If you ever get married, remember my name: Max Henderson. In my line of work, you acquire a certain perspective on supposedly everlasting unions. . . . 1. Pre-nups are your friend. 2. The person you married is not the person you're divorcing. 3. And I hope you didn't spend much on the wedding because that was one helluva waste of hard-earned cash, wasn't it? But some guys are willing to take a chance. Like my brother, who thinks he's going to ride off into the sunset with the woman of his dreams in a haze of glitter on unicorns. And the wedding planner-the green-eyed beauty who makes a living convincing suckers to shell out thousands of dollars on centerpieces-is raking it in on this matrimonial monstrosity. The thing is, Charlie Love is not like me. We're both cogs in the wedding-industrial complex. As the best man, I know her game-and I can play it better than her. But after one scorching, unexpected kiss, I'm thinking I might just want to get played.