“Good,” Brynn says, surveying me from head to toe. “You’re still breathing.”
“Barely,” I mutter. “I’m nervous.”
Kinsey nudges past her. “If you weren’t freaking out, I’d be worried.”
I step aside to let them in, and suddenly my quiet house is filled with movement and noise and the low, grounding comfort of people who know me too well.
Brynn sets the garment bag down and immediately starts poking around my kitchen like she owns the place. “That coffee’s for you, if you want it.”
“Yes, please,” I say. “And maybe something stronger.”
She smirks. “After.”
Kinsey drops onto the couch and stretches her legs out. “So. How are we feeling?”
I open my mouth, close it, and then sigh. “Like I’m about tojump out of a plane without checking if the parachute works.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Standard.”
Brynn leans against the counter, watching me. “Are you still good with this?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. Then, more quietly, “I think so.”
The words sit between us. Honest and fragile.
“You don’t have to do this, you can win mediation on your own,” Brynn says gently. “You know that, right?”
“I know.” I rub my hands together, trying to shake the nerves. “But he’s willing to help.”
Kinsey tilts her head. “And that scares you?”
“Maybe,” I say.
That earns me a soft look from both of them.
Brynn steps closer, her voice warm. “He’s a good guy, Kate. You can trust him.”
I nod, throat tight. The room falls quiet again, the kind that settles gently instead of pressing in.
Eventually, Brynn checks her phone. “Okay. We need to get you dressed before the judge starts wondering where the bride is.”
I step into the dress, and Brynn zips it up carefully. The fabric settles against me, familiar and strange all at once. I catch my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize the woman looking back—not because she looks different, but because of the steadiness in her eyes.
I don’t look scared. I look…okay.
Kinsey hands me my shoes. “Last chance to bolt.”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
She studies me for a beat, then smiles. “Yeah. You are.”
We pile into Brynn’s car, and she plugs in her phone, flashing me the playlist cover entitled “Kate’s Shotgun Soundtrack”. When she presses play, “Goin’ to the Chapel” starts and Kinsey smiles. I admit I laugh alittle too.
When we arrive, Brynn parks next to Knox’s truck and I step out into the midday sun. Cam stands near the courthouse steps, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his slacks, like he hasn’t just walked straight out of my dreams and into real life. The suit fits him too well—dark, clean lines skimming broad shoulders, the jacket fitted across his chest in a way that makes my breath hitch. He’s traded his usual T-shirts for a crisp button-down, collar open just enough to hint at skin, and the sight of him like this does something unkind to my pulse. His hair is neatly combed, but not so perfect that it hides the fact that he ran a hand through it. When he looks up and our eyes meet, something in his expression softens—warm, unmistakably him—and for one dangerous second, I forget every reason this is supposed to be practical. He doesn’t look like a man just here to sign paperwork. He looks like a man choosing something.
He’s choosing to help me.
I stop walking without meaning to. My heart stutters.
