And as much as I wanted to not waste a single word or breath on him, I turned to him and said, “You fucking piece of shit.”
He was white as a sheet, scrambling for his clothes, but still, he was the victor.
And I was the one leaving my house first, into the snowy night.
Didn’t take her calls. Didn’t read her emails. The press called itan amicable parting. They always do when money’s involved.
So yeah. Weddings?
Hard pass.
But here I am—on a plane to New Hampshire—becauseCarter fucking Ellison is getting married and apparently it would mean a lot to him if I showed up.
He doesn’t know half of what I’ve been through over the last couple of years. Why should he? That was my play: downplay the whole thing for the world.
Carter and I were college roommates at Princeton and golf partners off and on since. And now he wants me as part of the wedding party.
I’m to be matched up with his little sister—step-sister, half-sister, it was never quite clear. I’ve never met her. She and Carter weren’t close. Didn’t even live together for a chunk of their childhood. But ever since the invite came, something’s been gnawing at me.
Haverton, where the wedding will be, is just an hour or two from Maplewick. Where Rhea Sinclair was living when she applied for the Pixel and Paper Foundation grant.
And I find myself fighting the insane urge to drive out there.
To do what, exactly? I’m not sure.
Spy on the woman I shared one unforgettable night with?
God, I still remember the way she looked in that black dress. Her quiet confidence. Her laugh. The curve of her mouth when she said she was leaving for Europe.
But, thanks to Gina, there’s no chance of me acting on my impulses now.
Because I’m well-supervised by Isabelle, my fake date, an actress Gina hires to keep things manageable.
“You know the wedding gig, Spencer,” Gina had said. “It’s a minefield of lonely singles dreaming of their own day at the altar. And women—single, married, and otherwise—getting sloppy drunk and proposing who knows what on thedance floor.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Isabelle and I have done a handful of these events together. She’s stunning. Witty. Totally not my type—which is great, considering she’s gay and happily married to a chef named Jolene.
She’s my shield. My buffer. The perfect decoy.
And as we drive up the winding road toward the picturesque inn hosting the wedding, I brace myself for three days of small talk, polite lies, and the creeping realization that I might be the loneliest man in every room I walk into.
What could possibly go wrong?
THIRTEEN
RHEA
The venue is everything I expected—picture-perfect, magazine-ready, and just sterile enough to remind you that real life doesn’t happen here.
White hydrangeas line the path to the entrance. A harpist plays something delicate in the lobby. It’s the kind of place where even the air feels curated.
Carter spots me first.
“There’s my baby sister,” Carter calls out from across the room, already making his way toward me.
He pulls me into a hug that’s—surprisingly—not awkward. At least, not for my brother, who doesn’t exactlydofeelings. Not unless there’s a holiday or a eulogy involved.
