Destination Bedding

DESTINATION BEDDING A SUMMIT SPRINGS NOVELLA ALLISON TEMPLE Copyright © 2023 by Allison Temple Destination Bedding All rights reserved. ISBN 978-1-990719-02-8 No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Cover design is for illustrative purposes only, and any person(s) featured is a model. Cover Design: Alexandria Corza Editing: Adam Mongaya, Tessera Editorial Proofreading: Lori Parks, LesCourt Author Services Created with Vellum CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 More Titles from Summit Springs Contemporary Romances By Allison Temple LGBTQ+ Fantasy By Alli Temple About the Author This book is dedicated not to a person but to the tiny bit of code in the Netflix algorithm that went “but have you tried watching Korean TV dramas?” on a random afternoon in July. This book would not exist without your intervention. Remember: It’s only weird if it doesn’t work. * * * For news on future releases, join the A-List, my monthly newsletter. 1 On principle, I, Katherine Marie Corriveau, am not opposed to dick. I’ve had my fair share in my life. Some big, some small. Wrinkly, smooth, pink, brown. Whatever. I don’t judge based on looks. Except it turns out I draw the line at green. “Another round of cocktails, ladies?” The waiter puts the emphasis on cock while he smiles at our group with waggling eyebrows. Predictably, Claire and her friends all giggle. I roll my eyes and drop my gaze back to my half-finished rum and coke where the green penis straw stares back at me. I check the time on my phone. Ten thirty-seven. Seven minutes since the last time I checked. How many more hours until last call? When I glance up again, Claire is watching me, eyes narrowed, mouth pinched. She’s been making that face her whole life whenever some part of her perfect plan doesn’t live up to her expectations. Her friends bubble around her like a flock of improbable pink songbirds, decked out in their fake feathery boas and animal print dresses. I give my baby sister my winningest smile as I slide my phone back into my jeans pocket. No one told me I needed to dress for a theme. I run my hand over the worn denim, catching a fingernail on a loose thread where the knee has frayed. I’m in a small-town dive bar somewhere in the Colorado Rockies, surrounded by a menagerie of leopards, zebras, and tigers, and I look like I just rolled off the bus. Which . . . technically, I have. Despite some not-so-subtle hints from Mom that arriving two days before Claire’s wedding is the height of disrespect, I really didn’t have another choice. Neither Claire nor Jono—excuse me, “Jonathan,” since apparently he’s an adult now—bothered to check with me when they set the date for their wedding. The festivities were very inconveniently scheduled for three days after my final exam. Getting out here to Summit Springs any earlier was impossible. And frankly, if it meant missing the final week of agonizing with Mom and Claire over the proper way to tie a chair sash while negotiating and renegotiating seating charts, I was more than happy to cruise into town at the last minute. “Okay, girls.” Madison, the maid of honor, stands on her chair. She’s eschewed the general jungle mammal theme in favor of something that looks like a crocodile on acid. “It’s time for a scavenger hunt!” A fluttering of applause and excited whispers rustles over the table. We’re about twelve people at this bachelorette monstrosity, including the bridal party and some of Claire’s Denver friends who were able to come up early. Speaking of Claire, she’s glaring again, which has me sitting up straighter and sucking harder on my penis straw to cover my mounting dread. Bachelorette parties really aren’t my thing, but I’ve been to enough bars on a Saturday night to know the tasks on the pink sheets of paper Madison is holding will be stupid at best and humiliating at worst. But once again, no one asked me. And look, I don’t want to be the sour sister at the end of the table, moodily sipping on a green penis while Claire’s troop of friends gush about how excited she must be and how great she and Jono are going to look, and what time are we all getting together to have our nails done in the morning and— Since I tore two nails in my last practical exam while maneuvering a two-hundred-pound cadaver onto an embalming table, a manicure isn’t going to save me. Still, I didn’t plan on playing the grinch, sucking all the fun out of the evening like a denim-clad black hole. I’d rather be making speeches about how my baby sister is all grown up and if her husband-to-be ever hurts her, I will hunt him down and break both his kneecaps before I ask questions, as any big sister would. We’ll just ignore the part where that very same baby sister is about to marry the guy I expected to marry not two years ago, and no one seems to think that particular plot twist is weird. “So split into pairs,” Madison is still speaking. “To get full points, one of you will complete the task, while the other takes a picture. Any questions?” We all stand. I have the sudden rushing sense of déjà vu, like I’m ten years old and awkward all over again and my teacher has