I’m teasing her.
Being playful.
I hope she sees it that way and doesn’t get nervous.
It’s too late, the text is already sent.
There’s no read receipt yet, so I pull on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt and head downstairs to grab breakfast and much-needed coffee.
I don’t exactly need the jolt of caffeine with the way my heart is already galloping, but it’s the familiar that I’m craving, and without Harper here this morning, it’ll have to do.
Ashton spent the night last night, and though I want to hate him for trying to steal my girlfriend, I’m angrier at Dante.
My best friend never would have suggested marrying Harper if Dante hadn’t given him an order, and Ashton is all about following the chain of command.
Well, fuck Dante.
I’m marrying Harper.
Last night, Ashton offered to take me to a strip club for my bachelor party, but the thought of a strange woman grinding against me, dancing provocatively, didn’t stir any hint of desire.
Unless that girl is Harper, but Kensley spent the night over at our house, and there was zero chance Harper was going to show up at the compound and give me a lap dance and strip show.
So, we spent the evening hanging out, drinking and swapping stories.
Moreno and Dante joined us for beers around nine o’clock last night, the mood much more chipper than I might have expected with those two.
And while I’d love to have snuck up from behind and slit Dante’s throat for fucking with my love life, I give props to the man for actually giving a shit about me.
I suppose there’s a first for everything.
But that was last night, and now the house is relatively quiet as the sun rises over the horizon.
Sleeping in wasn’t going to happen this morning, not with thoughts of the wedding and Harper flickering through my mind.
I left my phone upstairs on the bed. If Harper texts me, I won’t see it.
Dread is like a giant stone in my stomach, worried that something might happen to her on the way over.
I want to pick her up, drive her here, to know that she’s safe, but she insisted that we don’t see one another until we walk down the aisle.
I fucking hate that she’s superstitious, but it’s just a few hours until we’re married.
Mr. and Mrs. Ricci.
She will take my last name.
The sound of it makes my heart beat faster.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, and Ashton comes stumbling down the hallway toward the kitchen.
“Morning,” Ashton mutters, half-asleep.
He looks about how I feel, like he didn’t get enough sleep.
I kept having dreams about the wedding, about Zeke, about Harper, and the mafia. I felt as though I didn’t sleep at all, but I’m sure I managed a few hours of shuteye.
I sip my coffee and step aside so Ashton can grab himself a mug.
