and beer, waved the box in front of Nikki’s face. “Pizza?”

“Oh.” Nikki reached for a slice absently then recoiled when she suddenly realized what she was doing. “Oh, my God, get that away from me! I can’t eat. I’m getting married in five weeks! I can’t be faaaattt!”

So much for a calm bride.

Ryder looked bemused, the pizza box just dangling in the air in front of Nikki. “It’s pepperoni. Protein is good for you.”

Suzanne was about to grab it out of his hands, visions of her check being torn up, when Nikki turned and purposely punched the bottom of the box, knocking it to the floor. Where the entire pizza landed greasy side down on Suzanne’s beige carpet.

“I’m starving . . . don’t make me smell it!”

And while Suzanne was grateful to know that Nikki didn’t actually enjoy subsisting purely on iceberg lettuce, she wasn’t too thrilled with the pizza sauce and grease stains that were never going to budge from her carpet without professional cleaning.

“Uhhh . . .” Ryder said, looking stunned.

“Sorry, Suzanne!” Jonas knelt down and turned the box back right side up and dumped the slices of pizza back in it. “That was my fault.”

How the hell it was Jonas’s fault, she couldn’t imagine, but at least someone was apologizing. “It’s okay. Accidents happen.” As do bitchy spoiled women going postal from lack of calories in their diet.

Suzanne suddenly wanted to cry. And she never cried. Ever. Only very, very rarely when she was extremely pissed did she find herself getting a little misty-eyed from pure frustration.