She froze mid-stride, surveying the crime scene: Maggie, bedheaded and blanket-tangled, caught mid-rant; Izzy, guilty as hell with her mug clutched tight; Gwen, the picture of calm composure, which only made her look more suspicious.
Pete tilted her head, wolfish. “Okay… what the hell are you whisper-goblins conspiring about?”
“Nothing,” Izzy said instantly, all smooth and glassy, like she’d been practicing.
Gwen crumbled under pressure. “Murder?”
Every head swiveled toward her. Gwen coughed, cheeks pink.
“Murderously hungry. For breakfast,” Maggie added. They were doomed.
Pete peeled off her sunglasses slowly, like a detective about to close the case. “You’re all acting shady as hell. What’s going on?”
Maggie inhaled wrong and choked on her own spit.
“Nothing,” Gwen said firmly. “Maggie’s hungover and we were trying to whisper for her sake.”
Pete squinted at them, then finally tossed the bag onto thecoffee table with a sigh so dramatic it belonged on Broadway. “Yeah, I feel you.”
Maggie could practically hear her pulse in her ears. Izzy kept her eyes glued to her mug, draining it. Gwen’s lips pressed together in that maddeningly calm way of hers, but Maggie swore she caught the tiniest twitch at the corner — amusement, maybe.
Pete dug out a bottle and lobbed it at her. “Catch, Bedhead.”
Maggie fumbled but held on, hugging it to her chest. She cracked the seal on the Gatorade and gulped half of it like a woman who’d just crossed a desert, but the sour churn in her stomach had nothing to do with dehydration.
Izzy. Proposing.
At Danica and Pete’s bachelorette.
It was insane. Worse than insane. It was a nuclear-level friendship violation, and somehow Maggie had been the only one willing to say it out loud. She glanced sideways — Izzy still sulking as she made another cup of coffee, Gwen smoothing down the corner of the pullout blanket like tidiness could erase the tension. Neither of them looked panicked enough for Maggie’s taste.
And Pete. Jesus. Pete had bought their cover story for now, but Maggie knew her. Pete was basically a truffle pig for drama. She’d sniff out the truth before the weekend was over if Izzy didn’t keep her shit together.
Maggie set the bottle down a little too hard. The thought of Izzy dropping to one knee tomorrow, champagne glasses clinking, picnic at the edge of the Grand Canyon, while Danica — sweet, type-A, sparkle-eyed Danica — watched her bachelorette thunder get stolen? No. Absolutely not. Maggie refused to let that train wreck happen on her watch.
She wasn’t sure if it was loyalty, control issues, or the hangover talking, but a fierce, protective heat rose in her chest.
Of course, the fact that she was trying to policeanyone else’srelationship while hers lay in tatters only added a neat little layer of irony. She could practically hear Gwen’s voice in her head:Mags, maybe focus on your own mess first.
Still, she couldn’t shake the image of Pete and Danica’s faces if Izzy actually went through with it. Disaster. Utter disaster.
Maggie dragged a hand through her hair, wild with bedhead, and muttered under her breath, “Over my dead body.”
Gwen gave her a look, one brow arched. Maggie just shook her head, refusing to elaborate.
Better to let Gwen think she was being dramatic than admit she’d just mentally volunteered herself as the Proposal Police.
The silence had just started to settle — Izzy pretending to study her empty mug, Gwen arranging the blanket like it was a diplomatic task, Maggie clutching her Gatorade like a flotation device — when the bedroom door opened again.
Kiera swept out in a giant straw sun hat, bikini straps visible beneath a gauzy cover-up. “Who’s ready for pool day?” she asked brightly, hands on her hips like a camp counselor about to blow a whistle.
Maggie blinked at her through bloodshot eyes. “Define ready.”
Kiera rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “You look like you need it more than anyone. Cold plunge, sunshine, hair of the dog…” She clapped her hands once. “Trust me, you’ll feel better.”
Maggie wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss Kiera for her optimism or strangle her with her sun hat.
Izzy, predictably, perked right up at her girlfriend’s entrance, setting down her mug and sitting taller. “See? That’s the spirit.”
