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Chapter One

MYA

There’s a saying about not poking the bear, but clearly, Reese missed the memo. Or crumpled it into a ball and yeeted it into the sun, because the minute she hears me admit I’m pregnant—whispers and all—she turns on the heel of her cowboy boots like a bridezilla possessed and stomps back toward the tent with all the grace of a pissed-off swan tangled in tulle.

“Reese!” I call after her, my voice cracking under the weight of my impending panic attack. My body protests as I push into a light jog, heart thundering like a drumline. I don’t even make it to the edge of the tent before I hear her.

“What the actual fuck, Fletcher?”

Oh, no.

No, no, no, no.

I push through the open door of the cottage just in time to catch the fireworks. Reese is standing there—ivory gown glowing like a goddamn battle flag—eyes locked on Fletch with enough fury to summon the ghost of every ex-girlfriend he’s ever wronged.

Fletch blinks. His brows crease. “You’re pregnant?”

He says it like I’m a math problem he can’t solve. Like the words don’t make sense on his tongue.

The world tilts. Time stutters.

Oh.

Shit.

I feel like someone’s punched me in the uterus. Maybe it’s the nausea, or maybe it’s the fact that everyone—Thorin, Benji, Carson—is now staring at me like I just flipped the table at The Last Supper.

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Thorin—gorgeous in his dark suit and completely unbothered by the sweltering heat—steps forward like a silent assassin, jaw set, fists clenched. If death-by-glare were a real thing, Fletch would already be six feet under.

“You wanna say that again?” Thorin asks, voice low and lethal.

Fletch doesn’t answer. He’s too busy gaping at me like I’ve grown a third eye and a second head.

Benji mutters, “Holy shit,” and Carson—usually the king of quips—just stares, slack-jawed.

And me?

I want the earth to crack open and swallow me whole. Preferably before someone asks if I know who the father is. Spoiler alert: I do. And he’s standing right the hell there, looking like I personally drop-kicked his heart into a blender.

“I—” I start, but Maggie beats me to it.

“Enough,” she says, stepping in like a queen surveying her court. “Reese, honey, let it go. Just for now.” Her voice softens, gentles. “You’re the bride. This is your wedding. Don’t let it be about anything else.”

Reese’s lips twitch. Her eyes—shiny and fierce—lock with mine, and I feel a jolt of guilt that makes my stomach churn. Not just because I ruined her moment. But because she’s hurting for me. Because she’s always hurting for me.

Her throat works as she swallows. “We’ll talk later,” she says, voice trembling with restraint. She doesn’t look at Fletch again. Just turns and walks back to the tent with Thorin, who immediately wraps an arm around her waist like he’s anchoring her to the earth.

Maggie turns to me and whispers, “Go back to the house. I’ll smooth things over.” Then louder, to the group: “We’ll be cutting the cake in twenty. Let’s keep things festive, shall we?”

She’s the picture of poise, but I catch the subtle flick of her gaze toward Fletch, a warning sharp enough to slit skin.

I don’t wait for anyone to follow. I pivot, feet moving on instinct, chest heaving like I’ve just run a marathon barefoot and uphill in stilettos.

Behind me, I hear Fletch call my name, once, twice—but I don’t stop.

Because if I do, I’ll cry.