If there’s a hall of fame for spectacularly bad decisions involving your best friend’s baby sister, I’ve just been inducted. Possibly with a plaque.
Dating her would’ve been one thing.
We did not date.
What we did was take sinful depravity to a whole new level.
Repeatedly.
And then, without so much as a courtesy text, we married each other. No warning. No invite.
No heads-up text with the hands-in-the-air this is happening emoji followed by a church.
Gabe falls into step beside me, steering me away from the party, and I catch sight of Pix across the room. I lock eyes with her and send a full-scale mental SOS.
Flares.
Sirens.
Mayday.
MAY. DAY.
She waves back. Big. Radiant. Completely unbothered.
Dammit, woman. Are we or are we not married? Read my thoughts.
Gabe turns toward Mrs. D.’s gourmet kitchen. One he’s almost definitely already tested for soundproofing.
So no one hears my screams.
I clock at least six objects within arm’s reach that could be hurled at my head.
Gabe doesn’t raise his voice. And I recognize the tone immediately. Barely controlled restraint.
“So, you married my sister.”
I fiddle with the ring on my finger. “It would appear so.”
He notices. “A gold band would’ve been nice,” he says.
Great. Now I’m the hippie who proposes with a gas-station tallboy and a dandelion stem.
Nice.
My brain promptly spirals into unfamiliar territory. What kind of ring would Pix even want? Classic gold and solitaire? Or something aggressively Hollywood, a diamond so big it needs a security detail and a wall safe?
No. No, no, no.
This is the girl whose favorite ballet flats are a no-name brand with one of the sides held together with hot glue.
Simple. Elegant.
I can practically picture the design.
“When I told you to keep an eye on her,” Gabe continues, “this isn’t what I had in mind.”
“It isn’t what I had in mind either.” I drag a hand through my hair. “I know. This wasn’t exactly… planned.”
