It certainly was a far more interesting topic than what he was wearing to this superposh shindig. “Look, I wear suits every day—I can pick out a damn tux. And if this was a tux for my wedding, I’d be in and out of the shop in five minutes.” He caught her looking at him strangely. “What?”
“I’m just waiting for your eye to start twitching after the reference to your wedding.”
And there it went, right on schedule. “The point is, this is your sister and Simon’s big day. And since I’m pretty sure that hell hath no fury like a pregnant woman whose dream wedding is ruined because the best man decided to go with vests instead of cummerbunds, I’m thinking I should get this right.”
“Skip the vest, then. Isabelle can’t stand them.”
“Good to know. A cummerbund, it is.”
“No cummerbund either.”
Vaughn frowned. “Don’t I need something that’s going to coordinate with the color of your dress?”
“Why yes, you do. If this is 1998, and you’re taking me to prom.”
And . . . there was the snark again. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Quite a bit, actually.”
He took a step closer. “Think about it this way, Sidney. You have to walk down the aisle next to me at this wedding. We’ll be in numerous photos together—photos that the entire Sinclair family will look at for years to come. If my job as a groomsman is to complement you, do you really want to put your faith in whatever I might come up with?”
She considered this for a moment.
“Let me just grab my purse.”
• • •
WHEN THEY STEPPED through the door of the tuxedo shop, the salesman who’d been helping Vaughn earlier came out of backroom.
He smiled when he saw them. “Special Agent Roberts. I see you’ve returned with backup.”
“This is Sidney, our illustrious maid of honor.”
She said hello, and then gestured to Vaughn. “Ignore everything this man told you during his previous visit.”
“She tends to be a little sarcastic,” Vaughn told the salesman, without batting an eye. “I’m told it’s a New York thing. Which is really weird, considering she’s from Chicago.”
Sidney nudged Vaughn as she walked by him and eyed one of the tuxedos on display. “Did Simon tell you anything about the tux he’s wearing?”
“He said it didn’t have tails.” From her expression, Vaughn gathered this was not a lot of help. He shrugged. “We’re guys. We don’t have long, drawn-out conversations about clothing. Actually, we don’t have long, drawn-out conversations about anything if we can help it.”
Sidney turned back to the salesman. “We’ll go with something classic. Black, two-button jacket. Flat-front pants, no cummerbund, and—” She looked Vaughn over with a scrutinizing air. “A bow tie. Definitely.”
“Excellent choice,” the salesman said approvingly. “Let me grab my tape measure.” He took Vaughn’s measurements, and then asked his height, weight, and shoe size. He went into the back room and returned with a sample tuxedo and shoes. “The changing room is right there. Just holler if you need anything.” He pointed to a private room behind the three-way mirror in the center of the store.
Vaughn changed out of his clothes and put on the tux. He checked himself out in the mirror, was satisfied that the tux fit well enough, and stepped out of the dressing room.
Sidney stood with her back to him as she chatted with the salesman. When she turned around and saw him in the tuxedo, she blinked. “You look so . . .” She trailed off and just kept looking at him.
Then she cleared her throat and regrouped. “It’s nice.” She walked over, scrutinizing him as he stood in front of the mirror. “It seems to fit well enough. What do you think?”
Her phone suddenly rang in her purse, which sat on a chair across from the mirrors. “Sorry. I should grab that in case it’s work-related.”
While Sidney took her call, the salesman walked over to Vaughn. “Would you like to try on something else? We have several different styles, in case you want to get a comparison.”
Vaughn glanced over at Sidney, who laughed at something while talking on the phone. He thought back to her reaction when she saw him in the tux.
“You know, I think I’m good with this one,” he said.
With a smile, the salesman nodded. “Of course, sir.”
• • •
SIDNEY TOOK A bite of her risotto and thought for a moment about her next question. “Okay, I’ve got one. Most likely to get drunk and make an awkward impromptu toast at the reception.”
To thank her for helping out with the tuxes, Vaughn had taken her to lunch at an Italian bistro nearby, one that had al fresco dining so they could enjoy the nice weather. Their current conversation had started with a bet—the person most likely to ask Isabelle at the wedding if she was pregnant—and that had led to all sorts of predictions about the big day.
Twirling his spaghetti gamberoni around his fork, Vaughn didn’t pause a moment before answering. “My uncle Finn. Here’s a tip: half my family is Irish. So any ‘most likely to’ distinctions pertaining to this wedding that involve drinking, we’ve got covered.”
Sidney chuckled and grabbed another breadstick. “Now your turn.”
He poured more olive oil onto the plate between them. “All right. How about . . . most likely to tackle another woman to the ground in order to catch the bouquet.” He gave Sidney the side-eye.