Cabin Weekend With The Best Man

The engine of my truck growled to a stop in front of the sprawling lakeside cabin, tires crunching over the gravel drive that wound through thick pines. The air smelled of pine needles, sun-warmed wood, and the faint metallic tang of the lake beyond the trees. I killed the ignition and glanced over at Chloe in the passenger seat. Twenty-four, sun-kissed, and wearing a thin white sundress that clung to her full breasts and the smooth curve of her hips like it had been painted on. Her long chestnut hair spilled over one shoulder, and those hazel eyes flicked toward me with the same electric awareness I’d felt since the moment she climbed into my truck yesterday morning.

The other two groomsmen, Jake and Tyler, were already stumbling out of the back seat, laughing too loud and cracking open fresh beers even though it was barely noon. My best friend, Ryan, was still stuck in the city finishing up a work emergency. He wouldn’t make it until tomorrow night. That left me—the best man—in charge of the cabin, the boats, the whiskey, and, apparently, his fiancée for the next thirty-six hours.

Chloe stepped out of the truck and stretched, the hem of her dress riding high enough to show the soft underside of her ass. My cock twitched at the sight. We had history. Five years ago, at a mutual friend’s house party, we’d gotten wasted, ended up alone on a balcony, and spent three hours trading filthy whispers and almost-kisses. My hands had been under her shirt, her fingers stroking me through my jeans, when someone had come looking for us. We never spoke of it again. Two years later she met Ryan. Now she was wearing his ring.

She caught me staring and didn’t look away. A slow, guilty smile curved her lips before she turned and followed the guys inside.

The afternoon passed in a haze of beer, grilling steaks, and loud music. The sun dipped low, painting the lake in molten gold. Jake and Tyler were already sloppy by eight, pounding shots and telling the same stories they always told. By ten they were both face-down on the oversized sectional in the living room, snoring like bears. The cabin fell into that deep, echoing quiet that only exists this far from the city.

Chloe found me on the back deck. She had changed into tiny denim cutoffs and one of Ryan’s old college hoodies that hung off one shoulder, exposing the delicate strap of her pink bra. Her feet were bare, toenails painted a soft coral. She carried two glasses and a fresh bottle of rye.

“Thought you might want company,” she said, voice low and a little husky. “They’re out cold.”

I took the glass she offered. Our fingers brushed. That single touch sent a bolt straight to my groin.

We walked down the wooden path to the private dock that jutted out over the black water. The night was warm, the sky thick with stars. Crickets and frogs made a low, pulsing chorus. Chloe sat at the edge, legs dangling, and I settled beside her. The whiskey burned sweet down my throat.

For a while we just drank in silence. Then she spoke.

“I almost didn’t come this weekend.”

I glanced over. “Why?”

She stared out at the lake. “Cold feet. Big, ugly, screaming cold feet.” A shaky laugh escaped her. “Ryan’s been working late every night for months. When he is home he’s on his phone or too tired to even kiss me properly. I keep thinking… is this what the rest of my life is going to feel like?”