Husband Rollover (Husband Series Book 4)(5)

By: Louise Cusack

That deserved a hug so I pulled her in, but she was stiff and maybe surprised. “And you’re going to help me get laid,” I told her.

She laughed at that and pulled out of my arms, blushing, which surprised me. I’d thought she was so cool that nothing would faze her. Clearly a girl-hug was outside her comfort zone which was a pity for her. If I hadn’t had girlfriends to hug, I’d have gone nuts way before now.

“And how am I doing that?” she asked, repacking her tiny clutch purse.

“Find me a slutty man and point me in his direction.”

She laughed again. “Pimping. I see,” she said primly, but she opened the ladies’ room door and held it for me as I exited, managing to stay straight on my heels. “And what do I get in return?”

“Dinner at Bohemian Brew.”

It would be nice to get to know her better.

“Ah,” she said, smiling. “You’re the manager, that’s right. Nice décor. I saw the YouTube video of Angela singing there with Noah Steele.”

So had half the female population of the planet. When a hunky Aussie actor with that sort of Hollywood clout gets caught in an impromptu duet with a pretty young diva like Angela, women lap it up. “The two of them singing together was my idea,” I bragged shamelessly.

“Good promo.” She nodded approvingly, then she glanced around the room, frowning in concentration.

I followed her gaze, dismissing Angela’s three brothers out of hand. I’d grown up with the Patel boys, and even if they hadn’t been married, I wouldn’t sleep with any of them. They were bullies and I certainly didn’t want a reprise of the black eye I’d suffered last year from another bully—a low moment in my resume.

“Hmmm. Not bad,” Rosie said softly, and a second later we both stepped out of the way so someone could pass us into the bathroom.

“Where?” I followed her gaze as the next song kicked in—a slow nineties ballad, and Rosie leant in to whisper against my ear.

“The crewcut.” Her perfume was subtle but sexy, and I had a moment of wondering what I smelt like? Not wine, I hoped. “Bridal table,” she added.

I wanted to sigh in defeat. The groom’s brother Cal. I could only see him from the back, but I shook my head and said—probably too loudly, “Tried there. He’s too picky.”

She frowned and turned back to me. “He hasn’t seen you like this.”

I had to admit I did look different now. Sleeker. Maybe sexier. But, “I propositioned him and he turned me down flat—some shit about we barely know each other.”

Rosie frowned in commiseration. “At least he was tactful.” She glanced back at him for moment, then whispered in my ear again. “You offered me gratuitous advice, so I’m returning the favor. Don’t proposition men. Just look sexy and wait for them to come to you.”

I pulled back gave her a look. “Because I’m not desperate at all.”

That made her bark a laugh, but before she could respond I felt a hand on my arm and Jill was pulling me away. “Bridesmaid conference,” she said apologetically to Rosie who waved us off.

I let myself be tugged along, saying “Yes, boss,” which I knew annoyed Jill. She owned the café I managed, Bohemian Brew, courtesy of a stint of husband sitting which had also provided her own gorgeous husband Finn. But she wasn’t a bosses’ bootlace. She barely responded to the financials I sent her and was happiest if I made all the decisions, which I have to admit suited me. Her main contribution was supposed to be online promo, but most of her time went into pinning glamorous shoes on Pinterest.

“Angela wants us,” she said, and before I could wonder if the bride was okay, we entered a small anteroom and I saw her beaming smile. She pulled me into a patchouli scented hug and I knew it had been pointless to worry. Angela Lata—nee Patel—had just married the man of her dreams who was also the father of her unborn child, a hunky, spunky, cowboy whose family just happened to own the eighth largest cattle station in the country.

Plus, if Jill’s speculation was true, our good friend Angela now had orgasms on tap.

What was not to like?