"Hell yes," Griffin says immediately. "Wouldn't miss it."
Logan's response takes longer, as he processes the implications. Finally, he nods. "Yeah. Of course."
"Perfect." Dax leans back against the booth, his contentment filling the space around us like warm honey. "There's just one more thing. Emma's best friend is planning the wedding."
Emma only has one best friend, Savannah Hale.
Griffin's sandalwood scent turns sharp, sawdust mixing with something that smells like old wounds and regret. Logan's leather and rain combination spikes with cedar and ash, the scent of pain he thought he'd buried. My own mint and cologne mixture becomes something distant and controlled, the automatic defense that kicks in when emotions threaten to overwhelm my composure.
"Savannah," Griffin says, and her name sounds like a prayer and a curse combined.
"You know her?" Dax asks, his happiness dimming slightly as he picks up on the sudden tension radiating from our booth.
"We dated her," Logan says bluntly, rolling his beer bottle between his palms. "All three of us. At different times," he adds quickly, as if that makes it less complicated.
Dax's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. The golden light from the vintage fixtures catches the auburn highlights in his hair as he leans back against the cracked leather booth. His clean button-down and pressed khakis make him look like he walked out of a veterinary supply catalog, which isn't far from the truth. "All three of you? How come I never knew about this?"
I'm surprised Emma never mentioned it to him, but then again, it's not exactly something you bring up in casual conversation. I straighten the cuffs of my navy dress shirt, a nervous habit I've never quite managed to break.
"Small town, overlapping social circles," I explain, watching Griffin fidget with the label on his beer bottle. His work clothes still carry the scent of sawdust and construction sites, flannel shirts rolled up to reveal forearms marked with fresh scratches from whatever project consumed his day. "By the time we figured it out..."
"She was gone." Griffin peels a strip of label off his bottle and flicks it onto the scarred wooden table. "Left Pine Hollow eight years ago and never looked back."
"Until now," Logan adds grimly. He's still wearing his fire department t-shirt, the fabric stretched tight across his broad shoulders, dark stains under his arms suggesting he came straight from a call.
Dax's scent shifts from contentment to concern. He pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose, a gesture that reminds me why we became friends in the first place. Same nervous habits, same need to process information before reacting.
"This is going to be awkward," he says finally, drumming his fingers against his beer bottle.
Griffin stops destroying his label and looks up, warm brown eyes carrying something that might be panic.
Dax leans forward, elbows on the table, his veterinarian instincts clearly kicking in. The same tone he uses when trying to get a complete history from pet owners who'd rather not admit their dog ate an entire chocolate cake. "What happened?"
I adjust my collar, feeling heat creep up my neck as memories I've worked hard to compartmentalize without permission.
"I was clinical about it," I begin, choosing my words with surgical precision. "She didn't take life seriously. Had no real direction, no five-year plan, no career goals beyond whatever caught her attention that week." I take a moment to clear my throat.
Dax actually winces, like I've just described a particularly brutal surgical procedure. "What did you do?"
"Changed my number. Had my sister pretend to be my new girlfriend when Savannah called the house. Clean break. No messy explanations."
Dax stares at me across the table like I've just admitted to committing a felony. "That's cold, man."
Griffin sets his bottle down with enough force to make the table shake. "Jesus, Xavier. I never knew the details."
Back straight, shoulders square, the same composure I use when delivering bad news to parents. It was a logical decision based on available data.
"What about you, Griff?” Dax asks, turning his attention to our resident contractor.
Griffin runs both hands through his sandy hair, leaving it sticking up at impossible angles. His flannel shirt pulls tight across his chest as he stretches, revealing a sliver of skin above his worn jeans. "I'm not exactly the organized type. Forgot I'd asked her out, thought I'd asked Sara Mitchell instead. When Savannah showed up at Romano's, I was confused, and she figured it out pretty quickly."
"You forgot?" Dax's voice carries the kind of disbelief usually reserved for witnessing impossible things.
"I was twenty, man. Just turned alpha, didn't want anything serious." Griffin shrugs, but his scent carries old guilt like sawdust mixed with regret. "She wanted to know where things were going after one date. Too intense, too much pressure. She told me it was over before it began and walked out."
Logan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the leather booth creaking under his weight. His storm-gray eyes focus on his beer bottle like it contains the secrets of the universe, thick fingers wrapped around the glass with enough pressure to leave marks.
"Logan?" Dax prompts gently, leaning forward with the kind of careful attention he usually reserves for injured animals.
