CHAPTER ONE
MORGAN
“Please, I beg you. I need an ICEE, and there aren’t any gas stations out here. You can get blue raspberry and consider it my ‘something blue.’”
With the hot sun beating down on my car, I zip around an old pickup truck. Its rusty bumper barely holds on as it putters down the outside lane of I-40.
I grip the steering wheel and shake my head. “Your wedding isn’t for two days. Does that mean you also need something old and something new?”
Ava’s giggle tinkles through the hands-free system. “Don’t worry. My grandma’s here, and this rental house is brand new. Old and new, check. So, will you stop? Pretty please?”
The Oklahoma landscape stretches on. I’ve been on the road for an hour and a half and would love to keep going. Plus, I stopped thirty minutes ago. But this weekend is not about me.
“Of course. Anything for the bride. As long as you don’t mind if I’m late.”
“Totally fine. Thank you, thank you, thank you. See you at The Meeting House!”
“You got it.” The call ends, and my carefully curated road-trip playlist resumes.
I’ve got this. No problem. The ICEE will be easy. The rest of the weekend? I don’t know. The last wedding I went to was a disaster. For me, anyway. I’m only eighteen. How can I already have wedding drama in my life?
I sigh. It won’t be so bad.
But Ava’s wedding has my mind veering out of its lane and into a minefield of past hurts. For the last hundred miles, I’ve fought the urge to analyze every detail, and I now have a headache. Ava’s one of my oldest friends, never mind that she’s a fair bit older than me. She was my first babysitter, neighbor, and close family friend. I want to be here, be present, and be a fabulous bridesmaid. I shove the thoughts away—again—as I exit the highway and head toward Eufaula, Oklahoma, apparently the last of civilization before my destination, a tiny lakeside community called Carlton Landing. I better grab some ibuprofen while I’m at it.
I park outside a small but clean convenience store and head straight to the ICEE machine. Two other girls are already using it, so I snag a cup and wait. There aren’t any lids. Super.
These young teens take their sweet time, sharing a whispered conversation. One of them giggles. “Wow, he’ssooocute.”
The other giggles too.
The guy they’re ogling at the coffee station a few paces away is too old for these thirteen-year-olds, but they’re not wrong.
Around my age and wearing well-fitted khaki shorts and a casual Hawaiian shirt, he’s beach-ready. No, lake-ready, as we’re in one of the most centrally located—ahem,landlocked—states in the US.
Dark curls fall over his brow as he tugs a coffee cup free. Huh, his ears are pinked. He must’ve heard the girls’ observations. He glances up, gauges their ages, and turns away.
The girls dare each other to go talk to him as he pours coffee. The braver of the two saunters in his direction.
This I’ve got to see. They’ve vacated the ICEE machine, so I take my time filling Ava’s cup with the frothy blue concoction. That cannot be a natural color.
He slides his phone from his pocket, standing tall—at least six feet. “Hey, babe.” He practically purrs as he dumps powdered creamer into his paper cup. Gross.
The girls falter before continuing, giggling all the way. They don’t seem too disappointed as they exit the store.
The boy’s gaze finds mine, and I bite my lip to hide my smile. Full dark lashes surrounded those deep-brown eyes, and the brows above them narrow like he can’t decide whether to frown at me or laugh.
He jumps when his phone rings against his ear.
I laugh outright, and his ears redden further. Smart. Fake phone call. I walk by, ICEE in hand. “Better get that.”
“Right.” He decides on the frown. “Hey, Mema,” he says in a much less sultry voice. Though, it’s still a nice voice. “Okay, I’m coming. I was falling asleep, so I stopped for caffeine. I’m close.”
I pay for the ICEE, almost wishing he would’ve chosen the smile and ignored the call. But it’s for the best.
As I get to my car, I pause. I forgot the ibuprofen. I swing around, rummaging in my purse to locate the debit card I dropped inside, and crash into someone—a tall someone with khaki shorts and a Hawaiian button-up.
“Watch it,” he snaps as we jump back from each other, but not before the ICEE crushes between us and he drops his coffee. My feet are fire and ice.
