Tracy’s eyes widen to perfect circles, her freckles standing out stark against suddenly pale skin. For a moment, we’re frozen inthe boutique’s merciless fluorescent lighting, the hideous green dresses rustling accusingly against our legs as we wait for Darla to continue.
Darla waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. I could also get the dresses ordered and here in time for the wedding, but I just don’t like her.”
A wave of relief washes over me, and I sag slightly. “Thank you.”
“Does anyone like her?” Tracy asks.
“Not that I know of. I’m also good friends with Gina, so I’m more than happy to ruin that witch’s big day.” Harper’s older sister. Of course.
We share a conspiratorial smile, the kind that forms a silent pact between co-conspirators, before Tracy and I retreat into the dressing room. The scratchy polyester of these horrid dresses clings to our skin as we peel them off, the nauseating shade of green somehow even more offensive under the dressing room’s unforgiving fluorescent lights. The fabric pools at our feet like toxic sludge, a small victory puddled on the carpet.
“That’s what she gets for taking Harper’s wedding colors, too,” Tracy calls out.
“She can have my brother, but she doesn’t get to have everything she wants. Not when she stole everything from Harper.”
This wedding will be a disaster if it’s the last thing we do—green dresses clashing with burgundy tablecloths, wilting centerpieces, and a wedding cake tilting dangerously to one side. If Kenzie discovers our fingerprints on her cascade of calamities, she’ll probably hunt us down with the same manic precision she used to plan her wedding binder. Her perfectly manicured nails might actually draw blood. Totally worth it, though, to see her left eye twitching uncontrollably as everything falls apart.
Chapter 26
Harper
Iscan the cabin we rented for the joint bachelor-bachelorette party with Holly, ensuring everything is in place. The silver “Bride & Groom” banner hangs crookedly above the stone fireplace, and fairy lights twinkle along the exposed wooden beams.
The fridge is packed with deli trays and cheese platters, while the granite countertop holds a small army of liquor bottles next to a row of fancy kombucha in flavors like lavender-lemongrass and blackberry-hibiscus.
“You locked the room you claimed, right?” Holly asks. I pat my front pocket and nod. “No one is stealing my room. I’ve had enough taken from me lately.”
“I don’t blame you,” she replies. “And you’ve got your camera. I think it’s safe to say we’re ready for this awesome party.”
Despite her struggles with alcohol, I appreciate Holly. She delegates tasks with a gentle touch, asking me to hang fairy lights or arrange cheese platters without making me feel like I’m overstepping into maid-of-honor territory, and she never exploits my inability to refuse. I’ve always been the girl who says yes when she means no, who smiles through gritted teeth.
Ford strides through the front door, all six-foot-something of him wrapped in a red button-down that stretches across his broad shoulders. I quickly snap his picture, the camera’s shutter clicking rapidly as I capture his confused expression, then his dawning recognition, and finally his half-smile.
“You’re early,” I say when he approaches, catching a whiff of his woodsy cologne. “Like, really early.”
“I need to talk to you, Harper.”
“Is everything okay?”
Holly overhears and discreetly slips away to give us some privacy. We settle onto the couch, and he exhales deeply. “Asher and I got into it the other night.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
I laugh and shake my head. “That you’re trying to go for Asher’s sloppy seconds, that I’m pathetic, and Asher declared he’s not over me.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I was worried you hadn’t heard about it yet.”
“Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my knees, the soft denim of my jeans bunching at the creases. “Are you chasing Asher’s sloppy seconds?”
I can’t help but giggle, the sound catching in my throat as he leans in. He cups my face with his large, strong hands, calloused at the fingertips but impossibly gentle against my cheeks. Mylaughter dies instantly, replaced by a flutter in my chest that spreads warmth down to my toes. His brown eyes lock onto mine, intense and unwavering.
“There is nothing sloppy about you,” he says, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sends shivers across my skin. “You don’t belong to Asher. You’re his nothing.”
