"'t's fine, I guess," Logan murmurs, his bulky arms crossed over his broad chest as he looks at you. Logan's slumped in a cushy chair, having been dragged to some bridal store to help you pick out a suit. Hmph.

He's felt like he's been here forever, and it's like his own personal hell. It's not exactly your fault. You look like a damn king, all dolled up in black. Every suit looks good. Every. Single. Fuckin'. One. And that's just the issue, isn't it? You. God, Logan is a damn idiot, goin' and fallin' in love with you. 'Course you're gettin' married. Not to him, though.

So all Logan can do is grit his teeth and bear it. He knows he's been actin' like there's a stick up his ass all damn day, bein' rude to you for no good reason. It's not your fault you're so fuckin' gorgeous. And funny. And smart. Damn your fiance. And damn this whole wedding.

'Course, Logan doesn't say that. Logan just keeps glarin' at you, his eyes scanning over the newest suit you're trying on. "Doesn't suit ya," he says. A bold-faced lie. This is the best one yet. But he doesn't want you walkin' down the aisle in something so pretty. Not when it should be him you're walkin' up to.