The Night of the Wedding

By J. Broson

Bella Ainsworth is tired.

That's why she's ready to leave this wedding, an objectively wonderful celebration at an idyllic Maine inn, starring one of her best friends. It's not because she's lonely, or jaded, or plagued by a persistent, buzzing anxiety that drags at her ability to be present. Dancing all night was simply easier when she was in her twenties.

But before Bella can fully make her getaway, her heel breaks, tripping her directly into the arms of Ari Sulu, brother of the groom. The unimaginably handsome man Bella has been secretly spying on all night. Who happens to have medical supplies in his room; if Bella will only lean on him, they can get there together, and he can wrap her sprained ankle. He promises he'll be a perfect gentleman...

The Night of the Wedding is a standalone f/m queer erotic novella about letting ourselves let go, and maybe, believe in the possibilities of forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Broson
• Release date: Aug 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223067726

Book preview

1

It was around the time the DJ blared You Shook Me All Night Long that I figured I’d had about enough.

I’d made it through the ceremony. Wiped at my eyes during the vows. Made it through cocktail hour, catching up with the friends I hadn’t seen in too long, working up a pleasant buzz while the lake breeze fluttered through my hair. Made it through dinner, which had been almost unbelievably delicious. But then again, I shouldn’t have been surprised; Jo Abrams would approve only the best. Smiled through the toasts and the champagne, light and crisp on my tongue.

I’d even made a few goes at the dance floor. For the hora, of course, but I also threw my arms in the air and huddled down to the floor for Shout. Sang my requisite bom-bom-boms during Sweet Caroline. Attempted—abysmally—the nae nae.

And it had been fun. I knew it had. I had laughed and gotten teary at all the right parts, had enjoyed the company and the scenery and the free food and drink. I was genuinely happy for Jo and Damian. As I had been for all of my friends, my cousins, my siblings and loved ones I’d seen married off over the last decade.

But something had buzzed in the back of my brain the whole time, from the late afternoon sunshine on Jo and Damian’s dark hair under the chuppah during the lakeside ceremony, to the glittering stars of a deep Maine night through the windows of the inn as the party drifted onto the dance floor. It was objectively one of the best nuptial celebrations I’d ever attended, a joyful blending of Jewish and Turkish traditions. Red ribbons twisted through Jo’s hair, matching the red sash Damian wore on his chest. Members of both families had read the Sheva B’rachot.

It was a day of harmony. Of sharing and celebrating.

And something low-pitched and distracting persistently snagged ten percent of my focus the whole time.

You could be tackling your TBR right now, it buzzed. Did Louie remember to feed Eleanor? He forgot that one time. Also: Your back hurts, and your feet hurt in these heels, because you are old now. I tried valiantly to not think about the emails I needed to send at work on Monday, but the fact that I was trying to not think about them probably proved that I was doing exactly that: a most irritating buzz. Everyone is officially coupled off but you. You are still the loser single at this table and people probably feel bad for you.

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

I didn’t want the last one to be true. Didn’t want to be a cliché, wallowing in self-pity over my solitude. Trying too hard to grab the bouquet. Crying in the bathroom like it was an eighth grade school dance.

It was fine that I was here alone. I was simply a bit cranky because my endurance levels for dancing the night away and watching people get progressively more trashed had been significantly higher when I was in my twenties.

And so, halfway through a pop song I didn’t recognize but which everyone else knew the dance to—it was probably big on TikTok, and I only understood how to open TikToks Jo sent me links to—I began my round of goodbyes.

Bella, no! Suleena smacked me in the shoulder.

But you have to come to the after party! Ryan yelled.

Oh, thank god, Saundra, who had newborn twins at home, said on an exhausted sigh. If you leave, it’s more socially acceptable if we do, too. My feet hurt and my tits are sore as shit. How the hell did we used to do this? And where the frick is my husband?

I didn’t bother trying to approach Jo and Damian. They wouldn’t notice if I slipped away, and they had enough people to say thank you so much! to. I’d catch up with Jo next week. For now, I’d scroll their hashtag from the comfort of my hotel bed, press all the hearts on their day of happiness. Friendship duty fulfilled.

And I got so close to making that happen. I’d gathered my purse, said my last I know; it was so good to see you, too! I’d officially exited the dining room of this sprawling rural inn. Was ready to clickety-clack my way across the hardwood floors of the lobby to the parking lot in these ridiculous heels I’d had to blow dust off of when I’d unearthed them from the back of my closet this morning.

But then, the corner of one of those heels stuck on a snag in the old wood, leading to one wrong step, and—

There was a crack—

And, of course—

Crunch.

A series of confusing events followed.

First, my brain thought: goddamn motherfucking heels. I didn't even like heels. I never wore them, except for special occasions like weddings, when my lizard brain overrode all concepts of feminism and programmed to lady person must wear impractical shoes. I was sure, of course, that there were countless feminists out there who were empowered by the elegance and height of a heel, but at that second, I was only frustrated with goddamn motherfucking societal influences that made me ignore my own needs.

After that, my brain realized that my ankle really hurt quite badly.

Whoa there.

The third, most surprising event to slowly reach my synapses was the fact that there were hands holding on to my arms. And a broad chest right in front of my face, clothed in a white dress shirt and a loosened red tie. I think this person just said something to me.

But all I could comprehend, in that moment of surprise and pain, was the scent of their cologne. It was all-encompassing, enveloping, lighting up every pleasure center of existence in said lizard brain. I had no idea how to describe it, whether it was sandalwood or pine or, like, musk, or whatever kind of woodsy things they packaged into bottles for masculine people. I imagined the label just read Very Sexy Sexy.

It must have been shock that made me blurt, as a way of greeting—

You smell incredible.

Mystery Person chuckled, and I looked up from the knot in their tie I’d apparently been staring at very intently.

I sucked in a breath.

Goddamn motherfucking fuck.

Aristotle Sulu. Ari, for short. I only knew his full name was Aristotle because it had been printed on the program. I had stared at it for a time while I’d waited for the ceremony to start, in that classy cursive on that cream colored card stock, contemplating how pretty it was—Aristotle Sulu—rolling it silently around in my mouth. He was Damian’s brother and best man. He had given a delightful speech during dinner.

And he was unimaginably hot. In this pure, instantly likable, ‘old ladies love me (but I care most about your pleasure)’ kind of way. Unimaginable, because how could that level of natural charisma and appeal—and skin glow and jawline definition and hair follicle thickness—exist outside of the movies, where they have magical lighting and special effects? The kind of hotness where you knew, if you happened to see him bounce a baby on his knee, his eyes wide and his mouth open