One Ziggy Playlist: "Shame," Elle King This just might be the perfect day. Except for one small thing: my underwear. Standing beside my siblings, I smile for another wedding photo and try to focus on how magical this day has been instead of how far my panties are riding up my butt. I think about this gorgeous beachfront wedding that just went off without a hitch for my brother Ren and his now wife, Frankie, who's been like a sister to me for years. I think about the glorious tangerine sun glowing on the horizon, the luscious sea breeze that's kept me cool this afternoon, despite the heat weaving through our whole chaotic Bergman brood-my parents, six siblings, their partners, and my niece and nephew. The camera clicks as my little gratitude exercise comes to a close, unfortunately leaving me no less aware of the wedgie from hell. I wiggle my butt to try to dislodge it and force my grimace into a smile as the photographer calls for one more take. "Okay," Frankie says after the next click of the camera, brushing back a lock of dark hair from her face. "That's enough memory making. This bride needs a seat, five minutes of quiet, and a very large glass of red wine." "Coming right up," the wedding planner says, jumping into action. The tight photographer-staged ball of our family dissolves into easy mingling-quick laughter and steady conversation. Before someone can rope me into it, I scamper away across the sand, sandals hooked on my fingers, making a beeline for the elegant venue that boasts grand doors opened wide to the sights and sounds of the beach, the dwindling light mingling with ivory candles and floral centerpieces. Trying to be circumspect, I follow the edge of the room, racking my memory for the nearest bathroom, though, at this point, I will take a closet, nook, the first private space available, to lose these horrible panties, because I'm about to crawl out of my skin. Not everyone gets this upset about their underwear riding up their butt; however, I'm autistic, and I have a lot of sensory issues. Itchy seams, fabric bunched where it shouldn't be, send me spiraling if I don't address the issue promptly. I need to find somewhere to deal with my sensory misery immediately. As I finally locate the restroom and stumble into the lounge area-an art deco ode to shell-pink velvet and bronze accents-I come to an abrupt stop, encountering the one thing that could distract me from the underwear from hell: People talking about me. "Don't get me wrong, Ziggy's sweet. She really is." I can't see her, but I recognize that voice. It's Bridget, one of our just-retired midfielders from the National Team, whose spot I filled on our starting lineup. "She's just so-" "Young," offers a voice I recognize, too. Martina, another recently retired player and former starting defender. "Exactly," Bridget says. "Frankly, I was surprised she made the roster at all. When Mal asked what I thought about her place on the team, I told him, she's talented, but she doesn't have the confidence, the . . . poise for a starting position, for the exposure and pressure that puts on you." "She really doesn't," Martina agrees. "I mean, as soon as the camera's pointed her way, she goes silent and her face turns as red as her hair." My hand goes to my hair. And my cheeks turn hot. My vision is starting to get blurry. "Well, soon enough, Mal will see what a mistake he made." Twin tears spill down my cheeks. My hands are fists, shaking as anger boils up inside me. What Bridget and Martina said is so unfair. But it's also not unprecedented. I'm painfully familiar with this attitude, this perception that I'm juvenile and naïve, some delicate innocent who can't handle the real world. My family babies me. My peers underestimate me. I'm tired of it, and I'm sick to my stomach, thinking about what this perception, if it sticks, could cost me-what it already threatened to cost me, but for Coach Mal ignoring Bridget's warnings and putting me on the team anyway. I'm mad that I have to deal with this nonsense on today of all days. I get why my brother Ren invited Bridget and Martina to his wedding. They're local high-profile professional athletes who partner generously with his charity. But still, right now I really wish he hadn't. "All right," Martina says, her voice growing closer on the restroom side of the lounge. "That's enough preening. I want to get my hands on those hors d'oeuvres. They looked damn good, and they aren't going to last forever. This place is crawling with professional athletes; you know how much food they can put away." Bridget snorts. "Yeah, I do. I've seen you eat." Martina's echoing laugh grows closer. They're about to see me, and they'll know I've heard them. Desperate to avoid that, I spin and rush out of the room, right into my sister. "Whoa." My oldest sibling, Freya, clasps me by the shoulders as I plow into her. I duck my head, quickly dabbing my face, but Freya hasn't missed a thing. "Zigs, what's wrong? Did someone upset you?" She curls an arm around me and tugs me down the hall. "Hey, talk to me. I can't help you if you don't talk to me." "I don't need your help!" I wrench myself away as we turn the corner in the hall, thankfully hiding us from Bridget and Martina. "I don't need you to manhandle or womanhandle me or whatever, and I don't need you to stick up for me." Freya blinks, her pale blue-gray eyes, just like Mom's, wide with surprise. Slowly she lifts her hands in surrender. "Okay. I'm sorry. I get in mama bear mode; you know that. I just want to take care of you. You're my baby sister." I shake my head, scrunching my eyes shut. "I'm the youngest in the family, but I'm not a baby anymore, Freya. I'm a twenty-two-year-old woman." Huffing a breath, I stare up at the ceiling and try to calm myself. "I vote. I got my driver's license. I have a job and an apartment. I pay my rent. I take care of myself, okay?" Freya lowers her hands, her voice quiet and hesitant. "Okay, Ziggy. I'm sorry." Guilt turns my stomach sour. I've hurt Freya's feelings, and I didn't mean to. I meant to be honest, to tell the truth, but I didn't say it in a way that made her feel good. So often, it feels like when I'm my true, honest self, I can't do anything right. "It's fine. I'm sorry, too, I just . . ." Growling with frustration, I clutch my sandals tightly in my hand. My underwear's location in my butt crack is turning into my villain origin story. "I just need somewhere to lose these freaking panties!" Storming down the hall and leaving my sister in my wake, I catch sight of glass doors opening out to a shadowy terrace, a steep roof shielding it from the last marigold streaks of twilight. Tall tropical plants cover the terra-cotta tiles and form a small, lush oasis, affording me plenty of privacy for what I need to do. I drop my sandals and hike up my dress to reach the waistband of my underwear. With a sigh of deep relief, I hook my fingers on the waistband, then drag the offending fabric down my thighs. When it hits my ankles, I celebrate by flicking the horrible panties off my foot, into the air over my head. Then I spin around, prepared to catch them. Except when I turn around, I see someone's beaten me to it. Someone lounging in the shadows, long legs outstretched . . . one familiar, tattooed hand, holding my panties. I take it back. It's not the wedgie from hell or Bridget and Martina's gossiping or my well-meaning-but-suffocating family that's going to ruin this otherwise perfect day. It's the sight of my underwear dangling from Sebastian Gauthier's heavily tattooed index finger. Heat crawls up my throat and floods my cheeks as my brother's best friend stares at me from the shadows. Slowly, he sits up and leans forward, elbows on his knees. Then he gives my panties a little twirl around his finger. Somehow, my cheeks get even hotter. I'm going to die of mortification. "Lose something?" he asks. It's the longest he's ever looked my way, the most words he's ever spoken to me. (We've bumped into each other a handful of times either at my brother Ren's place or after their games, which is when I've only ever been the recipient of a terse nod followed by a chilly hello.) Any other day, I'd probably stand here, tongue-tied, stunned that Sebastian's acknowledged my existence. But today, I'm at my limit. I've been dealing with a noisy crowd, aggravating undies, petty fellow athletes, overinvolved family, and I'm done. Cheeks burning, fire in my veins, I take the two steps between us and reach for my underwear as he swings it lazily around his finger. At the last second, Sebastian pulls back and does some confounding sleight of hand that makes them disappear. A soft tsk shivers through the air as he peers up at me, one dark eyebrow lifted. "Not so fast." I glare down at him. "Give me my panties." Gaze holding mine, he flashes a dangerously slow, sensual grin. And in that moment, I understand exactly how Sebastian Gauthier has managed to get away with being such a despicable human: He is despicably handsome. I stare into those rare quicksilver eyes, cold and sharp as they stare right back at me. His dark hair rustles in the sea breeze, a few loose waves caressing his temple before they're blown back, revealing the full and unfair beauty of his face. Cool gray eyes framed by thick dark lashes. A long, strong nose. That unreasonably lush mouth, twin faint hollows in each cheek. Slouching in his chair again, long legs sprawled out, he wears a booted air cast on his right foot that I can only imagine sucked to wear out on the sand, though I'm not inclined to feel much of anything in the way of sympathy for him right now. Inked fingers with their silver rings drum on the chair's arms. He's dressed in a charcoal suit so dark it's nearly black, a white button-up undone way too far, revealing a deep wedge of golden skin and silver chains. From his collarbones down, every exposed inch of him is covered in tats. In another world-in which he wasn't an unapologetic jerk-I could mistake him for one of those morally gray villains who star in the fantasy romances I've been reading since adolescence. Dangerous and dark-haired, inked and angry. Villains who ultimately redeem themselves, revealing their true natures when they prove themselves to be deeply good, feminist, sacrificial heroes. I know. It's called fantasy romance for a reason. As he inspects me with that cool, sharp gaze, I set my hands on my hips and glare at him, profoundly annoyed. He is literally the most beautiful person I've ever seen. But while he looks like he could spread some epic Faery King wings and whisk me off across the night sky to his palace, he is not one of my fantasy romance heroes. He is someone who-according to a lot of deeply damning and corroborated news headlines-breaks not just promises and property but hopes and hearts. Which is why his devious charms have not and certainly will not work on me. And also why I continue to be baffled that my second-oldest brother, Ren, the sweetest, most tenderhearted man, could be bonded to him so deeply. Sebastian and Ren are teammates-both are star forwards for the LA Kings hockey team-but beyond that, what makes them so close is a mystery to me. Ren says there's good in Sebastian, that he just struggles to demonstrate it in observable ways. Now that I'm experiencing firsthand what a jerk Sebastian can be, I'm wondering if Ren sees in his teammate what he wants to more than what's actually there. "Sebastian Gauthier," I say sternly, "give me my panties." His cold gray eyes turn arctic as he peers up at me. He raises an eyebrow. "What panties? I don't see any panties, do you?" I glare at him harder, my anger ratcheting up. "I don't see them, but I know you have them. I watched you do . . . something with them." His smirk is wolfish and infuriating. "Better come find them, then." Again, on any other day, I would probably throw up my hands and walk off, enjoy bursting Ren's idyllic bubble by telling him that I'd appreciate it if he asked his best friend to cough up my panties the next time he sees him. But today is not that day. Today I am past my limit, and my rare temper is a wild colt free of its reins. Without preamble, I step between the bracket of Sebastian's legs, wrap a hand around his wrist, and tug up his arm, slipping my other hand inside the sleeve of his suit coat. I fully expect the panties to be there, since that's the hand that was holding them. He laughs, and the sound is so self-satisfied, so arrogant, I barely resist the urge to scream in frustration. "Try again." Angry, I drop his wrist. "Where are they?" If they're not up his sleeve, I have no idea where else my underwear could be. At this point, the only way I could possibly find out is frisking him. When I glance up again and find that sardonic grin lifting his mouth, I have one of my little delayed autistic epiphanies: That's exactly what he wants me to do. As if he's watched the light bulb ping to life over my head, Sebastian stretches out his impressive wingspan, grin widening. "I suppose you'll just have to pat me down." I roll my eyes. But before I can come up with some witty retort, my brother Viggo's voice carries from somewhere inside: "Ziggy! Get in here! The chocolate fountain's running!" Sebastian jerks in his seat like he's been electrocuted and bolts upright, suddenly standing beside me. Very close beside me. He takes me by the shoulder and spins me a quarter turn, until light from inside spills across my face. His eyes widen. "Fucking hell. Ziggy?" Two Sebastian Playlist: "Broken Boy," Cage The Elephant I have a long history of truly terrible sins, but mentally debauching my best friend's baby sister while watching her strip off her panties just might take the cake. To my credit, I didn't recognize Ziggy at first. My vision's fuzzy, thanks to my drunkenness, and she was backlit when she walked out onto the terrace, nothing but a stunning silhouette whose defining features were hidden. Then, when she stepped closer, and I had a chance of seeing her, her hair was down-it's never been down before-and in the dying light of sunset it was a sheet of molten bronze curtaining her face, nothing like the fiery red that Ren and his little sister share. Excerpted from If Only You by Chloe Liese All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
