We went back out to the noise. Down in the yard, Mom and Aunt Phee were talking to Beth, in the middle of a sister sandwich with Meg and Jo. Eric carried DJ on his brawny shoulders. Baby Rob tagged Daisy across the lawn. Trey was propped against a column of the porch at the top of the stairs, part of and yet apart from the rest of the family. His lord-of-the-manor pose.
“Thanks for bringing Beth,” he said to the driver. “What do I owe you?”
“I’ve got this,” I said. He always paid, with the casual generosity of somebody whose family never had to worry about money.
Trey looked surprised. When I’d tagged along with him and Jo to the movies, he used to buy my popcorn. When Mom was facing surgery in the hospital, he’d bumped me up to first class so I could fly home. When I sort of started a fight in a dive bar down by the river, Trey had paid off the bartender.
He’d paid when we were in Paris, too. For dinner. For drinks. For a hotel room with a view of the Eiffel Tower...
“I don’t mind,” he said.
“I do. I’m not your surrogate kid sister anymore.” Or somebody he had to be nice to because we once had sex.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” the driver said. “I’m on the payroll.” We both looked at him. “I work for Colt.”
“Where is your young man?” Aunt Phee asked Beth.
Jo rolled her eyes.
“He’s coming Sunday,” Beth said.
Meg said something, lost in the clamor. The driver descended the stairs, leaving me and Trey standing alone on the porch. I was hyperaware of him, the height and heat of his body, the smell of his skin overlaid with clean cotton and citrusy bergamot.
“What about you?” he was asking.
“What about me?”
“I thought you were bringing your pal Vaughn with you.” He could have been talking to Beth, his tone light and indulgent.
Fred Vaughn, lead singer of the British boy band Cricket, Instagram influencer, and twelfth Baron Byrne. Because of Vaughn, my Duchess bag was selling out on both sides of the Atlantic. IowedFred. But we didn’t have the kind of relationship that would drag him to a family wedding in North Carolina. None of which I felt like explaining to Trey.
“I don’t need a date to my own sister’s wedding.” I slid a look at him. “Where’s your plus-one?”
There was always someone—several someones, women—around Trey.
“I don’t need a date, either,” he said. “Although I could use...”
“A wingman?”
Wicked black amusement leaped in his eyes. “A friend.” I felt the melting, seductive tug of his laughter. He met my gaze with disarming directness. “Listen, Amy... There’s no reason this has to be awkward.”
The word jabbed my memory. “Because we slept together, you mean?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “Or because you’re still in love with my sister?”
He didn’t deny it. “Jo is getting married.”To another man.Another tug, of sympathy this time. He held out his hand. “Friends?”
We couldn’t be enemies. He was part of my life, part of my family, my childhood crush, my sister’s best friend. “Sure. Whatever.” I swallowed and shook. His hand was warm and smooth and firm. I dropped it like I’d been burned. “Excuse me. I’ve got to hang that dress.”
“There’s no reason this has to be awkward.”
Except for Paris.
CHAPTER 4
Amy
Paris, Then
The light in Paris reflected off the white stone buildings in the most amazing ways, bouncing off the bright awnings, picking out the delicate contrast of graceful ironwork. A young couple—tourists—stopped in the street to take selfies. An older woman leaned on her companion’s arm. Sunlight filtered through the trees, painted the scarves and umbrellas, tomatoes and peppers in the street market. I stopped at a produce stall, attracted by the bright piled fruit, and the guy trailing behind me made a suggestion I had just enough French and imagination to translate.
