Free No Perfect Princess by Angel Payne, Victoria Blue

stood on either side of, occupying a strategic corner of the massive lawn in the backyard of Claire’s “Christmas present”. The structure was fronted by fancy gold chairs seating two hundred guests in brand-new clothes. And yeah, I was sure about that. Nobody wore last year’s fashions to the wedding of the year.
    The gazebo was positioned behind the arch Claire and Killian would soon be standing under. Inside the shelter itself, there was a string quartet. And eight urns brimming with a florist’s shop full of red and white flowers. And the poofs of white fabric that were tucked, wrapped, and swagged around every other available surface. I couldn’t decide if it was a bride’s ultimate fantasy or if the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man had taken a dump over Rancho Santa Fe, letting Venkman and his crew tie it up with red and black velvet bows on the way down.
    I shook my head again, reeling that this had all been orchestrated by a tiny woman called “Gin-Gin” by her staff, not Ridley Scott. Twenty feet away, Chad matched it with another smirk. I glared. If we were here for any other occasion than the wedding of one of our best friends, the scrot-clot would find himself the proud recipient of a Michael Pearson flip-off. But I chilled. We’d all waited too long for this day to finally happen. For Claire, everything had to be perfect.
    If only my nervous system would get with that program. Though it was damn-near six o’clock on the second day of June, I sweated like a hog in the middle of August. The sun was low, filtering through the trees in swaths of gold and amber, carrying a twilight breeze smelling of star jasmine and pine. A touch of mist kissed the air. It’d be foggy later. None of it tamped my craving to rip myself clear of the tux and roll around naked in the grass.
    Strange strain of the flu?
    If only I could get so lucky.
    At the moment, even a case of Ebola sounded better than the ordeal ahead. And I wasn’t the guy about to step into the ball and chain.
    The man with that happy task all but bounded up to the arch in the minister’s wake. Happy? Backspace . Killian transcended happy by about a thousand miles. He was the Gollum who’d found the ring. The Scarecrow who had his brain. The kid with triple chocolate and cherries on his sundae.
    I was just going to put it out there.
    Killian Stone was glowing.
    So maybe I was glad I hadn’t busted his face for nearly turning Claire—and Stone Global—into unfixable messes last summer. Thank fuck the guy had gotten a clue and come back to salvage both. Now, he stood prouder and stronger than ever, a man in love, at peace, and on top of his world. SGC’s successes were only a small part of it. In the joy on his face and the smile on his lips, I saw how Killian would dump the cars, the mansion, and all the “stuff”, if they ever threatened his relationship with Claire.
    As long as the man maintained that world view, he and I would be copasetic.
    I gave him a few extra props for not wussing out with a white tux. Though I was certain Gin-Gin had likely tried to talk him into the knight-in-white thing, Kil was fitted to the eyelash in a black Tom Ford cutaway that lent him a Downton Abbey -goes-modern flair. I was happy for his joy but envied the purpose that defined every inch of his bearing. He was a man standing exactly where destiny wanted him—waiting for the woman of his dreams to walk up that aisle, ready to give her heart to him forever. Not that Claire hadn’t already done that. Spending a lot of last summer as the woman’s human handkerchief had proved that to me already.
    If I could only lay claim to a shred of that peace.
    Not if you keep carrying this goddamn torch for Margaux Asher.
    Not if every ping from your phone makes your gut leap like it has for the last six months, hoping it’s a message or picture from her.
    Not if you don’t grow a pair and realize what you have with her is nothing more than a long-distance—if flirty to the