As we descend the front porch steps, the nighttime sounds of crickets, frogs, and locusts surround us. We walk down the boardwalk until it gives way to the paved sidewalk.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “He’s right. We need to get along.”
The soft glow of strung lights on the house we’re passing reflects in her eyes. Ducking my head before she can catch me staring, I clear my throat. “Agreed.” I shift the box to one arm and stick my hand out. “Truce?”
She rolls her eyes and tries to do the same, but the box tips and half the plastic jars fall to the sidewalk and bounce every which way. “Oh no!” She rights the box, and I laugh and drop to pick them up.
When she scowls, I try to wipe the smile from my face.
“It’s not funny! What if they’d shattered?”
“They didn’t. Look. Plastic.” I hold one up, and she squats next to me and swipes another.
“There’s dirt on this one.”
“Wipe it off. They’ll never know. It’s fine.”
We gather them up, and when we stand and meet each other’s eyes, she gives me another look, her brow pinched. “What?”
The top of her head meets the height of my chin. She smells like coconut and fresh flowers. I’m trying to hide another smile. “Nothing. Just laughing at the fact that things get messy when we’re together. ICEE. Wedding favors. What’s next?”
“Right. The ICEE incident. I’d almost forgotten. Thanks for reminding me.”
She shifts away from me and keeps walking.
She’s cute when she’s mad. Fighting another smile, I jog to catch up. “Hey, truce, remember?”
“I remember. I’ll be all sunshiny when we’re with Ava and Hudson. They’ll never know how much I loathe you.” Maybe, that’s a hint of a smile.
“Your loathing will be our little secret.”
And just when things are starting to improve, we turn the corner onto Redbud Street and are met with flashing lights.
Morgan pauses and then picks up the pace. “That’s not good.”
Nope. I follow, hustling toward the ambulance in the driveway of the very house we’re heading to.
No, not good at all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MORGAN
Fran’s frantic voice emerges before her. When the front door bursts open, she and a stretcher spill out onto the porch.
Oh boy.
Her thin frame props the door as two paramedics wheel the wedding planner out and down the front porch steps.
“Oh, this is so ill-timed.” Clearly in a panic, she lets the door fall closed. “We need you. What are we going to do?”
She traipses after them across the grass in her spiked heels. Evelyn lies on the stretcher and glares at Fran over her oxygen mask. She says nothing.
“Wow, she is the worst.”
“She really is.” Great. Did I just agree with Will? Ignore that. I rush toward the insufferable woman. “What happened?”
“Oh, Morgan.” She waves over her head, breathing heavily. “What are we going to do? How will we survive the weekend without her? She’s just going to leave.”
