I guess I don’t need to run to the pet store, after all. There’s food, kitty litter, a new water bowl, and some catnip toys shaped like pieces of sushi. Mom must have had these delivered when I told her I was coming, since there’s no way Ryan would ever be that thoughtful.
The sweet gesture puts a pep in my step while I dump the dirty linen in the laundry room. I rush through hanging up my clothes in my mercifully empty closet, then jump into the shower to rinse off the day. Ryan only has three-in-one soap, soap, shampoo, and conditioner. How the hell does he keep his hair looking so good with this shit?
Once I’m squeaky clean, I reach out for my towel. My hand swipes through empty air, and I frown. I specifically remember finding a clean towel, hanging it up and?—
He wouldn’t.
The minute I think it, I know that hewould.It’s the most Ryan thing in the world to sneak into the bathroom while I’m showering and steal my towel.
It’s going to take a miracle for both of us to make it out of this alive.
2
RYAN
The way my head is pounding, I know that one of two things happened last night. Either one of the guys dared me to slam my head into the wall, or I finished that second bottle of whiskey after all.
Either way, it’s confirmation that last night’s engagement party was freaking awesome.
Of course, that’s not a surprise. Everyone in our little group brought something to the table. As the restauranteur, Beau brought amazing catering. Luke, the owner of Twisted Devil Whiskey, brought top shelf booze. James, the CEO of the streaming service Sequel, rented a photo booth, complete with props.
And me? I brought the party.
The diamond ring balloons, the hats with Cat and Nate’s faces on them, and the karaoke machine? All me. What can I say? I love love. Not for me, obviously. There’s no way I’m giving up my freedom for a life with one woman. But I love love forotherpeople. I’m the type of guy to get a little sappy when I find out two celebrities got married, even though I know it’s not going to last. Because obviously, love never does.
So even though my head feels like it’s being repeatedly kicked by a Clydesdale, I’m happy. I sprawl out in my bed, enjoying the feeling of fresh, fifteen-hundred-thread-count-sheets and thinking about how life is full of surprises.
I never really thought any of us guys would get married. We all treat our jobs like our wives, and our friendship like the mistress we sneak away to spend Saturday nights with. We haven’t exactly made a lot of room for relationships.
I mean, Cat and Nate feel like a no-brainer. Nate had to lock her down fast, because Cat’s amazing. She’s sweet, funny, and most importantly, she puts up with him—which, considering his genetic disposition toward grumpiness, is kind of a miracle. She gets along with all of us, so it kind of feels like a sixth best friend is marrying into our fucked up little family. And that’s worth the hangover of a lifetime.
I’m deciding whether to rot in bed for another few hours or drag myself into the shower when I catch a whiff of bacon.
Hello.
I throw off the covers and go straight for the kitchen. I don’t knowhowI’m smelling bacon, but whatever hungover demon is controlling my body is determined to find out. When I see the back of my stepsister’s head, I stop in my tracks.
Shit. In all the excitement, I almost forgot my heinous houseguest.
Oh well. Coffee and bacon will make facing the beast worth it.
Pippa looks disturbingly good for a woman who only went to bed four hours ago. She’s already applied her signature red lipstick, even though there’s no one here who gives a shit what she looks like. She’s perched on a barstool at the kitchen counter, one pedicured foot propped on the seat, one dangling down. Even her pajamas are chic, wide-legged black pants paired with a lacy black cami. Her silky black robe falls off one shoulder, showing off an expanse of olive skin. She’s dressed likeshe walked out of a magazine spread, not a raucous all-night bacchanalia.
No, Pippa’s only hangover tell is the way she’s shoving a fist-sized cinnamon roll into her mouth.
There’s a whole spread on the counter—pastries, eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit on platters. I see a steaming carafe of coffee, a pitcher of orange juice, and an uncorked bottle of champagne for mimosas.
“Aw, Pips, you shouldn’t have,” I say as I stroll in.
She scowls at me. “Uh didn’t,” she mumbles through a mouth full of pastry. “Iss from Cat un Nate.”
“You should keep your mouth shut when you’re chewing. And in general.”
Pippa gives me the finger and takes a long sip of her coffee.
Ignoring her, I start making myself a plate. It’s probably best for us to both have some food in our systems before we try to speak to each other again. I load up on bacon, eggs, and mini-pains au chocolat, and pour myself a mimosa, heavy on the champagne. Hair of the dog and all. I take a seat next to her and dig in.
Pippa sighs loudly. “Do youeverwear a shirt?”
